#the way that blood haunts him until he dies bc of it

[wassupmygays]

"we messed up dally, we messed up bad!"

no because thinking about Johnny Cade, the 16 yr old kid who jumps at his own shadow and wouldn't hurt a fly (ponyboy's words). the kid who everyone loved and looked out for. the kid who stayed and craved the love of his parents even though they beat him horribly. the kid who was just too damn good for growing old...

that boy. showing up to dally in the middle of the night covered in blood like this. shaking, scared, a murderer. a kid. its so heartbreaking to see the blood on his hands, all over him. that poor kid.

how heartbroken do you think dally felt, when he opened his door at Buck's to see Johnny and Pony shaking in the cold. to see his little brother covered in blood. blood that splattered from the knife that dally gave him

no wonder dally broke so much. the kid he let into his life, vowed to himself that hed protect, had just killed another boy with the knife he provided. with the technique that he showed him. and that eventually led to johnny himself dying. in dally's eyes, that was partly his fault. he blamed the world and their town and the socs and everything else, rightfully so, but i know he blamed himself as well.

"sorry i failed you..."

[saetoru]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。what if you’re someone i just want around (i’m falling again)

synopsis. somewhere along the line, you started to hate suguru—that doesn’t mean you stopped loving him too

— word count. 9.5k (i am in misery)

— contents. post canon! au — fix it! (we all need a good fix it fic with suguru don't lie), this fic was started before recent manga chapters so the higher ups are still alive—just go with it ok :,), geto survives + lives free of kenjaku, exes to lovers, kind of redemption i suppose, mentions of blood, injuries, and weight loss (geto), mentions of canon character deaths (nanako, mimiko, nanami), mentions of wanting to raise children with geto and have a family, no gendered terms but reader has a personality and actual thoughts and feelings, references to the hunger games (you have movie night lol), BFF satoru (he is babie), there is a kiss y’all !! (scandalous i know :O)

— notes. i started this fic back in march and i had trouble with it and put it on pause for a while. i’m very glad i finished it in the end. i always like fix it! fics and this is self-indulgent and idk if ppl will read it bc it’s sfw but it’s ok if they don’t, i loved writing it. thank you koi for beta-reading this whole bad boy. mwah <333

the day suguru is declared a free man is actually the day he signs away his freedom for good. 

you say nothing, but you know it’s the truth. satoru fights tooth and nail to plead suguru’s case—you think it’s perhaps a little too desperate for it to be in the best interest of suguru and not himself. but satoru has suffered enough, and admittedly—although you deny it—a small part of you does not want to lose suguru twice. you watch as satoru argues that suguru has already died once—surely he can’t die again? and losing control of his body and mind is paying for his crimes enough, is it not? he argues that there are no ideals left for a man like geto suguru to chase after losing himself to every principle he had left. 

and then satoru wins. 

you expect it, but it doesn’t make it any easier. you watch numbly as suguru is assigned under your watch. you should be happy. you love suguru—you never stopped. but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s not a free man, and now he drags your freedom with his. you’ll never break away from him, never cut through the ropes that tie your hands behind your back and bind you to him—and then you wonder for a moment, unsure if it’s selfish or selfless or some cruel in-between to think this way, if geto suguru was better off dead. 

whether that’s for your sake, or his, you’re not sure. 

and yes, he’s let off alive, and sure, there’s no real punishment for all he’s done, but you know deep down he’s as chained and shackled as he’s ever been. he’s not allowed to leave the house unless you or satoru are there to chaperone, and it’s never to be anywhere near non-sorcerers. he’s not to live in a place of his own until the higher up’s deem him trustworthy. he has to ask you to buy the things he wants from the grocery store. he can’t even step outside for a smoke unless you’re aware. 

for a long time, he doesn’t speak much—can hardly muster a barely audible mornin’ back when you force a smile and greet him cheerily for breakfast. slowly, it turns into half-snarky conversations that get cut short by one of you leaving the room. finally, you’re civil—maybe even friendly. you’re not so sure where you stand with him as of now.

it’s not the same suguru you remember falling in love with, it’s not even close to the version of the man you fell for all those years ago. it’s hard having him here—some days you’re angry and want to throw him out, to scream at him for haunting you again just when you think you’ve moved on from the horrors of your past. some days you want to cry and cling to him, bury your face into his neck and thank him for being here again, for finding his way back to you. and some days you wish you never met him at all, that this would all be easier if it didn’t exist in the first place. 

he’s not the same geto suguru you loved, but somehow, because life is as bitter as it is ruthless, you fall in love with this version just as hard no matter how much you deny it. 

“i made your favorite,” you smile gently, placing a neat plate of french toast with freshly cut strawberries on the side. you even take great care to get the syrup-to-powdered sugar ratio he likes right, but he doesn’t make a move to reach for the plate. instead, suguru sits at the table stiffly, like he has to be here or there are consequences for that too. it almost makes you sad—even here, he’s not free. 

“thanks,” he says quietly, “but i’m not hungry.”

“you said that last night, suguru,” you sigh, “and at lunch. and at breakfast. and at dinner the night before—”

“i’ll eat it later,” he cuts you off, playing with the ends of his hair. 

it’s a lot shorter now. it’s you who finds his body battered and bruised after the smoke clears. he’s almost unrecognizable, not the same charming and perfect suguru you’re used to seeing. not the same silkened strands and smooth skin, not the same muscled and toned body, not the same chiseled jaw and soft cheeks. instead, he’s a shell of himself. his hair is matted in knots, his body is almost frail, and you notice the sunken hollows of his cheeks and dark undereyes as you lift him from the rubble a little too easily. but his body is his own—that much you can tell from the way the stitches have disappeared. 

it takes shoko a long time to nurse him back to health—it takes even longer for him to open his eyes.

you waited day and night by his side, hand over his as he breathed slowly, unconscious and unsuspecting. it would be so easy, you think one night, it would be so easy to kill him and forget and move on. 

you’ve already grieved him once before. you’ve felt and conquered the pain of loving geto suguru and losing him first to himself and then to death. but love is as selfish as it is selfless, and it’s under your mercy that you let him live—yet it’s under your cowardice that you keep him close. 

“you have to gain back the weight you lost, suguru,” you sigh, “you’re w—”

“weak?” he finishes for you, eyeing you for a second and then grinning. it’s unsettling, a grin that makes your skin crawl and your heart stop for a moment before he’s reaching for the fork and stabbing into his toast. “is that what you wanted to say? that i’m weak?”

“suguru, you know that’s not how i meant—”

“you’re not wrong,” he hums, chewing on the first bite as he speaks, “i suppose i am pretty weak right now, huh? couldn’t even kill you in your sleep if i tried could i?”

your throat is dry as you shrug, “i suppose not,” you whisper. 

“ah,” he grins again, “but that doesn’t stop you from locking your door every night, does it?” 

suguru is still healing. his body is weak, and sometimes, he leans against the wall as he walks. his arm is healed—you’re not entirely sure how, but you catch him rolling the shoulder out every now and then like it’s sore and stiff. he’s lost a lot of weight—part of it is from being bedridden for as long as he was, injured and half alive, and part of it is from barely eating—save for the few bites you force into him. you never thought there’d be a day when you could say this—but the odds of you beating suguru in hand-to-hand combat are high, and the reality is an everlasting reminder that he is not who you fell for. 

you swallow, letting out a shaky breath as he watches you closely, diligently cutting another bite from the french toast sitting on his plate as he stares you down like he can see past your soul. you don’t know what’s scarier—that suguru can still practically see yours, or that you’re unsure he even has one anymore. 

“you tried coming in?” you ask, unsure what else to say. he merely shrugs, takes another bite, and sets his fork down. 

“thought i’d check on you,” he pops a strawberry half into his mouth as he speaks.

“is that what it really was?” you raise a brow, “or was i right to lock the door?”

you’re not sure why you lock the door at night. maybe it’s because you don’t trust him, or maybe it’s because you don’t want him near you just yet. you’re not sure. you’re not sure how satoru can go back to his cheery self, how he can step through your door and boom a loud yo, suguru! before settling beside suguru on the couch with his feet on the coffee table as he rambles away. maybe it’s not real—maybe it’s satoru desperately pretending that if he tries hard enough, things can go back to how they were. 

but you don’t know how he still has the energy to try, and you don’t know if you have it in you to try anymore yourself. 

you and suguru stare each other down like that for a bit, the tension rising with every silent second that passes. you’re sure he doesn’t want to be here as much as you don’t want him around—but you’re also sure he’s glad it’s here with you as much as you’re glad it’s with no one else.

“you tell me,” he smirks after a bit, the hint of amusement making your fists clench. how dare he have the audacity to look at you like that in your own home? like he has the upper hand over you without trying? “what do you think i was there for?”

“i think you should stay in your room, suguru,” you say carefully, “i bought a new bed just for that room.”

“how sweet of you,” he hums. he sips the tea before him—it’s cold by now, but it’s just how he likes it, rose with one sugar. “you must have been excited to have me.”

“hardly,” you mumble bitterly—you can’t help it. you want him to feel hurt, even just a little. you want him to know that just because he’s back, it doesn’t mean you’ve waited all this time for him to be. liar, a part of you says, you’ve always waited for him, haven’t you? but suguru doesn’t seem phased—he doesn’t even blink.

“then tell me, why am i here?” suguru asks, his tone is as casual as ever. 

i wish i knew, you want to say. i wish i knew but i don’t.

“because satoru asked you to be,” is all you can say.

he nods, pushing back his plate and standing up, offering you that same grin. “you’re right,” he hums, “that’s exactly why i’m here.”

it hits you why his smile is so unsettling once he leaves—it’s almost genuine, like he’s still loved you all this time. impossible, you tell yourself. suguru stopped loving you a long time ago. and you need to stop trying to figure out why. 

————————————————

even despite telling yourself you don’t care what suguru thinks, a small part of you needs to prove to him you’re not scared of him. that you don’t fear for your own safety in your home, and that him being here is not some form of him haunting you. you don’t care. he shouldn’t get the luxury of thinking you care. he can come in and watch you sleep like the creep he is if he wants—you couldn’t bother to give it a second thought. 

the first night you take a chance and leave the door unlocked, suguru slips into bed beside you. it wakes you up instantly, and before you can question it, his head tucks into your neck, and his hand grasps your shirt tightly. you notice the panting almost instantly—and then you realize, it must be a nightmare. 

you fall into old habits, even after all these years, defaulting to care for him like it’s second nature. 

“you’re safe, suguru,” is what you settle for saying after a moment of contemplation. it’s all you can really think to say, so you brush your lips over the top of his head as you murmur, “you’re safe,” over and over again. 

as difficult as it is to have suguru around, as painful and cruel and aggravating as it is to be reminded of his distant existence even as he’s two doors down, this part feels natural. it’s almost like you’re back in jujutsu high, waking up to him sneaking into your room as he presses his weight over your body and wakes you with soft kisses along your face. 

except this time, he’s not annoyingly demanding cuddles or telling you about his weird dream, he’s not stealing your blanket and demanding you play with his hair. this time, it’s not the same suguru—and this time, it’s not jujutsu high. 

it’s your room. the one you got on the other side of town to leave the sorcery world behind, somehow still stuck right in the center of it no matter where you go. and yet, just like all those years ago, your legs tangle, and your arms wrap him up, and you murmur, “you’re safe,” while he catches his breath. 

“but they’re not,” he mutters in between labored pants, making you pause. 

and then you remember. 

faintly, you recall the blonde and black hair from a distance, you remember bitterly wondering what’d it be like watching suguru fathering children of your own as you came to the reality that it would never happen. sometimes, you wonder if you hate nanako and mimiko for existing, for living as the dreams you never got to live through with suguru. 

it’s selfish—to hate two children because they are what you do not have. 

but then you feel something wet hit your neck, and then you wish they were okay—for his sake. and just for a moment, you’re selfless again. 

“they’re not safe,” he mutters, making you sigh. 

“they are,” you whisper, hesitating for a moment before letting your fingers slip into his hair. you scratch gently at his scalp, feeling his body melt into yours almost instantly—like it’s a response that’s natural to him. “they’re not suffering. not anymore.”

“is that supposed to make me feel better?” he scoffs. you shrug, letting your cheek press against the top of his head as you sigh.

“it helps me feel better,” you say softly, “‘s just how you learn to cope.”

it’s an understanding you both silently come to. loss on both sides. bloodshed on either ground. defeat no matter which ideal you take. to love is to bear the pain of mortality—it’s a lesson that you never cease to learn until the ends of time itself. 

“the jujutsu world is one of suffering,” he grits, sniffling into your neck. you hum, pressing a kiss to his head as your eyes close. 

“every world is one of suffering, suguru, you can’t erase them all. the sooner you realize that, the easier you’ll find peace.”

you fall into a slumber after that, faintly aware of the way he shuffles closer to you, faintly aware of the soft kiss pressed to your skin as sleep takes over your body and drifts you out of consciousness. 

when you wake up the next morning, suguru is gone, and the door is closed. the blanket is tucked up to your chin, and your neck still tingles from last night. 

————————————————

“get up,” you throw a pillow at suguru, waking him up with a start as he sits up. his hair is tousled and messy from sleep—it’s now long enough that he can put it in a bun without strands slipping from the bottom anymore. you chuckle as he glares at you, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he groans. 

“the fuck was that for?” he grunts, holding the blanket up to cover his exposed chest. 

it’s funny that he does that, in a way. it’s not as though you haven’t seen his chest…and then some too. it’s not like you haven’t torn his shirt off to stanch the flow of blood from his injuries before or feel the bare skin with your palm under the pale moonlight as the lingering scent of sex breezes through the room. 

but somehow, even though he doesn’t need to cover his chest around you of all people, you’re glad that he does. truthfully, it keeps you slightly comforted to know that he’s aware you’re still technically strangers—no matter how well-versed you are in each other’s pasts. but you don’t ponder on it too much. instead, you grin, shoving aside the visual of the small glance you caught at his pecs, and you clap your hands to motion him to hurry. 

“we are going grocery shopping,” you say casually—as though it’s not something to make him raise a brow in shock.

“me?” he points a finger at himself. you roll your eyes, and he challenges you with another raise of his brow. “aren’t i supposed to stay away from civilians?”

“yes, you,” you nod, pointing back at him, “and satoru has worked overtime to get you granted permission to roam around with me. he says you’re welcome, by the way.”

“tell him to go fuck off.”

“that’s ungrateful,” you say flatly, “his feelings will be hurt.”

“his feelings will find a way to cope,” suguru huffs. “i don’t want to be around…them,” he says bitterly. 

you suppose it’s wishful thinking to hope suguru has let go of his past beliefs. perhaps he’s long abandoned the possibility of the vision he once planned on bringing to life, but you can’t say you expected him to revert back to the old suguru who fought alongside you and satoru. you yourself certainly have no intention of returning to the sorcery world after all the events, so you can’t say you’re shocked by the lack of change he seems to show. but then again, you suppose suguru has changed. whether he sees it or not. 

he stays here and doesn’t put up a fight to leave even though he can now that he’s healed. he eats lunch when you tell him and even washes the dishes. sometimes, when you come home a bit late, dinner is even ready on the table as he sits and stares at you expectantly. his plate is empty like yours—like he’s been waiting for you even though he doesn’t need to. you suppose you can see he’s changed in the way he doesn’t scoff at the tv channels you surf through, he silently sits on the opposite end of the couch now and watches with you, and perhaps if you’re lucky, you’ll hear a light chuckle or a quiet sigh as the scenes roll on the screen. 

you suppose this suguru is a step closer to your suguru every day he spends with you, but you don’t know if any suguru is what you need right now. perhaps that name should’ve been buried away as a distant memory, perhaps it should’ve only been something you unlock once every year on his death anniversary—when satoru clambers through your door drunk and unsteady as he clutches the hand that killed his best friend, only to share pancakes with you in the morning and pretend like you don’t notice the dried tears on his cheeks while he acts like he doesn’t catch the way your hand shakes as you cut into your breakfast. 

but suguru is here now. whether it’s as geto, one half of the strongest duo in jujutsu high, whether it’s as suguru, the love of your life and the sole reason you exist, or whether it’s as geto suguru, the curse user and mass murderer who haunts your past, present, and everything in between. 

so you simply sigh, grab the pillow again, and hit the top of his head before walking over to the door as you call over your shoulder, “i’m gonna wait for you by the door in fifteen minutes. be ready or face the consequences..”

“no thanks. don’t wanna,” suguru grumbles petulantly, frowning at you as you stick your tongue at him, smirking as if you’ve just played your ace. 

“too bad,” you sing before swinging the door shut.

he’s at the door in exactly fifteen minutes, like he waited until the last possible second to join you as a move of spite. but you simply gesture him out the door and lock up, taking your sweet time as he stands there with an annoyed face. you stare at the doorknob once you’re done, taking a deep breath before turning to him with your best smile. 

“let’s go,” you hum.

“after you,” he mutters.

—

he grimaces as soon as he sees the people going about their business, clearly unhappy with the idea of being around non-sorcerers, but one sharp glare from you has him sighing and trekking along. the grocery store, admittedly, is not as bad as suguru thinks—in fact, there are lots of things he doesn’t realize he misses until he watches you grab a shopping cart. 

suddenly, he sees shadows. the silhouette of your figure climbing into the cart, the angry wave of satoru’s hands as he claims it's his turn to be pushed around, the figure of shoko pinching the bridge of her nose in irritation from the back—and then, he sees the dark shadow of baggy pants and a small bun. it’s him. suguru watches himself almost in slow motion through the remnants of his imagination as he gently shoves satoru out of the way and reaches to poke the tip of your nose before he pushes the cart with you in it.  

it’s a happy memory—and it’s gone all too soon.

as soon as he blinks, the shadows have disappeared—instead, it’s you waving a hand in his face, concern written on your features as you call his name. 

“suguru? hey, hello? are you with me?”

he exhales, pulled from his trance as he gently grabs your wrist from in front of his face and sets it down as he nods, “yeah, i’m fine. just thinking,” he mumbles. 

for a second, you hesitate, like you almost mean to say something. but in the end, you only nod before turning to grab the shopping cart. but he stops you—grabs the handle and turns to you with a small smile on his face, making you raise a brow as he gently moves you away. 

“what are you—”

“get in,” he grins, making you stare at him in bewilderment. 

“what?”

“just get in,” he sighs, “you love it when you get to sit in the cart.”

“i’m not a teenager anymore—”

“get in, will you?” he groans, “always so damn difficult.”

“hey,” you pout, glaring at him with your hands planted at your hips, “that’s rude.” it’s cute. suguru stares at you with amusement in his eyes and a soft look on his face that you don’t think you’ve really seen in years. 

“humor me,” he hums, “just get in, okay?”

so you do. 

with a huff and a grumble under your breath, you fight back a smile and climb into the damn cart just like old times. you swallow and try not to let it get to you when he reaches over and pokes the tip of your nose and pushes the cart around, letting you name off the things you need from your list while he grabs them. and when he sneaks snacks into the pile, you roll your eyes and glare at him in the way you always did—the one that isn’t actually annoyed. fond. happy to let it slide because it’s him.

“we need candy,” you murmur, “that’s the last thing on the list.”

“okay. what kind?” he asks, turning the cart into the candy aisle and smiling softly down at you.

“doesn’t matter, satoru eats anything as long as it’s sweet. he’s more likely to die from sugar than fighting a curse, i think.”

“you buy candy for satoru?” he asks, making you shrug as you reach over and grab a few bags of candy off the shelves, setting them down beside you. 

“he comes over a lot so i learned to keep stuff stocked up for him. you know how he gets when he’s hungry.”

suguru feels something he hasn’t felt since he was a teenager. jealousy—specifically of satoru. 

suguru is not foolish. he knows as soon as he meets gojo satoru that of the two, one of them is stronger and it’s definitely not himself. for the longest time, he’s okay with that, okay being the strongest only when alongside satoru—until he’s not. and even if suguru always had a bit more attention in the romance department than satoru, in his head he’s always known that perhaps satoru can keep you safer, more well off, maybe even happier. with smooth smiles and eyes as welcoming as an oasis, gojo satoru would never leave you in the dark pit of misery as suguru once had. 

something about the thought of you and satoru keeping each other company through the lonely years, filling that empty spot suguru left behind, sharing moments over candy and empty wrappers makes suguru wonder for a moment if perhaps he’d be happier if he stayed. maybe he could have worn a heartfelt smile in a world that carves them off the faces of sorcerers with bloody knives as long as you were there to wipe the blood.  

but before he can dwell on it, you snatch one more bag—this time of his favorite candy, placing it into the cart and grinning gently up at him. 

“i haven’t bought this one in years,” you admit, “i almost forget how it tastes.”

“me too,” he says quietly.

“well,” you hum, “we’ll have to have some when we’re home.”

home. you say it as though it belongs to him as much as it does you, and then like you always have, without even meaning to, you wash away the dark stains of his jealousy with no trace left behind.

“yeah,” he chuckles, “we—”

“daddy, look! candy!” suguru is cut off by the gentle pitter-patter of two tiny feet running into the aisle, pointing at a bag of candy as a man follows close behind. 

his breath hitches. 

she’s small, the girl—she has two pigtails with soft strands of blonde hair falling out of the loosely tied bands. it reminds suguru of the first time he perfected tying up nanako’s hair, the soft giggles behind her tiny hand as she twirled in the mirror. 

there’s another girl in the man’s arms—dark hair on her head as she curls into her father’s chest and tucks her head into his neck when she sees you and suguru in the aisle. she’s shy, he realizes, like mimiko, and suddenly he remembers the tiny fingers that used to hook into his pants when she got too overwhelmed by the people around her, waiting for suguru to scoop her into his arms. 

perhaps in another life, suguru would redo everything differently—he’d be happy with you and satoru and shoko, and nanami and haibara would be there too, well and alive. but no matter what, he’d never redo nanako and mimiko differently. he’d never change a thing about them, not even the way nanako whines too much about small things or the way mimiko never speaks up even when something is clearly bothering her. he’d never change the way he saved them and took them in at the tender age of eighteen, too lost to be a father but choosing to raise them anyway. he’d never change the feeling of pure joy and unbridled pride when they climbed into his bed for the first time, shushing each other so as not to wake him—even though he’d awoken as soon as the door to his room opened. 

because he realized that night that yeah, maybe he’d made mistakes in his lifetime, lots of them too. maybe he’d made a bad choice choosing the path he did, or maybe he didn’t. he’s never been completely sure—just that he had to try at least to make his vision for a different world come to life. but one mistake he never made was his girls. one thing he was always sure about was the soft clutch at his pants and the tiny hands reaching for his own.

suguru wouldn’t change anything about nanako and mimiko—except maybe the fact that they aren’t here, gone because of him. 

“suguru?” you ask softly, reaching for his hand as he grips the cart tightly and pulling his gaze away from the family in the distance. 

he blinks, meets your eyes, and knows that you know. with one glance at your face, he knows you understand. the world is cruel, one filled with suffering, he thinks. but then he remembers what you said, that every world is full of suffering, not just his—that it’s a truth he has to come face to face with.

but it’s hard. it’s hard when this man has his two little girls and suguru does not—it’s hard to watch someone have what he wants with no worries of losing it, all because of people and their own weaknesses. he thinks for a moment that he’s been right all along—that non-sorcerers are too weak for this life, that the jujutsu world has always suffered so they don’t have to. 

but then the man speaks up, catching both of your attention. 

“your mother used to love those,” he says quietly to his daughter, a pained smile on his face. instantly, you and suguru both seem to understand the weight of that single sentence. 

every world has its own pain, suguru realizes. its own cruelties and unfairness, its own way of bringing suffering in its wake as it rips away the things closest to you from your begging fingertips, leaving them cold and empty and numb from the lost weight underneath them. 

“let’s go, suguru,” you whisper, “we have everything we came for.”

“yeah,” he whispers back, clearing his throat so his voice doesn’t crack, “let’s go.”

suguru leaves the grocery store with you after you pay, and for a brief moment, he’s unsure. unsure whether he’s grateful to satoru for fighting for him to be able to come and grateful to you for dragging him along, or if he wishes he died along with the rubble, gone before you could find him and turn him into this.

“before you even think about hiding away in your room,” you say, grabbing the bags from the cart as you put it back where it belongs, “you have to help with putting away the groceries.”

“sure,” he says smoothly. he grabs all the heavy bags from your hand, and you make a move to protest that you don’t need him to take the heavier ones, that you’re fine and can handle them like you’ve always handled them. 

but he walks off, and finally, you decide to simply follow.

————————————————

satoru likes to come and visit—you’ve started a routine movie night every week (unless he’s away, of course.) it’s fun, but it also means he makes your veins pop because he’s a headache like that—always makes himself right at home and eats your snacks like this is his place and not yours. he helps himself to your already limited candy and puts his sock-clad feet up on the coffee table no matter how many times you tell him not to. 

you try sitting with legs as long as these, he always whines, earning a harsh glare from you as you smack at his shins until he ultimately caves and begrudgingly sets his feet down. 

but then they always make their way back up to the coffee table, and you’re too busy enjoying his company to care—although you’ll never admit it. 

satoru is endearing like that, swallowing the dark clouds from your shoulders whole and eating up your burdens with that side of responsibility that you don’t think you could ever stomach. satoru is just like that, you realize, taking the brunt of the weight and laughing off every concern until you can’t help but not take them seriously yourself. 

it’s hard to remember that sometimes you didn’t just lose suguru, the love of your life, that night. everyone lost something. shoko lost someone to smoke with, yaga lost a student to scold, nanami lost a headache to avoid, and satoru?

well…satoru lost what you think might’ve been the only filled void of his miserably empty life. 

it’s hard to remember that satoru lost his best friend—the only best friend he’s ever had (although you like to think of yourself as a close contender)—because he’s so good at letting you forget. he brings you ice cream (that he eats half of because it’s only fair he gets a share), and he sits and hogs your couch (that he argues you don’t really need as much space as him on because your legs aren’t as long), and he watches those stupid sitcoms that are dry with boring jokes (that you used to make suguru watch back in the day).

it’s hard to remember that satoru also lost as much as you because he’s so damn good at making you forget about your own loss, you don’t care to think about anyone else’s for a while. just a short while. just until he’s yawning that obnoxiously loud yawn and stretching those awkwardly long limbs of his before he claims he really should go and that being the world’s best teacher requires as many hours of beauty sleep as you can squeeze in. 

and then he’s off. and it’s empty again. and just like that, you’re reminded of why he was there in the first place—to fill in that sick and painful void that geto suguru left in you. 

it’s gaping, like he tore a chunk of you right out with sharp teeth, like you’re just a piece of meat for him to get his fill of. if suguru really loved you, would you be so easy to let go of? why couldn’t he smile? because you could—god, you could smile just from the sight of him alone, you realize a long time ago. him with his cigarette tucked between his lips, those death sticks as you called them, hung loosely from his mouth as he gives you a lopsided grin. 

geto suguru is enough of a reason to smile. the world could crumble at your feet and leave you with nothing but rubble and dirt, and still, suguru is the core of the earth you’re searching for. 

so why couldn’t you be the same? what is it you were missing? what about you was just not enough for him like the way he was enough for you? 

it dawns on you one night, through bitter tears and shaky sobs, and that sick, twisted, pleading feeling in your gut that begs the wind to carry him back to you—geto suguru has never loved you the way you loved him.

and for that, you can never forgive him, you don’t think.

“you tryin’ to go bug-eyed?” he asks, settling down on the couch next to you, making you snap out of your trance. you shake your head a little, stare back at him for a moment before putting on that look on your face where you roll your eyes and pretend everything is fine.

“no,” you huff, “i’m just thinking.”

“about…?”

“satoru has rarely ever missed a movie night.”

“maybe he’s sick of you,” he shrugs, grinning slyly at you as you narrow your eyes with a glare, “there’s someone here to keep you company now so he’s probably taken his opportunity to run.”

“you’re hardly company,” you scoff, “freeloader.”

“hey,” he defends, shrugging as if it’s not his fault. you suppose it’s not. “i didn’t ask to be rescued. you can’t be high and mighty and petty. ‘s not how that works.”

“says who? you don’t make the rules. i can be graciously kind and a jerk all at once.”

“complexity,” he nods, “i like it.”

“i’m not as complicated as you might think,” you grumble, crossing your arms as you stare at the time. yeah, satoru isn’t making it—which, he told you as much, but he’s strolled in at the last second too many times to count before. you figure today would be the same. “as long as you don’t skip movie nights with me, i’m pretty simple to keep appeased.”

“alright,” he props his feet up on the coffee table—seriously, what is it with asshole men putting their feet on your table? satoru is a terrible influence. “let’s have a movie night.”

“what?” you blink.

“movie night,” he repeats, “you said you don’t like skipping movie night—”

“well, i meant i don’t like satoru skipping movie—”

“well, it was me before satoru, wasn’t it?” he says with a smile. his eyes are closed, crinkled at the corners, but his voice is carefully neutral—like he takes extra care not to let you see any emotion behind it. 

but that only means there is an emotion, isn’t there? is he jealous? does he hate the fact that you and satoru have a routine of your own without him? that you don’t need him to continue living your life? 

good. he should be. he walked out on you all those years ago. he killed a village. killed his parents. you never even got to meet them—he never even got to take you home and introduce you to them before he ripped away every fantasy you ever had with him. 

and now he’s back—he has the audacity to live, to laugh in your face with his existence that yes, geto suguru is here. and he was supposed to be executed, but your stubborn friend didn’t let that happen. he was supposed to be your husband by now with kids and a happy little home, and you were supposed to be his parent’s new addition to their family that they loved so much. but none of that is even close to happening, and it’s suguru’s fault, and the least he can do is show you some regret and maybe feel just the slightest bit bad that you now have to watch shitty movies with his best friend instead of him to feel normal. 

ex-best friend? half best friend? you don’t even know—do they still consider each other their best friends? does anyone consider suguru anything? you don’t know what you consider him. but you think the least he can do is act just the slightest bit pathetic after making you feel so pathetic for so long just to even the score. 

he should be a stranger. he feels like an old friend. but either is dangerous. 

“alright,” you sigh, “let's bring back movie night. don’t fall asleep.”

“i get plenty of sleep nowadays,” he hums, “i have more than enough free time for that now.”

“how lucky of you,” you snort. 

—

picking a movie with suguru is difficult. he actually has standards—satoru watches anything so long as he gets snacks, and he can make anything fun to watch with the way he comments from the side like a critic. suguru, on the other hand, actually cares about the quality of a movie, the metrics that make it good. 

so you pick the hunger games just to piss him off. 

“seriously?” he raises a brow, “this is your pick?”

“yes,” you grin, “i like these movies.”

“of all movies—”

“my house, my rules,” you grin cheekily, “you can pick the movies as soon as you start paying the bills.”

“wow,” he deadpans, “stooping to use my financial status against me? i thought you were better than this.”

“oh suguru,” you sigh dramatically, grabbing a bag of chips from the table, “you don’t know me at all.”

all things considered, you think it’s a rather enjoyable experience. it’s not as fun without satoru’s stupid comments that you pretend to hate, but suguru provides his own commentary that earns a giggle out of you here and there too—although his are not meant to be funny. but that’s the appeal of it, you think. 

“she should have picked gale,” he mumbles. you raise a brow.

“peeta was always there for her, did you miss the rain scene?”

“so was gale,” he says smoothly, grabbing a chip from your bag and making you scowl.

“gale killed her sister,” you point out, “and a lot of other people too. he was ruthless. she needed peeta.”

“gale did what he had to do,” suguru mumbles. 

suddenly, it doesn’t really feel like you’re discussing the movie anymore. it feels more than that. it feels sickening—the air is heavy, and your throat is dry and god, you just wanted a movie night and not this heaviness as you talk about stuff from the past without actually talking about it. 

you blink before turning to your chips, playing around with the bag as you shrug. 

“in the end he didn’t get katniss, did he?”

suguru studies you for a moment, stares a little too deep into you that you start to feel the urge to bolt to your room and go to bed. 

“guess not,” he says quietly, “guess that’s the one regret he has, huh?”

you think for a second, as suguru stares at your eyes with something you can’t quite read, that you might cry. you might cry and throw that half-empty can of soda in his face for speaking in codes and making you question what he means and remember your past. you might cry because suguru could’ve always gotten you—in fact, he had you.

it’s not fair. nothing is, but you can’t help but dwell on it.

“i’m going to bed. it’s late,” you mumble after a few moments, standing. he only nods, staring at the tv as the credits roll. when you make it to your room and the door shuts behind you, you debate clicking the lock in place. 

in the end, you don’t lock the door. suguru climbs into bed with you once more later that night, shaking slightly from his nightmare but calmer than usual. he’s still gone by the time morning comes, and you still never mention it.

it hits you one night that maybe he still has you—maybe you never let him stop having you, no matter what you say.

————————————————

suguru is good at cleaning while you’re away. you have to go out and do adult things like breadwinning and grocery shopping and bill paying. he dusts and cleans and even takes out the trash when you’re home to monitor him as he steps two feet out of your front door. sometimes, because you like to get on his nerves, you accidentally mess up a corner of the house just as he cleans it, laughing as he shoots you an unimpressed look. 

“stop getting crumbs on the floor,” he mumbles, “i just vacuumed.”

“you make a good malewife,” you giggle, “vacuuming and everything. how cute.”

“don’t call me that,” he grumbles, sitting down on the couch. 

“but you missed a spot,” you point to the crumbs you’ve sprinkled from your fingers as you snack away, making him glare. “failwife.”

“i’m going to divorce you and take everything,” he snaps, making you snort as you put your hands up in surrender.

“you don’t have to, you know,” you murmur, “clean, i mean. i can handle it.”

“i think i should carry my weight around here,” he shrugs, “since you are basically sugar babying me around for now.”

“dangerous curse user to the world, but sugar baby to me,” you tease, pulling a chuckle out of him as he rolls his eyes. 

sometimes it’s nice to have his company. suguru is good with banter like that, he’s not annoying like satoru where you run in circles. suguru makes you laugh from your belly, makes the hiccups catch in your throat as you double over. he’s always been like that, always known how to make laughter pour from your lips and trickle down your chin. it’s comforting to know he still knows how. it leaves a small amount of bitterness that he’s still able to make you feel like this. 

“by the way, next time you go shopping, take me with you,” he says casually, “i need to buy stuff for my hair. it’s growing.”

“you’ll finally see the sun just for your hair?” you gasp, “who knew that’s all it’d take?”

despite the playfulness in your words, there’s still shock. suguru is willingly stepping foot outside your house. he’s finally choosing to return to life after living like a recluse no matter how many times you and satoru have tried to beg him to get up and go somewhere. the most you can get out of him is a walk around the neighborhood before he goes back to wandering your home and hiding away in his room. 

suguru is returning to life, his life, and you can’t help but wonder where that leaves room for you.

“my hair is my charm,” he reasons, “wouldn’t you agree?”

there’s a smirk on his lips when he asks—it’s like he’s seventeen and teasing you again, giving you that unfairly flirty smile that used to make you stutter as a kid. back when you were hopelessly in love. back when it was you, suguru, and the world in your corner. back when you had dreams of your future, practically giggling as you planned it away in a notebook. 

suguru was always perfect like that, the kind of guy you could only dream about. he’s always been handsome—he’s always been the center of attention everywhere you went. you used to huff about it, about all the attention he managed to get from walking into a room alone. but then he’d smile, give you that tender look of his as he’d chuckle, and you’d be hopeless again. 

he shouldn’t have that effect on you anymore after over a decade. but he does. it’s cruel, the way the universe works. it’s like there’s a magnet that pushes you together no matter how far you try to go, still pulled by gravity straight into his awaiting eyes and devilish smile.

“i cut your hair off once, i can do it again,” you huff. he laughs, it’s good-natured and kind. 

“i was a bit heartbroken when i realized it was so short, i have to admit,” he says, “i didn’t look like me.”

“you looked good,” you say quietly, “i think you’d make anything work, to be honest.”

“yeah?” he grins, “any requests? i might consider it if it’s you.”

“oh shut up,” you roll your eyes, “how about shaving your head bald? let's see how much charm you have without all that hair.”

“i could charm you without the hair still, couldn’t i?” he winks. 

it’s unfair how he acts like normal. like a few months in your home undoes everything he’s ever committed, all the atrocities he’s caused. the way he flirts with you feels like you’re his again. the way he’s aged and changed feels like you’re meeting someone new. you don’t understand how suguru is so natural with that—with seamlessly falling back into a rhythm with you like nothing has changed at all.

deep down, you know that suguru is just moving on with his life. he’s making the most of what he can. he can’t die, satoru would never let him have a peaceful death after all this. he can’t go back to the way things used to be, whether that’s his sorcery days or his curse user days, and he certainly can’t start over. so he’s making do with what he has—which is very little in reality.

it’s you, your home, and the biweekly visits from satoru and occasionally shoko. so he weaves you seamlessly into his life and treats you with a sense of normalcy you can’t hope to treat him with. maybe it’s because suguru was actually able to move on after he left. 

it’s the part you hated him most for. for building a family with new people. for having two girls that he raised as daughters. for finding people to follow him and trust. suguru, after he walked away from everything he ever knew, actually did something with his life—even if it could hardly be considered good. 

you? you fell deeper and deeper into a pit of denial until clawing your way back out was too impossible, until you had to leave behind everything you’ve ever known to get away from the remnants of his existence. 

it’s easy for him to weave you back into his life because he chose to cut you loose. it feels damn near impossible to let him weave back into yours after he tore himself from the edges and frayed away. 

“don’t do that,” you sigh, making him frown.

“do what?”

“you know what, suguru,” you pinch your nose in frustration, “stop acting like things are normal.”

“things are definitely not normal,” he snorts bitterly, “i think needing your approval to take the trash out is not equal to normal.”

“then why are you acting like…” you trail off, unsure.

“like what?” he raises a brow. 

“like we never changed,” you slam your hands down on the couch in exasperation. 

he stares at you for a minute, blinks once, then twice, and then furrows his brows.

“well, of course we changed,” he mumbles in confusion, “i know that—”

you shouldn’t have said anything. you quickly realize that. suguru is not trying to act like things are normal—he’s trying to be civil, and you’re just a fool. a fool who looks too deeply into everything and assumes what you want to out of things and god, you’ve embarrassed yourself in front of your one and only ex-boyfriend in over a decade who was once dead and somehow came back to the land of the living.

of course, he knows things are not the same. he doesn’t want what you think he does. it’s been years and suguru has moved on—he had already moved on all those years ago, and you’re the only one here that is still focused on the past. and now he knows it too. 

you stand before he can finish, nodding as you stare down instead of meeting his eyes, pretending to adjust your clothes. 

“right, of course you do,” you nod, “i don’t know why i said that. just ignore me, i’ll be going to my room now. i have…things to do, so i’ll be—”

“hang on,” he frowns, hand grabbing your wrist, “i don’t mean it like that,” he says gently.

fuck geto suguru for being so confusing and fuck him for being nice about it too. 

“you can let go, suguru,” you pull at your wrist, “forget what i said, i wasn’t thinking—”

“i still feel the same,” he cuts you off, making your eyes widen, “if that’s what you mean. i never stopped.”

never stopped—that’s almost worse than moving on. how could he have felt the same all those years and still never come back?

“that does not help even a little,” you swallow the lump in your throat. “that makes this so much worse, do you see that?”

“i know,” he sighs, “i’m sor—”

“don’t say you’re sorry,” you grit your teeth, “we both know you’re not.”

“maybe not,” he admits, “i had to try. and that meant leaving—i’m sorry that’s not what you wanted.”

“it’s not!” you turn around, pulling your arm out of his grasp—suguru, for what it’s worth, takes the shove to his chest like a champ. “of course i didn’t want you to leave and kill a bunch of people and have an execution stamped on your forehead and live your life without me.”

“i know—”

“and now you’re back. back! in my house, eating my food and sleeping in my bed for half the night and i just have to act like this is normal. how is any of this normal?” 

“it’s not,” he agrees. he’s calm. so calm, it almost makes you mad. why is he so calm? “nothing about anything in our lives is normal. it never was.”

“you ruined my life,” you blink back tears. he smiles sadly, taking a step closer.

“i guess i can take the blame for that,” he nods, hands finding their way to your hips. against your better judgment, you lean half your weight against his body. this is bad, very bad—but it’s also the best thing ever. 

being close to suguru feels like the sun’s heat tearing through your skin—it’s warm. it’s pleasant. it leaves you parched and drained with a dry throat. but still, you need it to survive. 

“why did you come back?” you ask tiredly. his hand finds the small of your back, rubbing slow circles.

“i don’t know,” he hums, “i didn’t really get a say. maybe i was always meant to, who knows?”

you look at him at that—tilt your head to get a good look at his features. his eyes are more tired, and his cheeks are a bit more sunken in compared to the youthful flesh you remember him with. his hair isn’t as healthy, and his forehead has the slightest traces of pale marks from the scars. but he’s still suguru—and you have always loved suguru, even if he gives you every reason to hate him.

“you make my life unreasonably difficult,” you mutter.

he hums, smiling. “can i?” he asks breathlessly, pleadingly. you stare at his eyes, he stares at your lips. you know what he wants—but fuck, you can’t let him have it so easy. 

“can you what?” you ask, raising a brow slowly.

“are you really gonna make me say it?” he grunts, lips almost curled into a pout. it’s cute, the way he looks longingly at your lips—it’s so cute and beautiful and dangerous all at once, just like suguru. 

“yes,” you say, “yes i am. i deserve to hear it suguru, after everything you put me through. you…you left me. i wasn’t enough for you. i mourned you. i grieved a body i never even saw. do you know what that does to a person? to lose them not once but two times? the least you could do is tell me what you want,” your voice wavers just a little. 

it shakes for the lost time. for the moments you’ll never have. for the memories you lost. for the past that’s tainted. time is cruel like that. but that’s the beauty of it all—the fragility. it’s like sand falling through the cracks of your fingers, every grain slipping from your reach but still soft and soothing against your skin as it falls. everything fades over time, everything starts to hurt one way or another. but it stops. it heals. it starts over. the sand fills the cup of your palms again, warm and delicate and just as beautiful as before it crumbled. 

“can i kiss you?” he asks desperately, “please?”

“kissing me is not a temporary thing,” you shake your head, “not anymore. it’s for good. only for good.”

“i want to kiss you for good,” he nods, hands digging into your hips impatiently. you’re close. you’re too far. he can feel you, smell you, hear your unsteady breaths. but it’s not enough. he needs to devour you, taste you on his tongue, and melt you with his touch. “i won’t stop this time,” he promises. 

“you better not,” you sniffle, tears blurring your vision. you hated suguru for leaving you. you hated him for coming back to you like this. you never stopped loving him, never will stop loving him—and maybe that’s what love is. when the darkness is worth trekking through for the afterglow of the light. “if you fucking leave me again, you’re dead to me. i don’t care how many times you come back to life. you’re dead to me.”

“okay,” he agrees through a shaky chuckle, “i suppose i deserve that. let me kiss you, yeah?”

“yeah,” you breathe.

he kisses you—years too late, he kisses you. it feels like you’re teenagers again. it feels different and foreign. you know this feeling like the back of your hand. you don’t understand what this sensation is anymore. it’s new. it’s old. it’s perfect. it hurts. suguru is here. he promised not to leave—you don’t know if you believe him, but you’re going to trust that finally, for once, you are enough. 

you’re enough to make him happy. to give him a sense of purpose. to keep him swimming when his limbs start to sink. 

finally, for once, you’re enough. 

“i love you,” he whispers against your mouth, breathing the words into you like he’s offering you the air from his lungs, “i never stopped. i promise.”

“you don’t deserve to hear it from me,” you murmur back, panting against his lips, “not yet.”

“fair enough,” he chuckles, “you sure know how to leave a guy waiting.”

“i learned from the best,” you shoot back.

he grins—suguru smiles, heartfelt and real. life is full of misery, it’s painful, and nothing fucking makes sense. everything is cruel. everything dies no matter how carefully you water the roots. there’s always something, someone, ready to tear it from the earth. but if you keep planting the seeds, suguru will keep watering. 

maybe something kind can bloom from that, something big enough for him to hide under the shade when the scorching heat of tragedy becomes too much. 

in this world or in the jujutsu world; in this life or in the next. suguru is yours.

“why am i here?” he asks gently, his face digging into your neck. you hold him, cradling the back of his head as you hum. 

“because i need you here. will you stay?”

“yes,” he murmurs, “i think i’ll stay.”

hi. i have been working on this since march. its still not how i envisioned it to be originally but that's okay. i had fun writing it and it means a lot to me even tho its kind of. well....cliche LMAO like everything i write. but. i enjoy the cliches okay ?? i do. kxljchskdf hope u guys didn't hate it </3

also the fic banner is …. not the greatest. just ignore it ok

[funeralpartyclown]

threesome with Dale? Third maybe Ruth or Lee? Bonus points if Ruth is in the nun outfit???

Ok. My worst habit is checking my phone immediately after waking up I thought this was saying dale x Ruth x Lee for a second almost had a heart attack and died.

Btw.. someone has written a whole thing like this (Dale/ruth/oc) in part of their fic it’s two lost souls by anothermidnight on ao3 ✨

Sorry if this ones a little OOC I’m sick and tired and my brain is on low battery but I still need to post bc LL is all I think about ever

When she comes home from a murder. Dragging herself through the doorway, clothes and cross all stained in drying blood. Regardless of her general distaste for Dale, his company would be better than being alone with her thoughts after that. Sitting in her room isolated thinking about the way the blades cut the flesh. Haunted and tormented by what she’s been through so she seeks him out. Ask him a single question and sit there while he goes on for several hours just to fill the void of silence and focus on his words to quiet her thoughts.

She goes looking for him, down the stairs, and finds you together in bed. And of course she’s embarrassed and turning around, but he beckons her to join you. And she’s disgusted, and at any other time she’d say absolutely not and throw something at him for even suggesting it, but after the murder. She feels so hollow and empty and alone. And she’s not really even thinking so she just turns around and descends the stairs and sits down beside him.

He’d lick the blood off her skin, have you peel off her clothes gently. And of course the devil would appear to watch and Dale would insist on giving him a good show,, laying on the mattress with one of you on each end of his body. Coaxing as much noise as possible out of both of you. Refusing to let anyone stop until you’re all exhausted and spent and filthy.

Maybe pay special attention to her before that to make her feel a little better.. him eating her out while you hold her and cover her and kisses and soft touches and tell her how pretty she is. She makes me so sad she deserves so much love and affection.

[ghcstao3]

hi, hope you're well! so today I was thinking (bc ofc my brain's natural reaction is to lunge viciously for the hurt/comfort), what if the '09 game events still happened? Like, instead of AUs (where timelines branch off from a single event), it's a glitch in the timeline? So you have the '22 version of the 141 doing their thing, but they have nightmares & deja vu stemming from the '09 stuff. Cue (yes I'm shipping) SoapGhost where Ghost has all these bad feelings concerning Shepherd plus he has awful nightmares about burning & Soap's there to comfort him, but he's afraid that they're all losing it bc he keeps having similar dreams concerning how he dies--

i am well ty! hope u are as well!

anyway i tried my Best. however u may (will) have to pretend 22 141 doesnt know shepherd was part of the betrayal bc uhhh yeah👍🙂👍 also cw for kinda graphic desc of ghost’s nightmares

-

Soap couldn’t pinpoint when the dreams started, or why, for that matter—but what he does know is that it’s pure and utter torment.

It’s a unique fear that festers in their wake, in cold sweat and heart palpitations. It’s spine-chilling in a way Soap has never experienced, because while he’s confident he’s looked death in the eyes on too many occasions, never has he actually died.

But his dreams, these dreams—they tell him otherwise. And he isn’t the only one, either.

Gaz and Price have started to look just as sleepless. And Ghost—Soap has never seen him so afraid. When, for the first time in weeks, Soap sees his face, it’s harrowed. Haunted.

There’s a sense of familiarity that’s brought along with Soap’s dreams; explosions, gunfire, dilapidated buildings and someone screaming his name. His brain supplies him with the knowledge that it’s Price, but it isn’t, not really. At least, not how he knows Price. He feels old wounds tearing open and a searing pain in his side as his body is drained of far too much blood, and Price—not his Price—is shaking him. Begging.

In the end, it just makes sense to Soap. To die in the field. But the dream is too visceral to feel anything but real, and he starts to wonder just when he’d begun to deserve these sorts of taunts.

Gaz says his own nightmares are blunt, but just as violent. As fiery. Price doesn’t say anything, but there’s a new sunken quality to the bags under his eyes, and he just looks at his team so different, with a tortured gaze and a regret so profound he doesn’t seem to understand it himself.

Finally, Soap thinks, their mental states have deteriorated beyond repair. Until, in his arms, Ghost is screaming his throat raw in his sleep, a wail only ever sounded by those trekking their way through hell. Soap’s heard it before, from others, in their final moments, but never from the living.

And that’s when Soap begins to understand that these aren’t just some dreams, but some distant reality he hopes to never face.

Soap gently coaxes Ghost from his slumber, cutting through nightmare and imagination and whatever horrible thing could have Ghost in such pain. His face wets with tears as he slowly wakes, clinging to Soap like a child might to their mother’s leg in an indescribable fear. Ghost has never seemed so small.

“It’s not just you,” Soap whispers. He presses a kiss to Ghost’s temple, pulls the man closer. “Tell me what happened.”

As Ghost gradually forces out the words Soap begins to feel sick, nauseated not only by their contents but by the knowledge that Ghost had just lived through it, but he never lets go. Never asks for Ghost to stop speaking, just listens. Listens even as something gnaws away at his gut, as bile climbs his throat.

Hot, Ghost says. It was hot. A bullet had been lodged somewhere in his body but it didn’t matter—it was hot. He’d claw off his skin to get rid of the heat if it weren’t already melting flesh from muscle, from bone. Clothes and gear meld with his corpse and he feels it all, feels the bubbling, smells the burning, senses the way parts of his body slough off into ash.

He’s reaching for someone, and there’s the itch of betrayal, and a voice in his ear that he knows, instinctually, is Price, but there isn’t anything more he can do than lie there and accept his fate as his fleeting thoughts pester him about everything he’d done wrong. About everything he could’ve done—should’ve done to save… to save—

“I know his name,” Ghost murmurs, “but I also don’t. And I—“

“Don’t dwell on it, Simon,” Soap advises. “Please.”

Ghost shakes his head against Soap’s shoulder. “I can’t just—it’s not something I can forget, Johnny. Not when it keeps happening.”

“But you can,” Soap pleads. A terrible sense of dread has befallen him, growing in intensity and insistence. Something isn’t right, but he doesn’t know if he wants to find out just what. “We all can.”

Ghost is silent a moment. Shifts somehow closer to Soap. Soap can hear him thinking.

“I don’t know if we should be trusting Shepherd,” he finally says.

Soap’s face pinches in a tight frown. It seems such a random topic for this hour, after such terror. “Why?”

Ghost shrugs. “Can’t explain it. Gut feeling. Could be wrong, but—“

“When are you ever?” It’s meant to be teasing, but Soap does trust Ghost’s judgement more than anyone, perhaps even more than his own. Ghost just nods and clings ever tighter until his breathing evens out and tense muscles go lax.

Soap can’t find it in himself to fall back asleep.

Instead, he begins to wonder just how true these nightmares hold. And he begins to question how exactly Shepherd may fit into all of it.

Unfortunately, though, he supposes, there’s only one way to find out.

[darklordazalin]

Azalin Reviews: Darklord "The Baron"

Darklord: The Baron Domain: The Eyrie Domain Formation: All that can be determined is this Domain formed prior to 750 BC as Il Aluk is mentioned in an adventure associated with the Domain and Il Aluk becomes Necropolis in 750 BC during The Requiem. Power Level: 💀💀💀⚫⚫ Source: Dungeon Magazine Issue 58; 1996

There is very little history on the Darklord of the flying citadel Domain known as The Eyrie. Indeed, there is more information regarding The Eyrie’s former residence than the Darklord himself. At least the former resistant has a name even if he was only in the demiplanes of dread for a month before his flying castle was infiltrated.

Eyrie Keep was once located along a pass in the Khalkist Mountains on the continent of Ansalon on Krynn. It was originally inhabited by the Knights of Solamnia, the rigid knights of Krynn with strict moral codes (unless you’re Lord Soth). During the War of the Lance, the Keep was transformed into a flying citadel in hopes to defend itself and others from the aerial forces of Takhisis’s army. It may have extended their time on Krynn, but the flying citadel was no match for Takhsis’s dragons and it was eventually taken by the Dragon Highlord Kravon.

Kravon lost his red dragon mount earlier in the war and decided to make it everyone’s problem. He slaughtered and tortured his way through Ansalon until even his cruelest generals abandoned him. It’s unclear why they did so, perhaps Kravon was too focused on his personal vendetta than the will of his Goddess? Regardless, alone in his flying castle, Kravon was taken by the mists and transported to the demiplanes of dread forever bound to his the flying citadel, which roamed freely among the Domains of Dread.

Kravon was only a Darklord for one moon cycle, for, when a group of werebats discovered the castle their leader saw it as the perfect home for his kind. The werebats infiltrated the castle and when confronted by Kravon and told to bow before him and Takhisis, the leader of the werebats simply attacked the former Dragon Highlord and killed him. In doing so, the leader named himself The Baron of The Eyrie. Upon doing so, this self-proclaimed ‘baron’ became the Darklord of The Eyrie in Kravon’s place and as its Darklord, The Baron is completely contained within the walls of the flying castle.

Since he cannot leave The Eyrie, The Baron relies upon the werebats (Jerzi, Pyetr, and Liza) he created – and has absolute control over - to fetch his nightly meal of humanoid blood. The Baron despises that he must rely upon them for this and they, in turn, despise him for forces them to do so every night. Indeed, Liza plots to overthrow The Baron and utilize the citadel as a haven for werebats as a formidable fortress to launch raids from and subject humanoids to her will. The Baron, on the other hand, wishes to be free of his underlings but must rely upon them for his nightly meal.

The Eyrie itself isn’t very impressive, aside from the fact that it can fly, though one cannot control where it flies, only our Tormentors have that particular ability. It is inhabited by werebats, flying beasts (bats and birds), and the occasional harpy. On its base, giant spiders wove massive webs to catch flying creatures as the castle moves through the skies.

The Keep has a long history and one can find evidence of the former Knights of Solamnia or the Dragon Highlord that once lived there if they know what they’re looking for and at. It also has a rather unique mental imprint upon it where the castle has absorbed the memories and souls of those who have died within, which often manifests as the whispering of voice or an illusionary vision. Yet, it is not haunted and these manifestations cannot harm those who view them. At least, not physically. I’m certain that viewing a Dragon Highlord having a temper tantrum about their dead dragon leaves a permanent impression on one’s psyche.

The Baron is a werebat wizard who prefers spending time with his books over time with others as most wizard do. He can cast in both his human and hybrid forms, though not in his bat form…which, given the need most wizards need for gestures, words, and components, is unsurprising. As Darklord, he may summon an ‘aerial’ servant to come to his aid, can summon a flock of ravens or two hawks, and swarms of bats. Also, as most Darklords, The Baron can close the borders of his Domain by summoning high winds that surround the Eyrie, making it impossible for anyone to leave. He typically does this to prevent his prey from leaving.

It’s difficult to rate a Darklord with very little history, but given that he is a wizard and has a decent amount of control over his underlings, I will award him 3 skulls.

[spacemancharisma]

vent under cut

so the background is that I work for a family-owned business in an extremely politically red area. I knew the owners were republicans, but didn’t realize until recently that they’re like,, hardcore about it. the wife wears trump merch 24/7 and they both toss the t-slur around in a work environment like it’s nothing. they have two kids though, around my age, and the son is gay, which I learned a month or two into working here. since then, i’ve come out to him & we’ve been friends, we’ve had solidarity, i’ve seen him make at least token attempts to chill his parents out. I’ve never made my personal political leanings obvious at work bc I know better, but it’s fairly obvious from everything about me that I lean pretty hard to the left.

all this to say- the other day as I was leaving work, I walked into the office where the parents & kids were all talking, and arrived while the son, my friend, was in the middle of a story that went “- and he asked me why he should vote for trump, so I was explaining like, ‘do you know what a 30% corporate tax would even do?’-” and I know it’s naïve of me to have expected anything but it still hit me in the fucking chest

and since then i’ve had this feeling of like,, rage and pain the way a little kid feels, all that righteousness and confusion because how can you not care about other people???? I’m just sitting at work feeling like I’m going to start screaming or crying because PEOPLE DIED FOR YOU. YOUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS DIED IN THE FUCKING STREETS FOR YOU TO HAVE THE RIGHT TO RENT A LITTLE HOUSE WITH YOUR BOOTBOY BOYFRIEND AND MAKE OUT WHILE YOU VOTE FOR TRANS PEOPLE TO BE FUCKING EXTERMINATED. but what does it matter to fucking you, I guess, since you’re white and cis and male and masc and able-bodied. who gives a fuck about everyone you’re stomping on. who gives a fuck about the queers and the faggots and the trannys getting wished out of existence if it means that you, a Good Respectable Homosexual, don’t have to pay some goddamn taxes. I want to fucking throw up. this is a vent post bc I can’t be articulate about it. it just hurts. it fucking hurts that I am haunted every day by the spectre of an entire generation that republicans murdered in cold blood, and people like him haven’t ever even considered the what it would’ve been like if he’d been born a decade or two earlier. we have not recovered from the aids crisis. we will never recover from the aids crisis. the community we once had was fucking demolished, deliberately, and if you can go about your life & never think about how many people we lost & what we lost with them, you have fucking lost the plot.

how is it possible to so genuinely only think about capital, about fucking money. how is it fucking possible to care so little about other people????? people you claim to have community with???? yourself even?????? we live in fucking georgia dude, we don’t have room to backslide. panthers eating faces or whatever. maybe they’ll come for me first but I promise they are coming for you next.

they don’t fucking respect you. you’re not “one of the good ones”. they’ll never forgive you. they’ll never love you. and when they start eating faces, you’re not as far down that list as you want to be. I just don’t understand how disconnected you have to be to not see that, to not care, to think you’re above it. you are as filthy as any of us to them, and when you need someone to stand with you, it’s not going to be them. it’s going to be us, standing with you even if you never stood with us.

anyway.

[atopvisenyashill]

that post reminded me that got actually did something spartacus did that i thought was an amazing choice for a visual medium.

both shows are about two hyperviolent societies and a specific war those societies wage, so both shows are full of violence - blood, gore, gaping wounds, grotesque injuries, you name it both shows have it. but one thing that spartacus was deliberate about was bruises. in the whole show, very few characters are ever shown bruised. i believe it’s just three out if a cast of several dozen - naevia, ilithyia, and pietros. i’m using naevia as the biggest example bc she’s the only one i can find enough pictures of rn (rip the websites i used to get my screencaps from, they are unusably filled with ads now). if you look at the scrapes naevia takes throughout the series (pls note the actress was replaced) you see she’s got blood, scabs, scars, sometimes even light swelling but no bruising.

EXCEPT. FOR ONE SCENE. background - naevia is a body slave to a domina, meant to stay a virgin until her mistress finds her a proper (slave) husband. naevia falls in love with crixus, her mistress’ gladiator lover, and he with her. they are found out, and naevia is shaved and beaten then sent to various other masters to be “punished” (raped) and finally sent to the mines to die, while crixus is whipped, poisoned, and sent into a fight to die. but when lucretia (the domina) is confronting naevia over how she’s been sneaking around, we see lucretia use her own hands to slap naevia around (before handing her off to be tortured). and here, we have the only bruise naevia ever wears:

it was very much on purpose, to drive home the interpersonal violence, and naevia’s helplessness to stop it despite her intelligence and strength.

they do this twice over. the very first time is actually with pietros, a young slave (glossing over a lot here) forced to share a room with a man who rapes & beats him. the first time it happens, the only evidence is a bruise on pietros’ face. not a cut, not a break, not a split lip. just a bruise.

the second is with ilithyia, the wife of a roman general. though she does her fair share of harm throughout the show, in s2 ilithyia finds herself at odds with her husband, culminating in him slapping her across the face. ilithyia is shown with a bruise - just a bruise! - the next episode. what’s more, it’s remarked on. background - ilithyia’s husband, claudius, was the general that left the thracian’s to die, then captures spartacus and his wife and sold them into slavery for disobeying his marching orders. another slave, gannicus, kidnaps her right after she’s struck to give to spartacus - he wants to end the war with an eye for an eye, sura died so spartacus kills ilithyia. except spartacus notices the bruise. he figures out right away her husband gave it to her, and sets her free with a haunting line while touching the bruise on her cheek - he does not love you.

it’s meant to be more personal, to evoke feelings of domestic violence. to show us that these characters who are brave, powerful, strong, intelligent, cunning, all find themselves through no fault of their own on the receiving end of ipv and no way of protecting themselves, because society is not set up to allow them protection from their “betters.”

and then we have cersei.

i know this scene is in the book but i think the decision to have it be a very common looking bruise was amazing - it’s not super purple and green, it doesn’t take up half her face, it’s just a palm sized, pink and red bruise on her cheek. such a small little thing and yet the humiliation of it, of what it represents, says so much more than some overdramatic injury ever could. the lioness of house lannister but even cersei can’t stop her husband from beating her if that’s what he wants to do.

[mirrortouchedsea]

hello >:) i was curious about the ghost rinne idea you mentioned a while ago... if you aren't vibing with those thoughts anymore though, i'm still curious about the ink blood sister scribe au, and also the apocalypse au (especially the kaname and tatsumi side. what is Happening there)

okay so this is going to be a long one i think so it's going under the read more. also sorry everyone no wip wednesday today you get whatever this is going to be instead.

Ghost Rinne

So if you've talked to me like. At all you know i just adoreeeeeee ghosts and ghost stories they're my favorite okay so obviously ghost Rinne is such a concept to me. I've talked about him being stuck trying to protect Niki, keep him from making whatever mistakes that originally led to their mutual deaths (I'm still kinda in between what I want that to be but it's probably just gonna be a car accident while they're doing something idol related.). It's like an evil fucked up time loop that lasts years and Rinne is doomed to die in every universe and if he isn't then Niki dies and neither of these are exactly great outcomes. His ghost haunts Niki before he even meets him and maybe if he meets ghost Rinne he'll avoid becoming an idol but he'll never meet the Rinne in this loop. It's convoluted and maybe not really a ghost story but also i need to gnaw on them so so bad.

2. Ink Blood Sister Scribe AU

So since I finished the book since I wrote the original drabble I knowwwwwww that other scribes weren't really a thing until one of the MCs shows up but listen we're not going for super duper canon to the book here Rinne is a scribe his blood can make magic and he had to run away from his hometown to protect them (though they did tell him what he could do and it's something that used to be common in their bloodline as leaders of the village that died out one day for unknown reasons that r revealed in the book.) He ends up with Niki per usual and they end up on the run after the first year where Rinne realizes someone is watching them and trying to chase them down. They spend a year somewhere and then leave on a specific day and go somewhere else. I think when the events of the book end where everything is undone and scribes can actually be born again it takes a while for him to find out from his family and village because suddenly Hiiro can do it too and Rinne slowly loses the feeling that people are watching him. He's been using his magic to write spells to help people pretty much the whole time and Niki helped with the herbal blends to mix into the ink to make the spells more potent so they're still practically inseparable but now they don't have to worry about someone finding them anymore and now Rinne is dying from blood loss since there's nothing stopping him from making spells for everyone to help them out /j. HiMERU and Kohaku definitely fit in here somewhere I think they're mailing spells back to them during the initial period of being on the run all the time to help out with x y z job they have. Probably weird assassin stuff who knows.

3. Tatsukanas in the Post Apocalypse AU

So wrt the fic I posted back in January and I know I told u this on discord already but for everyone else reading here the plan was bc I am a slut for fantasy I did have to include a little bit in this with Tattsun but. After the initial encounter with Tatsumi and Kaname decides to stay with him, Kaname gets bitten and Tatsumi is able to heal him with some magic in the church but it ties Kaname to the church specifically so if he leaves then the disease just. speeds up and will kill him. So Kaname is effectively church bound and can't leave but he's okay for now? At least if his brother is looking for him there's way less possibility that they'll miss each other by going through the same place at slightly different times but oops!! His brother is going to blame Tatsumi for everything that happened to Kaname (even if Kaname insists that's not the case and he would be so much worse off if Tatsumi hadn't taken him in.). The other Alkaloid members are also staying in the church and while Kaname is definitely a lot for any of them to deal with, Mayoi ends up spending the most time with him as protector when the others are out getting food/supplies/etc. I personally think Kaname would end up learning how to sew and cook and such, things he can do in the church that are still useful to everyone else but that's neither here nor there.

[liverobinreaction]

Okay I very much have a problem bc I don’t think I’ve ever been plagued with so many ideas for one fandom. Anyway I’m thinking about a House (the indie game by bark bark games) AU where Tim is under the curse until he finally escapes and just. Has to deal with the influence of the curse for the rest of his life, including but not limited to the day resetting if he dies.

Like he finally kills the heart and the old man puppeting his family, down one arm and holding an axe covered in blood with the other, the hollow shells of his mother and father still sitting in the house. And he just. Scrambles out, bolting to Wayne Manor, barely aware of the blood loss because he’s been torn to shreds enough times to get used to the pain

Alfred opens the door to this blood covered child hyperventilating and laughing desperately. When Bruce is sent off to investigate, he finds nothing out of the ordinary, except for a massive hole in the middle of the foyer, and a lump of flesh that’s been hacked to pieces. Tim is insistent that he doesn’t stay long, even as Alfred rushes to stop the bleeding and tells him to stop being ridiculous.

Jason stumbles downstairs, awoken by the noise, and just stares horrified at his blood covered next door neighbour gripping an axe with his remaining hand as he talks about dying and houses and a doll. None of them know what to do with him.

Alternatively, he never goes to Wayne Manor and just… haunts his home like a ghost despite being very much still alive. But he doesn’t feel that way at all, and while he managed to stop the bleeding, he’s still down an arm. He can’t sleep in his room out of fear of the curse resetting, and instead huddles in different places every night, never sticking in one place, axe firmly grasped just in case.

Eventually he manages to leave him house and goes into Gotham, which is where my idea tapers off. Regardless, I thought I’d just shove this into the ether because god knows I won’t be able to think with it lingering

[amyyscorner]

Live reaction: Goosebumps (2023)

Spoilers below the cut

ok emo i hope he dies WAIT IS HE SUPPOSED TO BE RL STINE?? ding dong bitch DONT WALK OUTSIDE JESUS HAVE U NOT SEEN A FUCKING HORROR MOVIE??? mans gon die the doorbell ghost really be trolling LMAO THE CHANDELIER candles. ofc he has candles. sth gon burn HIS NAME IS HAROLD? LMAOOOOO i knew there was gonna be a fire. mans burned i love being right ooooooh pretty introoooo me likey NOT UNHOLY BY SAM SMITH PLEASE I THOUGHT THIS WAS A SHOW FOR LIKE 12+ NAUR Ayo AYO IS THAT HER???? OMG I LOVE THAT HER NOT THE BIKING ACCIDENT LMAOOOOO i love lucas already PLEASE NOT MORE UNHOLY I AM GIGGLING oooh its the same school as the guy who died harold isaiah is the jock lucas is the nerd/idiot margot is the girl thats not like the others NOT HER READING AT THE EVENT PLS HARRY STYLES WONT PICK U BESTIE PLS THE POOR GUY LEAVE HIM ALONE D: isabella seems like the girl who is actually chill and just wants to do her thing AYO SAM BE CUTE im in love with james i need james in my life james is me oh so jocks gf is an insta popular girl "im literally super nice" "so why am i being trolled?" maybe bc u called it being trolled jock who doesn't get good grades? i hope they get less...two dimensional like give the jock an actual problem maybe he has adhd or a learning disability so he focused on physical activity now who tf is glasses nathan bratt BEN HOLY SHIT U ARE FATHER PARENT ok so nathan is the lil nerdy weird adult the parents were grieving their kid wtf dude??? nathan has killer vibes hes gon die or at least get hurt HE GOT HURT LMAOOOOO yeah nah he deserved that ben tho? king. love him NOT THE BLOOD KEY LMAOOOOOO OH IS BEN JOCKS DAD? oh baby :( now he is too scared to tell them he won't be playing in the game bc there is no way he will be able to get that A THEYRE TALKING IN THAT IDIGAH LANGUAGE margot is not for me but she seems like a good friend to him ayo you know but hamilton seems like helpful dont help him cheat just help him study yeah nah thats so dumb yall deseve to fail trust me i can say it bc i used to cheat in this one class HOW OBVIOUS CAN U BE JESUS CHRIST okay so margot likes isaiah but he is dating allison so far im not as invested as i could be tbh not the murder hourse being the new place jesus this is so stupid all of you deserve to die all of you so fucking dumb like i get the rush of it. i've been in an abandoned psych clinic before a few years before it burnt down but this? idk besties, you should know this is dumb thor he is obviously thor he has a blonde wig and a hammer actual stupid people dont go to the basement please YES IT IS HAUNTED YES IT MAKES FOR A GOOD PARTY UNTIL EVERYONE DIES BESTIES so far i hate the main characters dont go down there dont go to the basement dont walk TO THE DOOR THAT MAGICALLY OPENED TO THE BASEMENT WHERE A DUDE DIED "i bet the fuse box is down there" - okay video game main character oh okay so allison knows she likes him and is insanely jealous girl why are you such a bitch to her?? she just didn't know to be late to parties wtf fuck them yes walk down the creepy stairs i hope u get hurt for being such an asshole cause wtf stop exploring and just find the fuse box ur not a video game there r no secrets to find good attempt at the jumpscare. unfortunately not random enough oh no the ghost door to the ghost basement closed how unexpected i'm so surprised wow this was so surprising omg hes fine he will walk up and scare you guys SEE i knew it SHAKE IT LIKE A POLAROID PICTURE

okay we finished the first half of the ep 2nd half reaction coming soon

[winterrhayle]

URGENT QUESTION WHAT SHIP DOES MY TEARS RICOCHET BELONG TO

HAHAHAH THIS QUESTION GENUINLY STRESSED ME OUT BC I WAS SO UNSURE BUT I THINK MAYBE EVRET AND LEVANA???!?!? BUT IN THE WORST WAY POSSIBLE

OK SO

the whole song is about the death of a relationship i know evret and levana barely even qualifies as a relationship as its so one sided but u get me

ok so pretend this whole thing is from evrets pov

'and if im on fire youll be made of ashes, too' ok first thing i noticed here is the reference to fire bc thats a recurring theme in tlc and more specifically in fairest, and that lyric is about how the people on both sides of the relationship are hurting eachother - levana hurting evret by manipulating him, forcing him to marry her, stealing evrets dead wife's face, etc etc,, and on evrets side, he hurts levana by not loving her back (what a king i love him sm)

'even on my worst day, did i deserve, babe, all the hell you gave me? cause i loved you, i swear i loved you, 'til my dying day' a huge huge part of evrets character is that he has a big sense of duty and devotion. so when levana forced him to marry her, regardless of his lack of love for her, he did everything he could to make her happy, because thats what he felt his duty as a husband was to do, and throughout fairest, they keep mentioning the vows 'i vow to love and cherish you for all our days' 3 times i think (?) so relating back to the song, its like hes saying, i loved you and cherished you as promised (or did everything an actual loving husband will do) and yet she gave him hell (the reasons stated in the paragraph above ^^^^^ and more) even though he was kind to her LITERALLY UNTIL HE DIED???!?!??!??!? WHICH SHE PLANNED?!??!??!???!?!?! fairest is so wild omg

'and i can go anywhere i want, anywhere i want, just not home' this ones simple, evret literally cant go home back to his normal life with just his daughter to mourn his wife's death because levaNA FORCED EVRET TO MARRY HER RIGHT AFTER

'and you can aim for my heart, go for blood, but you would still miss me in your bones' theres 2 ways you can take this, the literal way : bc levana got evret assasinated, she literally did aim for his heart and go for blood in a murdery way, but i think the more metaphorical interperatation works better: levana aimed for his heart, as in, she aimed for the one alive person evret cared about the most, aka winter. by killing evret and leaving herself as winter's only family, levana is hurting winter, and this hurts evret (but like hes dead so he doesnt know that but it still works)

this also relates to the last line of the bridge 'and when you cant sleep at night, you hear my stolen lullabies' winter being the stolen daughter, the daughter she took from evret and solstice, aka the 'stolen lullaby' :

and all throughout winter (the book not the person), its like levana is haunted by evret through winter's (the character) existence, as she looks so much like evret and reminds levana of him AND because winter is more beautiful than levana without needing glamour, so when levana sleeps at night, she'll be thinking about her jealousy of winter (when she cant sleep at night shes hearing evret's stolen lullabies!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) i'll admit this one was kinda a stretch but it works in my head

the pendent that evret gives levana on her 16th birthday is a metaphor thats talked about multiple times in the book

at what levana thought was the start of their 'relationship'

when she realises evret never loved her and the pendent (the sympathy and gesture) was evret's wife SOLSTICE'S idea (his one true love <333333 i love sol sm)

the pendant thing is summed up here ^^^^

the pendent is also present in evret's death scene, so the line in the song 'you wear the same jewels, that i gave you as you bury me' are literally true

anyway this is easily the most incoherent post ive ever written so sorry about that ~~~~

this has been a levana hate post !!!!!!! and there probably are many more to come

[angstyandromanticwriting]

Whenever you are well...Can you write an Elliot Alderson x Male!reader (the same former DA agent) where the reader is kidnapped by the DA and they force Elliot to give up the keys for the hack against Deus Group. Elliot comes to a hideout where the lieutenant brings out one of his mooks holding the reader at gunpoint (to his neck). Elliot tries to negotiate the deal but the villain threatens to execute the reader in front of him and taunts Elliot by saying this will haunt him forever, knowing that he died bc of him. The reader then bites back by saying that Elliot won't be the one to be haunted as the reader pulls the gun and ends up in a struggle which results in him getting shot in the stomach. Leon comes in and saves both the men as Elliot cradles the reader and puts pressure on his wound. Elliot and Leon rush him to the hospital as the delirious reader motivates Elliot to take down the Deus Group and Whiterose and not blame himself for his injury. The hospital scenes after that is up to you. Same male reader face claim as before:

Elliot Alderson X Male!Reader Requested Prompt

!TW: Implied home invasion/home invasion, mention of hack, gun/mention of gun, threat, death threat, violence, implied swearing (‘cursed’), mention of wound (not extremely detailed), mention of blood, mention of hospital, hospital!

Elliot, when he couldn’t get through to you on the phone, decided to go to your house, worried about you. Elliot made to knock on the door, but he faltered when he noticed that it was already open. Now wary, Elliot slowly walked into the front room, looking around to see if you were in the room at all, but he couldn’t see anything that suggested that you were home, and neither could he hear anything, until the door was slammed behind him, startling him as he turned around sharply. “Your boyfriend isn’t here,” the man dressed in black with a familiar mask on stated; he’d noticed Elliot’s despair as he looked around again. Elliot heard footsteps behind him, and he immediately looked over his shoulder, hoping it was you, but it was another DA agent. “We’re here for the key to your hack of Deus club,” the man explained, a hint of impatience to his voice.

“Not until you show me where Y/n is,” Elliot retorted, “I know you have him!” The man grunted, before he nodded, and so the two men led Elliot to an old, rundown building, which Elliot assumed to be their hideout. “In here,” the man hissed, and Elliot warily walked into the room where there was a man waiting in the centre.

“I’ve been expecting you,” the man began, “you might recognise me, and have to refer to me as lieutenant without fail, got that?”

Elliot begrudgingly nodded, rolling his eyes. “Where is Y/n?” Elliot demanded, and the lieutenant smirked, before he clicked his fingers, and another of his men gingerly dragged you out with a gun against your neck. “Y/n,” Elliot whispered, a pained expression on his face. “Release him,” Elliot commanded, and the lieutenant scoffed, shaking his head. “Release him, and I’ll give you the key!” Elliot cried, holding up the SIM card so the lieutenant could see it, but he shook his head again.

“We’re doing this my way, not your way!” The lieutenant snapped, and Elliot fell quiet. “You’ll give us the key, before we release him,” the lieutenant relayed, “and if you think that we’re going to do this any other way, you’ll have to watch him die, because there’s no way I’m being made a fool of by you.” Elliot grew restless; he wanted to get you away from these dangerous men, but he also wanted to save the World from them, too. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to kill him,” the lieutenant began to taunt him, “it would haunt you forever if I did, especially when you know he would have been killed because of you.”

“Elliot won’t be haunted,” you uttered, before you lifted your hand slowly, until you could suddenly pull the gun away from your neck, and the man tried to stop you from struggling and trying to disarm him. When the man could see that his gun was aimed at your stomach, he pulled the trigger, and you cursed quietly, faltering as you let go of the gun and the man’s left arm. Suddenly the door opposite them was broken down, and their attention was drawn towards it. Elliot expressed relief when he noticed Leon, who’d clearly come to save them, and provide a distraction so they could escape. Elliot hurried you out of the room, and hid with you in a small space for a moment as he knew the men would begin to search for you both again. As the both of you waited anxiously, Elliot subconsciously pulled you closer to him, whilst he applied pressure to your wound with his hand. You winced when you heard shouting nearby, and pressed your face into the sleeve of Elliot’s hoodie.

Elliot lifted his other hand to the back of your head, trying to comfort you as well as stall your loss of blood. When the shouting faded away, Elliot shuffled forward, and would be startled when he noticed Leon looking around for you both in the room. “Where are you guys?” Leon whispered, and Elliot guided you out of the hiding place.

Leon turned around, and expressed relief when he saw it was you and Elliot. “We need to get him to a hospital, and fast,” Elliot stated, and Leon nodded in agreement, before he helped Elliot with carrying you out of the building as quickly as possible, and luckily no one had spotted you three.

“Elliot,” you murmured in a weak voice when you noticed the tears in his eyes, and he reluctantly looked down at you, before he looked away, embarrassed as he didn’t want you to see him crying. “Don’t blame yourself for what happened, please,” you practically pleaded, “just focus on taking down Deus group and Whiterose.” You whimpered, feeling as if you would pass out any minute now. “I know you can do it, Elliot,” you continued, “you’re stronger than them, and you’ve gotten further than they have; they’re still focussed on trying to shut the hack down, whilst you’re moving onwards, not backwards.” Elliot nodded, feeling a little more confident, and the fact that they’d hurt you also motivated him to take them down. Elliot and Leon began rushing more when they noticed the hospital ahead of them, and Leon made to lead him out of the hospital when they’d rushed you into the emergency ward; he assumed Elliot needed fresh air after what happened, but he pulled against Leon’s grip on his arm; he didn’t want to go outside; he wanted to stay inside until he was told and shown that you were okay.

~~~~~

Hope you enjoyed this prompt! ❤️

[rainswept]

ok i’m gonna yap. these are Not in chronological order so it doesn’t matter what u read 😭

Everyone comes into the world bathed in blood. But Dazai Osamu—an infected wound, a deadly disease, a child—never shed it, that human birthright. The first time he kills someone, fourteen years old, he doesn’t feel any dirtier than he already was.

this is the only line i like. and i completely bullshitted it because i didn’t (and still don’t, help) know when his dumb ass first killed someone. anyway the “he doesn’t feel any dirtier than he already was” ties into what i’ll explain in the next paragraph

The more blood that spills, cakes under his nails, less changes, really, because though he was born for killing, born a shadow, born to be a member of the Port Mafia, it was still new, that iron smell—yes, it haunted him, in every cut, in every scar—but that was his, his decomposition, his recklessness, his wounds, tempting death, not death itself. It still took getting used to. The hollowness of life was intuition; the decay and rot of death was known, but not as intimately. (He’d find it to be a dear friend eventually.)

i like this one too i lied. this was after a couple paragraphs talking about how he’s forgotten how many people he’s killed, to emphasize how many there are and how bad of a person he thinks himself to be, i guess, just at a default? despite not really having that distinction or caring which side he’s on until oda died. i think it’s interesting to have a character hate themselves so deeply that despite not caring much for the distinction of good and evil, they know something is deeply wrong and despicable about themselves in particular (i think he held this view even before he joined the mafia, even before he killed anyone (see the prev paragraph). once again, interesting.)

And then those become rookie numbers. Those become forgivable, redeemable numbers. At sixteen years old, he is the youngest executive in Port Mafia history, and he has killed more times than he has wished himself dead.

and i thought this one was funny bc that dumb ass definitely has NOT killed more times than he’s wished himself dead. what was it like a hundred something people he killed? yeah no way. again a fun way to emphasize it though, considering that fact

The body twitched once, fell to the ground. He jumped back to avoid being crushed. (Under the weight of the body. Not under the weight of what he did. In fact, that weight felt very, very light, for the first time in his life, skulking in the darkest corners of Yokohama—fearful, fearful, everything is more powerful than I am—a cornered mouse with a nine-hundred-beat-per-minute heart amongst the cats, dregs and downcasts. Now he was no longer afraid. Now, fourteen year old Dazai Osamu decides, he never would be again.) You can’t be afraid, he reasons, the blood covering him slowly going cold, if you are feared. So, fourteen-year-old Dazai—he will climb his way up the ranks. He will dredge out each and every one of the dregs and he will declaw every cat and he will run, run, run, run. (And then he was again.)

idk if it makes sense. i wrote a lot of this late at night (i’m pretty sure. i wrote these a couple months ago. HELP). also the “nine hundred beats per minute” was a reference to how fast mice’s hearts can beat when they’re afraid; i was continuously making references to ‘cat and mouse’ type things throughout the fic, comparing him to both the cat and the mouse in different scenarios. also the “everything is more powerful than i am”, he has an ability but it only works to nullify others—everyone else with an ability literally has more.. ‘powers’ than he does. if that makes sense

He stares at the stab wound. His hands, still too human to hold the knife steady, yank up—the blade tears free from the flesh, and he swears he can hear a heartbeat racing still. (It’s his. Unbeknownst to him, he was alive, he was human. He was scared. Just a bit. Nine hundred beats per minute.)

this was following the first time he killed someone, hence the “his hands, still too human to hold the knife steady”, implying a bit of hesitation or fear, humanity still intact. Do I Make Sense. also this ties back into the other paragraph that mentions the 900 bpm.

Dazai Osamu is sixteen years old, and he has been killing for longer than he hasn’t. Egos (his own), ideas (others’, his sometimes, because an intelligent person knows how to admit they are wrong). People. Himself, in little ways, slowly chipping away until he is gone for good. (“Himself” is not included in “people”, because Dazai Osamu is not human.)

the fic was titled “ego death”, at least as a placeholder — a "complete loss of subjective self-identity". i thought it was fitting, so i tied it back in here. also “‘himself is not included in ‘people,’ because dazai osamu is not human.” is a direct contradiction to the underlying theme of the rest of the fic—he used to be, he is, and he always was. his thought process is denying what is so obvious with context.

How far must you go until you’ve dug yourself too deep into the ground? Are you still human when you’re dead—are the most despicable beasts now more so than the best, if the former are breathing and the latter are buried?

this was in reference to oda (“the best”, “buried”) from dazai’s (“despicable beasts,” “breathing”) pov, right after a little paragraph about his death

Humanity is an easy enough concept to grasp. He observes dutifully, like the curious outsider he is: he peels them with his eyes (soulless), looks at their core (filled with much more soul than he), sinewy, shadowy and tangled, familiar; easy, and he runs with it. Curiosity kills the cat—for once in his life he is glad to be a mouse.

again w the cat and mouse stuff. i referred to young dazai as a mouse more often, and him as he grew up as the cat (killing and chasing his humanity away) but i still referred to him like that there to kind of imply he’s not as strong and invulnerable as others see him. does that make sense? there were also a lot of ties to hidden fear, because i find it hard to believe that a fucking 14 year old was not at least a little shaken by the life he’s lead so far, whether he’s a master at hiding it or not

(Dazai Osamu is still afraid. Not of death, never of death—not of pain, either, though he was never a fan—not of torture, or the dark of Yokohama, no, he was born for that. He still couldn’t put a name to where his fears came from. It only sinks in deeper with each time he pulls the trigger—perhaps there is one cat he forgot to declaw.)

the “cat he forgot to declaw” was himswlf yk,,,, he’s at the top of the food chain in the pm now, but the worst thing to ever threaten him was himself. the greatest misfortune for dazai’s enemies is that they are dazai’s enemies yk. something something dazai is his own enemy something

ANYWAY IDK he hurts my brain. i want to finish this but i also don’t because i think my characterization is a bit off. but whatever. nobody will ever see this but the people that follow me so 🔥🔥🔥 i can afford to be a bit ooc

on the topic of whether or not i’m going to post something for dazai tomorrow felicity reminded me about that draft i had

[hey-hamlet]

BNHA AU Ideas : Your blessings are your curses.

Also on AO3

TL;DR:

Dead All Might acts as a guardian angel to this heroic quirkless kid he runs into. Izuku gets put into a dangerous situation and turns out – DNA wasn’t needed to pass OFA. Just intent. Izuku gains the ability to see All Might along with the ability to use his quirk.

Sadly, AFO notices.

Now Izuku is on the run with a ghost for a guardian after AFO’s goons kill his mother.

Your blessings are your curses:

TL;DR: Dead all might, acts as a guardian angel to this quirkless kid he runs into. Izuku gets put into a dangerous situation and turns out – DNA wasn’t needed to pass OFA. Just intent. Izuku gains the ability to see All Might along with the ability to use his quirk.

Sadly, AFO notices.

Now Izuku is on the run with a ghost for a guardian after AFO’s goons kill his mother.

So – In the fight between All for One and All Might six years before canon, All Might loses.

Not horribly. All for One is still left almost dead and retreats into hiding, but All Might falls unconscious never to open his eyes again, later dying of sepsis in the hospital. His eyes may never physically reopen, but he does awaken – translucent and noncorporeal.

For a while he doesn’t know if it’s a latent quirk, or maybe something All for One did as a final blow, but no – it’s One for All. One for All has a mind of its own and refuses to disappear until Yagi has found a successor. Not that Yagi knows that.

His old haunts are too painful to hang around, the whole nation is grieving for him and seeing that pain on his old friend's faces burns something fierce. So he does what he’s always done. He helps.

Midoriya Izuku is nine when his favourite hero dies. He sees how the nation is grieving and his desire to be a hero only burns brighter. The bullying he suffers worsens, hate crimes against the quirkless and those with ‘villainous’ quirks uptick. Japan isn’t a pillar of safety and security anymore – crime rates have risen to match or overtake worldwide averages.

Still, he feels almost, safer? He gets luckier – the book his classmate stole shows up in his bag by the next period, bullies trip more often, and sometimes as he runs from villain attacks or classmates with their quirks popping against the nape of his neck, he feels a broad hand push him forwards, giving him an extra burst of speed.

He decides it must be the All Might charm he bought the day before the news of All Might’s death broke. A small solid plastic charm meant for a phone with a bright yellow bell attached, along with a tag reading “I AM HERE”. He fills the bell with scraps of paper so no one can hear it ring as he holds it tight in his hand when he gets nervous.

Midoriya Izuku is nine when he is almost killed.

With All Might gone, organized crime spikes. Quirk trafficking rings spring up – very rare, but no less real. It’s one of these such rings that kidnaps Izuku on his way home from school. He awakens, sore and blurry-eyed in a warehouse with a half dozen other crying children. One by one they are forced to show off their quirks, to gauge their value.

Izuku has no quirk to show. He has no value to these people. They growl at him to stop playing around, to stop pretending to be a hero (his All Might charm is almost cutting into his hand from how hard he holds it. He needs his luck more than ever please all might save me one more time - ). He can't bring himself to shut his eyes as a flaming hand reaches towards his face.

For a moment it feels like he's being held. He feels safe.

A shockwave levels the warehouse, leaving he and the other children untouched, the villains buried in the rubble. Green sparks sink into his skin, dancing over the rapidly purpling bruises decorating his arm. He runs.

He comes back to himself in a park, sobbing and shaking, arms wrapped around his shaking form and an oddly familiar voice murmuring apologies and praise as a broad hand runs gently through his hair.

It seems One for All never needed DNA, only intent, to pass itself along. With the passing of the quirk, Yagi should have dissipated, but he refused, clinging to the child he’d accidentally burdened with his legacy, the same quirkless child he’d been playing guardian angel for all this time.

When Izuku sees All Might he freezes. It’s not All Might as he knew him, rather – this is the All Might that died. He’s translucent, faded around the edges, with a tattered and bloodstained costume, thick padded bandaging over his stomach hiding stiches staining to close infected wounds, doing little to stop the blood oozing through. Still – All Might’s eyes are bright blue and kind and his smile is as it always was. Izuku throws himself onto his hero and sobs.

All Might – Yagi, as he insisted Izuku call him – led him to the nearest police station, as he tried to explain what had occurred. It wasn’t easy considering Yagi didn’t seem to be sure himself, but Izuku was pretty sure the quirk he’d been accidentally gifted was sentient.

Izuku held his arms up to the sky, stretching his fingers to the pinpricks of light in the night sky. Sparks of glittering gold, green, white, blue and red jumped across his skin, like the static shocks he’d get when he wore his wool socks in bed, but less painful. They almost felt playful.

“What are they called?” Yagi looked at him, confusion clear on his face. One of his spikes of hair drooped, and if Izuku could ignore the dust and blood that ran through it it would almost be funny.

“They? My boy, do you mean the sparks? If so, they don’t have a name.”

Izuku frowned, letting his hand drop. He could feel the sparks gently brushing his injuries, almost soothingly. “No, I mean your quirk. They should have a name, they’re so nice to me.”

Yagi coughed, dark blood spilling from his mouth, never to hit the ground. “One for All. It’s called One for All.”

Izuku’s frown deepened.

“All Might, mama says it’s rude to call someone an it.”

Inko is reunited with her only mildly injured son, now excitedly gushing about a quirk he’d somehow manifested. She privately thanks whatever spirit finally decided to smile upon her son, even if it took so long.

Their happiness doesn’t last long. Days later Izuku receives a summons to the head office. He freezes when he sees the police officer, Yagi’s comforting hand on his shoulder the only thing that keeps him from running.

It was a villain attack, the officer says with kindness so forced Izuku wants to cry. Yagi looks angry. If you’ll just come with us so we can get you to the safehouse with your mother –

Yagi almost growls with rage. “She’s lying.” He whispers, habit enforced despite the fact Izuku is the only person alive that can hear him. “Follow her out of the school then run” Izuku does exactly that, quirk sparking up his legs and pushing him forwards, down the familiar path to home. He takes the stairs six at a time, quirk chipping the edges of the concrete as he hurls himself forward.

Their apartment is in shambles, bookshelves tipped, small objects laying scattered on the floor, a pale arm laying limply from a half-open bathroom door.

Yagi pushes him out of the apartment and confirms the identity himself. He urges a sobbing Izuku to say his goodbyes to his mother’s corpse as they quickly gather all the money in the house, a few spare clothes and whatever food and water Yagi could knock down from the pantry shelves for him. Izuku crams it into his backpack as he sobs, Yagi guarding the entrance as he boils with rage and guilt.

He didn’t think All for One would find Izuku. He didn’t think he would even be looking. He was wrong and now his boy was paying the price.

So starts his time on the run.

He meets Shinsou first, saving him from some rubble in a villain attack. He meets him again later, battered and bruised – not from a villain, but from his foster parents. Shinsou joins him, no matter how Izuku explains hes in danger. Shinsou wants to be a hero, and if the only way he gets to be a hero is stubbornly keeping Izuku out of trouble? That’s not a bad trade-off, considering izuku was the first person to save him.

A little while later the two run into Shouto feverish and badly burnt and try to nurse him back to health as best they can. A few days in Touya and Toga run into their little camp guns blazing, expecting them to have kidnapped Shouto only to see Izuku patiently trying to feed him rice porridge with a veritable pile of ‘liberated’ fever reducers on the floor beside them.

They apologise but Shinsou and a still feverish Shouto refuse to talk to Touya or Toga for like three days bc they made Izuku cry.

They refuse to leave no matter how Izuku explains he has a centuries old villain after him. These kids are ride or die. So Hitoshi, Shouto and Izuku are like 9 and trying to learn what they can from libraries and newspapers, never settling down for too long. Toga (12) and Touya/Dabi (14) try and keep them all alive by working or stealing what they need to live. It doesn’t take long for them to evolve into a mini vigilante group.

Aizawa becomes familiar with the messy group of short vigilantes that seem to bounce from prefecture to prefecture every second day, to the point that the force is pretty sure one of them has a teleportation quirk because they don’t seem to have any kind of home base. He’s completely uninterested in trying to arrest them in the beginning – they aren’t hurting anyone and are not half bad at what they do.

That changes when he meets them.

Battered and bleeding out in a rainy alley with a villain looming over him with a knife, Aizawa is pretty sure this is the night he dies. The knife swings back, glinting in the streetlights as he tries in vain to scramble backwards with heavy limbs. It never connects. The villain jerks back as a brilliant blue plume of flame cuts him off, burning the tips of his hair. Not expecting backup the villain bolts. Aizawa feels small hands helping him into a sitting position – his stomach starts to sink. When the short masked figure with curly hair speaks he feels his heart turn to ice. The figure couldn’t be older than 11, probably closer to 10.

He wakes up in the hospital and he makes it his mission to save these kids.

Ghost All Might is having a rough time. His boy is in danger and the best he can do is rattle windows and trip sprinting villains. He can’t help them enough.

He has a plan though.

He warns Izuku that he’ll be gone for a while and to keep safe without him and he goes out scouting. Being invisible and impermeable is normally a curse but when trying to find a paranoid 200-year-old super villain? It’s pretty damn useful. It takes months but eventually he’s not only tracked down All for One’s main hideout he’s also memorised his schedule. It’s nothing impressive considering the man is still mostly bedbound after what All Might did to him, but he won't be a pushover. It’s a start, though.

Izuku cries tears of joy when he sees All Might again and cries even more when he shares what he found. It’s do or die time. He offers every one of his friends the chance to split now because there is a good chance they’ll die, but none of them wants to leave him. With that, he starts planning.

They’ll need Eraserhead, no bones about it. Without him, there would be no way to strike the final blow. They spend a few weeks refining their stealth then they seek Aizawa out.

They knew he’d have a price for helping them, but they never expected it would be so high, but simultaneously so kind. In exchange for his help and a vow of silence he wants each child to let him help them, to find them a safe place to live, a school to go to – a future. Izuku has spent his whole life being told he doesn’t have a future, from when he was diagnosed quirkless to the almost 2 years spent on the run from Japan’s most dangerous villain. He’s still not sure he’ll have one, even with All for One dead, but he knows he wants his friends to grow up happy and safe.

He accepts.

With Aizawa’s help, with Dabi and Toga clearing the way and Shinsou standing in the wings as the last resort, Izuku kills All for One as he sleeps. Nothing flashy, nothing fancy, just quiet footsteps, a sharp knife and shaking hands.

Aizawa is horrified this child just killed someone in front of him, but Izuku is sobbing and All for One is notorious in underground circles so he keeps his quirk up until the blood stops flowing from his neck. He takes the children and flees.

[criticofallthings]

SO IT’S 5:12AM BECAUSE I’VE BEEN TYPING AWAY A NEW HEADCANNON PIECE OF CRACK IDEA THAT WOULDN’T LET ME SLEEP IF I DIDN’T. edit: bc tumblr mobile app is dumb I had to restart in a web browser and it is now 6:03 AM.

Anyway yeah so that Hawkmokn lore tab where we see Guardian lad and Crow get drunk and be merry (brain’s a little scramble rn, but I’m preeetty sure its the Hawkmoon lore tab)?? Yeah so that and trauma bonding / healing bc if I haven’t said it a thousand times and then sme yet, Imma say it again: POOR TRAUMATIZED GUARDIANS OMFG 😭😭😭

No title no beta bc literally just shat this out the past couple of hours:

cw/tw: ptsd, referenced major character death, death, implied depression/major grief, self depreciation

ps. usually I write nonbinary Guardian, but today we got lady she/her Guardian

pps. this fic is a heckin chonker compared to the previous ones

———————————————————————

Crow’s lips were gentle against the Guardian’s own, a bit dry, but sweet and heady with the lingering wine. The kiss was sudden. It was spontaneous. And it made something warm and so soft and so, so very fragile, hatch within the Guardian’s chest.

Until she opened her eyes and saw those golden eyes, glowly softly in the dark, beneath dusky white and raven black fringe. The pale smokey blue of his skin, luminous where it reflected the warmth of the campfire, and cast in deep shadows where the night’s darkness fought to shade his face. The smell of ash suddenly weighs much heavier in the air.

That warm, soft, and fragile thing in the Guardian’s chest goes cold and sharp and hard. Time slows and speeds up at the same time within her mind, stealing her away to a prison of memories. Blood rushes to her ears, drowning out the warning from Ghost to Crow and Glint.

The Guardian shoved Crow away and stood up, a heavy handcannon with a white spade on the stock materializing into her hand, aimed at Crow’s heart. An errant blip of data-Light to Crow’s left is all that hints at Glint’s swift dematerialization. Crow stays prone on the ground, spawled on his back, one hand raised up, in an attempt to pacify —unwittingly making it harder for the Guardian to snap out of that memory.

The stench of burnt oil, sweat, and soot fills her nose. She only hears the crackles of flames and electric buzzing as her heart pounds, coldly staring into Crow’s bewildered eyes. Those deep golden eyes that had haunted her waking hours and chased her down in nightmares. Those eyes filled with cruelty as they watched her stumble to Cayde’s dying side. She doesn’t realize yet, but the tears she couldn’t shed before, now weep from her eyes. The handcannon trembles slightly in her grip.

Ghost floats over into his Guardian’s field of view. He’s careful to let her know he’s doing so by giving her shoulder a bump as he glides to a rest above the stock of the handcannon. He hovers there, his one eye searching both of hers, glow dimmed slightly. His shell gives a soft whirl before he speaks, leaning in gently towards her.

“That is not him.”

The silence is deafening, every second only increasing the tension. Ghost clicks his shell, uncertain if his words were even heard. He tries again, bobbing in the air.

“Crow is not him.”

The handcannon trembles. But the Warlock doesn’t move, bound by so much tension you’d think she was a Hunter about to leap into the air to throw a Blade Barrage.

“Crow is not him.”

Ghost speaks again, insistent, shell whirling softly as he flits closer to his Guardian. A flicker of recognition crosses her face. The handcannon falters, no longer aimed directly at Crow’s chest. Ghost nudges her hand, bumping the Guardian’s aim to the ground.

She trembles, a full body shudder and the handcannon slips from her grasp. Suddenly she’s aware, all too aware of what happened, and the tension holding her still dissipates. She falls to her knees, energy completely spent.

“I, I-I’m so sorry.” She’s barely able to whisper the words in his direction.

Before her, Crow watches, eyes wide and doe-like, shocked and unsure of what to do. Of what just happened. A sinking feeling blooms in his gut.

He knows he wasn’t a good man before he died. Plenty of guardians had made that clear through their boot heels and fists, gunfire and knives, with their Light in three different energies: arc, void, and solar.  As did the Eliksni, who cursed him in their language while their Captains tore him apart with their four arms.

Crow knows it’s an understatement to say he wasn’t a good man in his previous life. Even if he could never learn about who that man was, what he did, and would only by the number of shattered bones and bruised flesh just how much pain that man had caused —Crow decided early on that he could take it. It was penance. It was justly due and therefore he couldn’t call it painful.

But this? This hurt.

It hurt because now he knows that the man he once was had struck an incomprehensible blow to the Guardian he had come to know more of. It hurt because he had been holding on to a small hope, an indescribably small bit of hope, that of all the people he had encountered in his previous life that he had never met the Guardian. Because if they had never met, then maybe, maybe there was someone he didn’t hurt. His first friend. His savoir. His now not-so-secret-crush. And the longer he thought about it, the greater that sinking feeling in his gut grew.

He could no longer deny the shock and subdued anger and almost very well hidden grief he had seen flash across her face when he revealed himself to her and Osiris. He could no longer deny the way they had kept him at distance while easily in sight with a hand hovering over their gun every time they met him for a Hunt or to study a newly sprouted Cryptolith. Why his attempts at humor and jokes were met with cool silence. Why whenever he saw that handcannon, he instinctively recoiled away from it, phantom pain bursting sharply in his heart.

——————

Crow remembers the first time he saw the Guardian wield that gun. How she had effortlessly cleared a pack of thrall in one clip, each headshot exploding in a flurry of solar. How his body reacted: legs collapsing beneath him, his heart burning painfully, lungs gasping for air that never seemed to make it into him, retching pathetically, as tears streamed down his face.

Why was he crying?

Why did he feel an insurmountable wall of sorrow and regret?

She had seen him fall and before the last thrall had burnt away completely, she came running towards him. All he could see in that moment was that gun getting closer and all he felt was an innate desire to get away.

Run, run, run, run, run before you die!

Run you before you burn!

The Guardian came close, hands splayed before her, voice speaking in soothing tones, words lost upon his panicking ears. He had screamed then, in abject terror. It was a garbled and pitched sound as he tried to breathe and vomit and scrabble away all at the same time; his eyes riveted to the handcannon now holstered at her side. Her Warlock mind, keen to details, quickly realized what had triggered his panic and she deftly threw the gun to her Ghost who transmatted it away mid-air.

Crow doesn’t remember what the Guardian said to him, but he remembers how carefully she reached out to him. How she framed his face in her gauntleted hands, so gentle, so lightly, as if he might shatter into glass —just to touch her forehead to his. How the puffs of her outward breaths ghosting by his cheeks helped calm his own.

And he knew then, in that moment that no matter what that gun meant that he was already in too deep. When with a simple touch, the Guardian could soothe away old terrors he himself knew nothing of, Crow knew then. He loves her.

——————

Crow slowly got to his feet, mindful of the Guardian (who was despondently staring into her open hands while Ghost hovered on her shoulder). He looks at that gun, chest starting to burn, heartbeat increasing. Clenching a fist at his side, Crow takes a tentative step and then another until he’s close enough to pick up the handcannon. He gingerly picks it up by the barrel, keeping his hands off the stock on purpose. It’s another small step towards the Guardian before he kneels in front of them.

He pauses there, unsure of what he can do —of what he did that caused the Guardian to react so violently before. He doesn’t think it was the kiss itself...that seemed to be fine until she looked at his face, into his eyes. Ah. Crow rests the handcannon on his thigh and pulls up his hood, jerking it to cover more of his face. Cautiously he grabs the handcannon by the barrel again and with his other hand, slowly reaches for one of the Guardian’s own. She lets him guide her hand to the handcannon and once he’s sure she won’t drop it, Crow gently pushes both towards her again. The Guardian looks away, but cradles the handcannon in her lap.

More hesitantly now, Crow raises his hands to cup her face just as she once did for him. He can’t exactly see with his hood covering so much of his face, but he slowly gets nearer and carefully moves his hands over the side of her face. He leans forward to rest his forehead against hers, the edges of his hood brushing across his nose as he did so, fully obscuring his vision. Crow doesn’t know of anything he could say in this moment —what could he of all people say to her, Guardian of guardians, that could possibly make a difference? So he doesn’t say anything. Instead, Crow softly hums.

It’s an old melody, a lullaby he found while exploring abandoned freighters and passenger ships in the Reef. When Glint discovered his fondness for it, the Little Light would often hum the tune, sitting on his chest, to soothe him on several sleepless nights in Spider’s Lair. Crow hopes that this at least, can help ground the Guardian in the present and away from the painful memories in her past.

They stay like this for a while. The Guardian’s breath evens out and somewhere along the time past, Ghost had dematerialized. It was just the two of them now. Crow stops humming when he feels the Guardian raise a hand to cover one of his over her face. She leans into his palm, then forward against his forehead for a moment.

“I’m sorry, Crow, I’m so sor—“ She starts to apologize and it’s a whisper until she says his name to apologize once more. Crow doesn’t want to hear this, he doesn’t deserve an apology. So Crow cuts off the Guardian by dropping his hands to her sides and pulling her into his chest.

The sudden movement sends the Guardian toppling onto Crow. He curls forward to protect his head, but keeps his arms around her, falling flat on his back. The Guardian doesn’t move to get off of him and Crow takes that as an okay sign. He keeps one arm around her, the other he moves to card his fingers through her hair.

“Of all the people in this world, Guardian, I am the last of anyone to whom you owe an apology.” Crow let’s his words hang in the air, trying to keep his breathing even so his heart would stay less frantic too.

“If anything,” he pauses to admire a particularly silky strand of hair as it slips through his fingers.

“I am the one indebited to you.”

There’s another pause as he sorts his next words before speaking. His hand idly resumes carding through the Guardian's hair again.

“So much so that I wonder if it’s selfish greed that makes me want to stay like this.” Crow sighs, looking straight up into the star speckled sky above them. At this angle he can’t see the Guardian, but he feel her shift slightly in his arms.

“Even though you’ve done so much for a worthless stain of a being as me…Even though I can never atone for the things I’ve done befo—“ He’s interrupted by the Guardian slapping a hand over his mouth.

“You are not him.” She shifts in his arms, sitting up, moving a leg over to straddle him properly.

Crow grabs his fallen hood in a panic, pulling the fabric so swiftly up around his face he hears the fabric creak as its seams struggle to stay sewn. Still, he doesn’t let the material go, trying to keep his face hidden.

“You are not him.” The Guardian repeats herself, lifting her hand from his mouth. Crow can’t tell with what emotion she said it with and he’s too afraid to check just yet. He doesn’t want to cause her harm again, regardless of how circumstantially accidental it was.

“Crow…”

He freezes at the way she calls his name. It was different from how she usually said it. It sounded soft and so warm in her voice. The Guardian prods at one of hands clamped on his hood. He turns his head to the side, trying to escape beneath a look he could practically feel brushing against his hands.

“I...I-I don’t want to hurt you...again.” Crow’s heart beats skittishly within his chest, causing a lump to form in his throat. He’s barely able to say these words out loud without an audible whimper to them. He tries to speak again, but fails.

The Guardian leans forward over him and a shifting moment later he feels her tap her forehead against his. Her hands rest, half-covering his own, but exerting no force to push of pry his fingers away from his hood.

“Crow.” She whispers his name, just as soft and warm as before. Her lips ghost across his clenched hands when she spoke, sending goosebumps down his arms. Crow tenses.

It’s a full body reaction as Crow completely freezes up. Once more he tries to swallow down the lump in his throat with little success. His tongue feels dry and too heavy in his mouth. He can feel his heart rate spike, beating so hard now he’s unsure if the metaphorical ache that had been nesting there is becoming a real one.

“Please, Crow?” The Guardian pleads softly, leaning back and letting her hands slide from his face to over his chest.

“You can’t hide your handsome face forever.” She tries to make it sound light hearted, an easy joke, but the anxious tapping of her finger against his chest reveals her anxiety. Crow takes a deep, shaky inhale, holding it a second before letting it out.

“I-I can’t.” Crow sputters, the breath he had taken just before speaking seemed too little for all the things he wanted to say. Did she really just call his face handsome right now? Oh Traveler, why was that now all he could focus on??

He feels the Guardian shift in his lap again. The movement snaps Crow out of his thoughts and inadvertently he tightens his grip on his hood again. Somewhere behind his head, a seam in the hood gives way and the fabric tears from the stress.

A small chuckle near his ear catches him off guard and Crow isn’t able to stop his head from jerking sideways. This gives the Guardian an advantage and she presses against him, letting her head rest side by side to his. It keeps him unable to turn his face again. Even still, Crow maintains his hold over his ruined hood.

“Well then...” The Guardian pauses. Her voice, low and smooth, is right next to Crow’s ear. Crow flinches slightly, swallowing rapidly again, not expecting her to be so close.

“...how am I supposed to kiss you back?”

“Huuh??”

Crow lets out a confused sound, brain derailing instantly, but also cutting some of the tension out of his body. Certainly, he must have heard the Guardian wrong. But the sound of two ghosts  re-materializing interrupts the Guardian (who Crow is now very aware is straddling him) from speaking as she suddenly freezes.

“OH. Oh! Oh...well uh, w-we’ll come back later!! N-n-not too soon, ofcou—” Ghost’s shocked rambling is halted by metallic clinking as Glint’s shell collides with his. In the background, Glint’s hurried whispers of “Just go! Just go!” are just barely audible before the two Little Lights decompile once more.

Above him, the Guardian lets out a heavy breath once the two ghosts are gone. Beneath his hands, Crow breaks into a brief smile at that. The brief interruption had brought a measure of calm to him and he didn’t want to waste the moment.

“I, well...the man I was did something pretty horrible to you, didn’t I?” Crow lets the question hang in the air, but pushes on. If he lets the Guardian speak now, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to say these words again.

“Not just you, to all the guardians...the Vanguard, and even the Eliksni, maybe even to the Scorn.” The Guardian is still above him, listening, but against his chest Crow can feel the heavy, measured beating of her heart.

“A-and I know. I just know. That that handcannon --the one with the white spade— I know that man died to that gun...This body remembers, but I also think it’s much more than that.” Crow stops to take a shuddering breath in. He focuses on the steady feeling of the Guardian’s heart against his chest to center himself.

“When I see that gun...it’s like I can feel that final shot burning again and again. But then there’s so much more to it. So much pain that isn’t from that bullet, so much grief, and fear, and even anger. Anger at myself, knowing I —all I did was —all I caused was…” He trails off, not able to find the words to describe how those moments felt. When he speaks again, it’s all in whispers.

“But when I see you, I know it’s not right, I know it’s selfish, I know you didn’t even like me at the beginning….but when I see you, I know I’ll be okay. Because the Light gave me a second chance to be okay and you did the same.”

Crow stops when he feels the Guardian shifting again. She grabs him by his elbows and slides off of his lap, tugging on him to join her in a sitting position. His knees are now tucked under his chin and he can feel her legs framing his own. It’s silent for a moment, but then he feels her edge closer to plant a chaste kiss to the back of his hands.

“It was an accident, a trick of the light and shadow…I—you are not like him in many, many ways.” For a moment Crow’s heart plummeted to his gut, wrenching at her first few words. Her hands cover his own again and Crow’s heart grows light.

“Please. Look at me.” The Guardian asks Crow while gently pressing against his knuckles. She rubs her thumbs over the side and backs of his hands, small soothing gestures.

Crow clenches his jaw, then decides against it. He releases his hold on his cloak’s hood, fingers stiff and aching from how tightly he had clung to the material. Crow doesn’t let the hood fall from his face and keeps his eyes shut. The Guardian takes his hands into her own, warming and massaging them to ease the stiffness.

Once she deems his hands warm enough, the Guardian lets them go. Crow rests them at his side, not confident yet to open his eyes. He focuses on the way the air moves instead, trying to anticipate her next move so he doesn’t jump.

Slowly, the Guardian moves the hood off of his head. She cups his face with one hand while the other strokes his cheek before tucking several stray strands of hair behind his ear. Throughout it all, Crow is still. However, his heart beats fast within his chest.

“Wha-“ Crow’s questions are cutoff before he could even start to ask —the Guardian smothering them beneath a passionate kiss. She teases his bottom lip with her teeth and in his surprise, Crow opens his eyes.

He’s immediately consumed by the Guardian’s smoldering eyes, half-open to catch his reaction. Crow’s not one to be outdone, and he raises a hand to cradle the back of her head as he presses into the kiss. He teases the Guardian back with a lick of his tongue, half expecting nothing, but pleasantly surprised when she returned in kind. It’s a sweet and warm moment and once again the Guardian feels that soft and fragile thing flutter in her chest.

“See,” the Guardian whispers against Crow’s lips as she caresses his face, maintaining steady eye contact, “all okay. You are you.”

Crow’s brows upturn at her words, feeling almost overwhelmed. Those words offered more solace to his heart than the kisses —kisses which he could hardly believe happened. He’ll have to make sure she was on the same page as him later, because any further and Crow would fall even more inextricably in love with the Guardian.

They lean into each other for some time, letting the comforting silence speak for them. Beside them, the fire pops as it fades off, nearly just embers now.

Crow’s the first to move, stretching behind himself to reach a spare log. He tosses it onto the middle of the fire. It doesn’t catch right away, but the Guardian flicks a bit of solar Light at it and soon the fire cackles warmly again.

Adjusting himself, Crow scoots closer to the Guardian so that they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder.

“Could you tell me—only if you want to—about…” Unsure of how to ask and knowing it’s taboo for guardians to learn details of their past, Crow trails off.

“I-I just want to listen...if that would help.”

The Guardian catches his hand at that and brings it to her lips. She plants a gentle kiss on his palm. Looking into Crow’s eyes, she slowly nods. He leans forward to give the Guardian a chaste peck on her lips. Crow adjusts how he’s sitting to embrace the Guardian from behind and she shifts to lean into him.

“No questions about details related to your past, alright? Only if you don’t understand something like time or place.”

Crow nods several times, suddenly feeling shy and too anxious to speak. He hugs the Guardian tightly before easing up to let her speak.

“Alright,” She sounds a bit tired now, the exact kind of weariness that only comes from raging against a deep grief and losing the battle, but accepting the scars and moving on. One foot in front of the other. “it’s a Golden Age saying that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.”

“Let me tell you the story of how a beloved space cowboy, an enigmatic jailer, and a terribly misguided, but utterly-devoted-to-his-dead-sister brother collided into absolute tragedy.”

[paladinbaby]

i actually. would like to hear about plan m (i am so so so brave)

you are! okay so like i said i wrote this in 2020 bc I was having A Time like everyone else and then did not finish it due to the aforementioned time but I like it enough that it just haunts my google drive because i could and should finish it. it’s a parker pov hardison dies au and i wrote the opening scene and then nothing else but the plan was a little bit of case fic elements of how did this happen but mostly just her and Eliot moving in together and creating some semblance of life in this massive space carved out of them

cw for shooting and death

The loudest sound Parker has ever heard is a gunshot ringing out in the silence just outside the vault. Elliot is with Sophie halfway across the city, Nate’s at the restaurant and Hardison -

Hardison is just outside the door where she hears a shot and a thump and none of the sounds of a fight that a gunshot would suggest. Her heart is beating so hard in her chest that she feels like it might trigger every sensor in this place. Before she can even stop herself her feet are on the ground, activating three different alarms. She crosses the floor in three seconds making use of the slight delay Hardison had programmed into the door, slipping through just in time for the lock to click shut heavily behind her. Her hands in her pocket, reaching for the knife she’s carried since she was twelve but she doesn’t see anyone. Keeps running with it in her hand and doesn't see anyone.

Turns a corner and sees something.

Sees Hardison bleeding on the floor, there already so much blood. There shouldn’t be so much blood. Throws herself to the floor next to him, shouting comms starting to filter through to her. The team worrying in her ear, they heard the shot too, but they aren’t there. Can’t see how pale and how silent he is or feel the blood that’s sticky on her hands as she presses down on the wound. She can feel his pulse weakly and she's yelling and she’s crying. He can’t leave her. Not like this bleeding out on the floor of some office doing a job that doesn’t even really matter.

He’s too special to die but she thinks that that's what’s happening.

There are always more marks but there’s only one Hardison and she can see how shallow he’s breathing and how he hasn’t said anything. He hadn’t even said anything as the shot rang out. Or had he. She’d been so caught up in the thrill of it, in the art of what she did that she hadn’t heard a thing through comms. Where was the point in any of it without him and his smiles and his jokes, the setup was all of the job so there would be none without him. His blood was starting to leak out past her fingers and soak into the knees of her leggings.

The police response to the alarm of the safe was three minutes, almost unprecedentedly fast. That meant the CEO was paying someone off she thought bleakly to herself, it should have been four and an eighth. Even the extra minute wasn’t going to be enough because they didn’t have medics with them. Paramedic response would take an additional six, which was too far away for all the blood that was on the floor. She felt a pair of hands try to pull her off him, what was left of him and she threw herself forward collecting him into her arms. They wouldn’t take him from her, not until he was already gone. She couldn’t bear the idea of him being alone.

It was Eliot that bailed her out, of course it was. It had to be Eliot. The police had taken her clothes and her gear but she was still caked in blood, her hands and arms especially but also her legs and her face, she swore it was covering every inch of her skin. He led her out of the precinct by the arm and straight into a car. Parker wasn’t sure what strings he had pulled to get her out so fast. A Jane Doe found having clearly broken into the safe of some corrupt asshole sobbing into a bleeding body, if the cops had had their way she wouldn’t have been out at all, no bail should have been set. He’s driving with one hand on her knee and miles of silence between them.

They get back to the pub and it’s the most still it’s ever been. Elliot’s holding her arm again leading her through to the back and into the bathroom. He steps into her space and she lets him peel off the sticky clothing replacements she’d been given, a shirt and a pair of sweats two sizes too big for her. Then he peels off his own shirt, stripping down to his pants. She watches as he turns on the shower and keeps his arm under testing the water until it’s just right and then pulling her under with him.

The water is heavy on both of them, the red runoff slowly making its way to the drain. He turns for a brief second and picks up a bottle of shower gel.

“No. “ It’s the first thing she’s been aware of saying since before, and she doesn’t recognise the sound of her own voice.

She can see the edges of protest form around Eliot so she reaches for her own bottle instead. His smells like bubblegum and she thinks it might break her. Eliot scrubs her skin until it’s clean while she barely moves. They’ve never spent much time as just the two of them, they love each other that much is true but do they still without his noise and his humour between them. She’s terrified that he only loves her as much as he wanted to be with Hardison, she was just the baggage that came with him. He moves behind her and she tenses until she hears him pick up another bottle and feels his fingers in her hair as he scrubs that clean too.