#without him ever having to fail or say no first

[txniesha]

Complication SylusxNon!MC reader pt.6

Synopsis: Some relationships are doomed to fail from the start. After all, how can a man destined to be someone else's, truly ever be yours?

CW: angst, cursing, typos

Word count: 1,138

A/N: This chapter is short but i feel like it really hits. It'll be a couple of more chapters after this before I wrap it up in a nice little boy of sadness!

He just stared at you, his eyes unreadable, not giving anything away. You hated when he did this, when you confronted him, and he just shuts down. You sigh frustrated and pull out of his grasp “I knew it, i knew i should've stayed in Linkon. You...you don't love me. You don't know what you want but you feel as if you're entitled to me, like no one else can have me while you do whatever the fuck you want” You look up at him  tears in your eyes “I can’t do this anymore Sylus and I know I say this all the time but I’m serious. I'm tired of being hurt by you, crying over you, letting you drag me back into this bullshit. And the blame isn't only on you as i keep allowing you to treat me this way, but I can't anymore” stray tears stained your cheeks as you spoke, and your throat felt tighter with each word. 

He shakes his head and grabs your face wiping the tears away “Don't” he says his voice hoarse “Don't say you're done with me. I can't let you leave; let you walk away. You're the only thing in my life that feels real, not prewritten, predestined, controlled.” he rests his forehead on yours and looks down into your eyes “[name] i need you. I want to show you off, love you without shame, i just don't know how to go against fate”  

 He leans down and brings his lips towards yours and kisses you, and you let him. You don't pull away, you lean into it. ‘I'm a fucking dumbass’ you say in your mind as he takes over your mouth. His tongue slipped into your mouth and rolls against yours. His kiss that started off gentle grew into a messy desperate and frantic one. He pushed you up against the wall his hand making its way up your shirt and cupping your breast. You pull away and look at you “Don't think you can fuck your way out of this conversation Sylus” you say shakily, slightly out of breath. His lips find their way to your neck and pressed soft kisses along it. “I’m not fucking may way out of anything, I'm showing you my choice” he murmurs into your neck, his finger now flicking your sensitive bud of your breast. You wondered if sleeping with him would just make you fall back in his trap and so you made up your mind.  

You pulled away from Sylus and shook your head “I can't Sylus, you can't keep fucking your way back into my life. If you want me you must prove it, and the first step is telling her that you don't want anything to do with her” He looks at you and shakes his head “I cant just not have her in my life, that's not how this works” he says his jaw clenching. “Sylus these bullshit ass answers you keep giving me aren't working anymore. Tell me the truth, the whole truth of why you can't let her go” You say looking at him. He turns and walks away from you causing you to turn your arms up in confusion and huff. You followed him into the living room where he poured a glass of scotch and sat down on the couch. “Her and I are connected in ways that are incomprehensible” 

He looks up at you, his brows furrowed “Shes the only one that can bring my suffering to an end. Our souls are bound and connected.” 

You look at him confused and bewildered “what fucking bull shit are you spewing to me right now” He sighs and runs his hands down his face frustrated. “See, i knew you wouldn't believe me. I'm not making this up, [name] this is a lot deeper than you know. Our bond goes back centuries and every lifetime I spend with her is a tragic one. I just wanted it to all end” he says, his voice strained and eyes desperate.  

He looks up at you and smiles softly even though it looks like it hurt to do the action “but then I met you. You gave me fire, passion, something I had never felt before” he grabs your wrist and pulls you down onto the couch with him putting you two at the same eye level. He grabs your face gently and makes you look at him. Your eyes were glassy, and your throat felt itchy with every word he said. “[Name] you gave me the passion to fight for what i want against that damned curse and that damned bond. I’m cursed to be with her and cursed to be away from you and that hurts me. So, I fight it and fight it and no matter how much I try to forget about her and be with you, it won't let me. I want you so bad it kills me to be away from you” he had your hand in his now, his face pressed against them as he spoke those last words, his voice breaking with each word.  

“Sylus” Your voice breaks as you look down at him. You had never once seen him this vulnerable. This un put together and broken. “How can you be with me if you're destined to be with her” tears flow down your cheek and drops onto his “How can you say you want to be with me if you were never meant to be mines to begin with?" He looks up at you, the bottom of his eyes red as if he was on the verge of completely breaking “please, don't do this to me. Please I need you, I can't” he gulps mid-sentence tightening his grip on your hands “I can't lose you, youre the most important thing to me”  

You pull your hands away from him and look away “I don't know.... if I can trust what youre saying” you stand and he stands with you, his forming towering over you easily and intimidatingly. “I need some time, alone, away from here, to think” you say turning away from him.

He doesn't reach out for you, doesn't try to stop you, he just stands there. “Will you come back” he asks silently, his voice raw with something you'd never heard. You don't turn to look at him. “It depends on what I find when I’m away” you then walk away and down to his bedroom to put on some clothes. You grab your things quickly and head towards the elevator.  

“[name]” Sylus calls from behind you, this time you turn to see the broken shell of a man standing there “I promise ill make sure what you find...is worth returning to” You don't answer, you just enter the elevator doors and leave.  

tags: @sillyfreakfanparty @crimsonmarabou @z3vl @96jnie @perqbeth @justpassingdontworry @malleus-draconias-rose @sleepykittyenergy @aboobie @syluslittlecrows @scrambledhuevos79 @madam8 @fandomenbylover@insidious-innocence @etherealsoul90 @xsammijoanneex @acasualattempt  @sylusgirlie7 @jasperjokester @animegamerfox @jae48 @goldenbirdiee @zoezhive @rxelarailuj @huuvu @simphoursonly  @athanasia-day @asakiyu @thirstblogforaparchedgirl @eolivy @caramelizedpopcirn @auraficial @dilf-destroyer-04@hebreeee@noxus123@satansdaughter123

[i-like-loserz]

hey so. i had an idea about bottom mingi.

i have a strong sense that he has a thing for cowgirl. but imagine he wanted to try and top for the first time (in a long time) and slapping his ass playfully and teasing him cause hes trying to hype himself up or something but it doesn't work and you just end up riding him 🙈🙈

our cute pillow princess ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶

cw: explicit (18+), sub!mingi, afab!reader, adorable boyfriend vibes, tit-play, mention of hickies, he tries lol -- no actual penetration :( IM SORRY ANON THIS ONE-SHOT WENT ITS OWN WAY

note: anon. your mind. it's beautiful.

masterlist

---

before you can thread your fingers into his pretty hair and teasingly tug on it the way you know he likes, large hands take a hold of your wrists and pin them on either side of your head.

the coolness of his rings press into your warm skin, exciting your senses as he presses his body against you. sometimes you forget just how big he is. usually, he's the one laying under you, begging for your touch with a broken tone that slips easily from his pretty lips. this time, his deep voice is steady as he holds you against the mattress.

"tonight i'm gonna take control."

"oh, yeah?" you challenge.

it's amusing when mingi gets into these moods -- thinking that he can be the big bad boyfriend for the night when, in reality, he's the one melting for you from a single kiss.

maybe this idea came up because of the way you're dressed. there's something about seeing you in his shirt and nothing else that makes him believe you've grown soft.

it could be the way the hem brushes over your mid-thigh, highlighting the size difference between the two of you. or how the stretched-out collar fails to hide the hickies he (desperately) left on your skin the day before.

your wrists are now held by one hand above your head as his other drags your shirt upwards, revealing your body to the cool air of the room. you hear the faint sound of his breath hitching when he notices the lacy underwear you are wearing underneath.

"have you been wearing these all night?" he hooks a finger around the delicate waistband before letting it snap back. it fits you like a glove. his hand presses against the thickness of your thigh for a moment as he tries to control his reactions. he can't give up that easily.

"i was wondering when you'd notice..." you say slyly, arching your back to press your body against his. he immediately pushes you down, refusing to give in.

"why're you acting so needy? hm?" you recognize those words. you've said them to him plenty of times. of course, mingi can only regurgitate what's already been said to him.

you decide to humor him.

you round your eyes and stare up at him, a small pout on your lips, "i can't help it, i've been waiting for you all day."

"really?"

"mingi~ won't you touch me? " your voice is high pitched and sweet as you play the role. "give me what i need? i feel so empty without you."

his expression softens and hand shifts on your hip to lightly caress your skin. you ignore the way it makes goosebumps trail up your body. you're too enamored by the cute boba eyes of your sweet, naive boyfriend.

"you need me?" he cups your covered cunt which already throbs with want, "don't worry baby, i'll take care of you." he says confidently -- as if he's a hero saving his damsel in distress. aw, how sweet and caring~

"can i...touch you too?" you ask timidly, playing up your shy expression. mingi is a sucker to please you. and even when he tries to teach you a lesson, or "punish" you, he ends up playing right into your hand. whether he realizes it or not.

"o-okay," he quickly releases your wrists from his hold, "that better?" you hold back a smile from how adorably serious and attentive he's being.

he'd be such a good daddy... that is, if he could ever keep up with the role. but you much prefer him under you, if anything.

you immediately put your hands on him, greedily feeling over his broad shoulders and firm chest. "perfect." his body tenses as your hand moves downwards, dragging over his covered abs to feel over his hard cock. you're already salivating at the thought of his hard cock weeping for you.

he unconsciously bucks against your hand, loving how it perfectly presses against him to relieve some of that pressure. but before you can get far, he has enough self-control to pull your touch away.

"b-baby...t-this wasn't how it was supposed to go."

"how was it supposed to go then?" you tease, already settling back into your regular role.

"i'm supposed to be touching you and you're supposed to be begging me."

"then touch me, mingi," you place your arms back at your side, allowing him free rein of your body, "please~"

he takes the opportunity to push your shirt up to your chin, leaving you nearly naked underneath him as you aren't wearing a bra to cover yourself. warm hands cup over your tits, feeling the plushness of your curves before teasing your sensitive buds with the pads of his thumbs.

your body shivers and arches from his touch as he gently tweaks your hard nipples with his fingers. sparks of pleasure swiftly travel down to your core with every movement he makes.

you look at him from under your lashes, eyes dark as you let him play with your body. this whole time he's focused on your every reaction, eager to please you.

"you're so pretty..." he groans, "fuck, you make me so hard all the time."

"i know baby," you sigh, "you're such a good boy for me." you can't help but praise him when he's making you feel good.

he doesn't like that. at least, not when he's the one on top.

he gets all pouty, "babe, i'm trying to be sexy right now!"

"you are sexy, mimi~" you coo, "very sexy." you sit yourself up and mingi lets you, not even bothering to protest. you both know where this is going, especially when you have that look in your eye.

he huffs, "i told you to stop calling me that. it sounds like you're talking to a small dog or something..."

"okay, then what should i call you?"

"call me...sir."

"sir, you've been working so hard today," you praise, briefly gesturing to the sizable tent under his sweatpants as you lean closer to him, "maybe i can take care of you? just this once?"

"ok, but next time it'll be my turn." he argues as he leans back so you can straddle him, "seriously."

"of course, baby, next time." you agree.

[corrcdedcoffin]

Pissed - JJ Maybank

request: yes

summary: you and jj get into a drunken fight and ignore each other for days. in those few days, your friends don't hear from you and go looking for you, only to find you unconscious in the middle of nowhere.

warnings: hurt/comfort fic. drunk fights. mentions of blood and stitches. fluff. happy ending.

Pissed was an understatement. You were furious; full of blinding rage — and so was he.

It started off as a small argument when you saw some girl throwing herself at JJ. You knew he wouldn't ever entertain it, but you were drunk and got jealous (something JJ always thought was cute, except for that day). So, things got heated between you.

You couldn't help it — whoever she was, was practically drooling all over him and trying to touch him wherever she could get her grubby little hands. You saw him laugh hard at something she said, only making her lean into him even more. It drove you mad. Even more so when he didn't seem to be getting rid of her.

Why wasn't he getting rid of her?

Usually when you argue, it hardly ever turns into a full blown fight. It was one of the things the rest of the pogues were surprised by, but fond of. But this time, things were said that can't necessarily be taken back.

Clingy. Possessive. Annoying.

The way he shouted them at you was on a constant loop in your mind. The fact that he'd shouted at you in the first place was enough to have you offended.

Asshole. Fuckface.  Mentions of a break up.

Don't fucking talk to me again.

You couldn't escape it. Everyone knew that JJ was prone to outbursts, but never with you. No, he always kept his cool with you, even during fights. He always found a way to calm himself and you down, always said he didn't want you to go to bed angry because if you did, it meant he failed at making you happy. At being your person.

Now, it's been two days.

Two whole days without seeing or talking to him. Two days of bone crushing dread. 

Kiara had told you about everyone getting together at John B's, and said JJ was already there. You didn't mind keeping it civil while with friends, but you weren't gonna be the first one to break. You were standing your ground. 

When you arrived, JJ got up and left without a word. 

It was like taking a knife straight to the heart. 

You acted like it didn't bother you, but your friends knew you both better than that. Pope tried to offer some consolation and advice, you shrugged it off and said you were fine, but he'd never seen you so quiet before.

On the third day, no one had heard from you at all. John B texted you about the swell, and all he got in reply was a simple no at ten in the morning.

Sarah and Kiara texted and called you throughout the day wanting to have a girls night, go shopping, do something without the boys. They knew you were upset, and nothing could cure a hurting heart like some time with your girls. 

They didn't get a response either.  It wasn't until later that they started to really worry.

You had always been good at keeping your friends in the loop, even if you weren't up to hanging out. You'd say you wouldn't make it, but you'd see them the next day, or whenever you could. You'd still respond to random texts and sent tiktok's, at the very least giving a reaction to it.

Today was radio silence. Even JJ was starting to worry, though he tried not to show it. The girls got mad at him for that.

"You're being an idiot, JJ" Kiara told him.

"Seriously! What if something happened to her?" Sarah added.

JJ rolled his eyes, sighing. "Nothing happened, okay? She's probably just trying to get a rise outta me, and it's not gonna work, alright?"

Everyone was silent at that, because they knew you'd never take it that far.

"I'm gonna go look for her" Sarah spoke, getting up from the couch. She had an uneasy feeling she couldn't ignore. 

Kiara volunteered to go with her, and eventually everyone except JJ had got up from their seats and headed towards the twinkie.

Pope looked back at JJ and let out a deep breath, full of disappointment. "Come on, man. Even you know this is out of character for her, and if you really aren't worried like you're acting, then you're not who I thought you were."

He let the door slam after that, making JJ groan and harshly rub his face. The thought of something happening to you was eating him from the inside out. It wasn't until he heard the sputtering engine start that he got up and ran to the van, shouting for them to wait.

After deciding the first logical place to check was your house, the ride was silent. Shaking legs, fiddling fingers, insides of cheeks being chewed.

It got worse after they found out you weren't home.

They checked everywhere. The boneyard, the park, your favourite cafe, the bar, even checked if you worked that day. Nobody had heard from you.

Everyone was arguing on where to look next, having a hard time deciding since you didn't frequent very many places, and being unable to come up with anything that would make sense for you. They were silenced when JJ got behind the wheel, telling them all to get in.

There was one spot they didn't check.

The drive was a bit lengthy for the tension, the trees growing thicker didn't put anyone at ease. It was a spot you and JJ had found a few years ago while fucking around and exploring questionable terrain. You'd found a small, beaten path and begged him to see where it lead.

To both your surprise, it was a small pond with a semi stable gazebo with a hole in the roof that was big enough to stargaze through. You'd spent quite a bit of time out there together, calling it your own and claiming it as your future wedding spot.

The memories had JJ clenching his jaw.

How could he have been so stupid, so stubborn? You were the light of his life, how could he treat you like this? All you did was shower him with the love he so deeply craved. You cared about him more than anyone, and he hurt you. There were a million thoughts running through his mind. 

Were you hurt? Were you with someone else? Was this really a break up and not just a fight gone too far?

If it was a break up, JJ didn't know if he'd ever be okay again. You were his girl, forever and always. He knew he'd never be able to move on from you, and he never wanted to. 

He slowed down as they got closer, hearts and minds feeling slight relief at the sight of your car. Before he had the van in park, Sarah and Pope had hopped out and ran to your car to check for you. 

JJ was silent as he walked past and through the trees, everyone sharing looks of confusion before shrugging and following along. It was quiet. Mosquitos buzzing and crickets chirping could be heard all around. The occasional twig snapping under someones shoe. 

"Where the hell are we going?" John B broke the silence. 

The path was dark. Sarah and Pope had turned on their phones flashlight as JJ replied, "It's a spot we found a few years ago."

Just ahead they could see the clearing, and the faint outline of the gazebo. Kiara called out your name as she looked around, but got no response. As they got closer to the gazebo, JJ started to run. 

It wasn't until he kneeled down that they saw you lying there. 

"Hey, hey, wake up" he shook you gently. No response. 

"C'mon, baby" he tried again, but it wasn't until Pope shone the light on you that they noticed the blood trickling down your temple. 

"Oh god, what happened?" Kiara asked no one in particular. 

John B walked around looking at the gazebo, noticing a fallen board nearby, a tiny splotch of blood on the corner. "This happened" he held it up. 

JJ clenched his jaw, ashamed of himself for being so stubborn and letting you get hurt. He scooped you up and held you tight, "Hospital. Now."

Everyone ran back down the trail and got the van ready to go, JJ going as fast as he could without light, trying not to trip and hurt you even more. Pope helped him get you in the van, Sarah shutting the door as John B sped back to town. 

He sat on the floor with you pulled against him. Cradling your head and gently stroking your hair away from your face, pulling it out of the drying blood and exposing your wound. It didn't look life threatening, but you'd definitely need stitches. 

"Check her nose" Pope said, turning his flashlight back on. 

"For what?" John B asked. 

"If her brain is bleeding!"

"There's no blood" said Sarah. 

"It's not blood that comes out, it would be clear and watery and it's not good."

JJ looked, then wiped a finger under your nose. "She's good" was all he said. 

They went back to being silent after that, watching with sadness as JJ caressed you and kissed at your head over and over. Any other time anyone saw him tear up at something, they'd have laughed and poked fun at him for breaking his tough guy exterior. This time, they were silent. 

It was his worst nightmare come true. Fighting and not talking, on the brink of losing you not just temporarily, but forever. 

He ran into the hospital as fast as he could when they pulled up, careful not to shake your head too much. He screamed for help. He placed you on a bed. He watched as they ran away with you, checking your pulse and your breathing, and he was left there to wait. 

It felt like a lifetime sitting in that waiting room. Twiddling his thumbs, watching the news, reading shitty magazines. He tried to nap, but his brain was working overtime telling him all the things he did wrong in your relationship, specifically the last four days. 

He tried to see you. 

The doctors and nurses kept telling him no, family only. They didn't listen when he said he was your boyfriend, and they didn't care that he was the one to bring you in. Pope and John B had to hold him back and talk the staff out of kicking him out. 

He had to wait nearly six hours before he got to see you. Six dreadful hours. Your parents never showed up, so the doctor finally let him in after JJ explained that they were on another continent, and the only family that was here, was them. 

They all piled into your room, staring at you. Stitched and bandaged, monitor clipped to your finger and an IV attached to the opposite hand. 

"She's going to be fine," the doctor began. "Minor concussion at most."

"Then what's the IV for?" JJ asked. 

The doctor sighed, knowing he wasn't letting up until he got answers. "C'mon man. She's got no one else here" JJ spoke, fatigue preventing him from snapping. 

"It's antibiotics in case of any infection from the wood, just a precaution. I'll leave you to it" she nodded before leaving the room. 

Everyone stayed for a little while before leaving. John B and Sarah said they'd be back in the morning with some clothes for you both and some food. JJ sat in the stiff visitors chair, scooting close and holding your hand, resting his head on your bed and finally getting some sleep for the first time in days. 

He woke up to a soothing scratch against his scalp. He always loved when you'd play with his hair. 

His head shot up and he stared at you, wide eyed. Everything he wanted to say to you got bunched up in a ball and stuck in his throat, his eyes watering as he struggled to get any sort of word out. 

"It's okay" you whispered, and he lost it. 

"It's not okay" he shook his head, "I'm so sorry" he sobbed. He apologized over and over, a blubbering mess. You rubbed his hand, his arm and his back as he cried until he calmed down. 

"God, I'm an idiot" he sniffled, "You're the one hurt and in the hospital and you're the one comforting me" he shook his head, wiping his eyes and nose. 

"That's okay" you shrugged. 

"No, it's not!" he argued, rubbing his face in distress. "Are you okay? How's your head?" he asked, moving to sit next to you on the bed, not letting go of your hand. 

"It's fine. A little sore but.." you shrugged. 

He just stared at you. He tried to come up with anything to make the situation better, but he couldn't. 

"I'm so sorry, baby" he whispered. "For everything. The fight, the things I said, everything after. For being so fucking stubborn I- I'm so, so sorry." 

You nodded. "I'm sorry too. I--"

"No, you don't have anything to be sorry for."

"JJ stop. Just because I hit myself in the head doesn't mean I didn't also fuck up, okay? I lost my shit on you and it wasn't cool, I was just.. I don't know. Drunk and jealous, and I didn't handle it well, clearly."

"We were both idiots" he stated. "I just, I need to make sure you weren't serious when you mentioned breaking up. Or if you were." He choked out. 

Every single part of him was praying you didn't mean it. He wasn't sure what he'd do if you did. 

You shook your head, tears spilling out. "No," you sniffled. "I don't want that. Do you?"

"No, no, absolutely not. You're it for me, sweetheart."

You were released from the hospital a few hours later. John B and Sarah had brought you some clean clothes and a peanut butter sandwich with a wildberry juice box. You scarfed it down before they even started to take you home. When parking outside your apartment, they both gave you a big hug and kiss on the head before leaving. 

JJ didn't let go of you since you woke up. He always had a hand on you, or holding you, he even helped you get dressed before leaving the hospital. He doted on you all day long, making you food and snacks, bringing you water, massaging wherever he could get his hands on you. 

You'd spent the day watching movies, talking, cuddling. Making up for the days lost. 

He'd made spaghetti for dinner, then ran a bath for you, candles all around and bubbles filling the tub. He undressed you, helped you in, and then sat on the floor right next to you. 

"What're you so far away for?" you asked, and he scooched closer. You shook your head. "Get in" you said. 

You watched as he undressed and climbed in behind you. You leaned back against him and closed your eyes, enjoying the feeling of him rubbing your arms, shoulders, neck and chest. Relishing in the love and affection he was showering you in. 

It was quiet and relaxing, and you never wanted it to end. 

"I love you" JJ whispered, kissing your head. "So much."

"I love you, J."

[adoredvi]

TILL DEATH DO US APART

1x1x1x1 x GN!Reader

Vi notes: uhmm punctuations may be horrendous and there are some error in the process, because English is NOT my first language and I just made this for fun, so enjoy:>>

They say that love is the greatest thing that can happen to a being. And you agree— it is.

Growing up, you are taught that love is important, along with kindness, and being respectful to people around you. At first, you were defiant about it, you dislike how your parents constantly wanted to instill that mentality in you, and as you grow older, you kinda see the appeal in their words and what they wanted you to learn.

1x1x1x1, or 1x for short, always wondered what he went wrong whenever she tried to get him to notice them, it's frustrating, every attempt, every single time they tried, she always fails, hell she even tried to go and do what it takes for him to notice him, but alas— it always fails, it never worked anyway.

He feels so much hatred inside of him, it slowly builds up as time goes by— everytime he sees him paying attention to other's aside from her. He thought it was all going to be like that for the rest of their life, until you came in, you lit up their life, their darkening heart, you drove them mad with every little smile you flash their way, every little encouraging words that he thought he'll never hear again. She loved it, she loves you, even if they don't want to admit it out loud.

You noticed— of course you did, you always do, you seemed to have made a habit of being observant of their movements, behavior, even how he speaks— you just find him endearing, but was it really just that? You really don't know.

You don't know until you found out they suddenly disappeared. You asked and asked everywhere, even going as far as to asking his creator who only looked at you and turned away not wanting to break your sweet fragile heart.

He isn't the same person you know anymore.

She didn't get it, she didn't get why their creator sent him down to this hell hole, to his own personal hell, and there it is, the hatred— the emotion he buried deep. The emotion that they never wanted to come out ever again, they thought that it's not there anymore, you helped them didn't you?....

Or were you lying like he is too..?

He walked, stared and grew bored alone in that world, not a single living thing around her, even things started shifting— like her skin, it started darkening, their own body shifting differently from what they used to know, it was horrifying, but did he care anymore? No, he barely even felt anything aside from hatred. That feeling of need for revenge, for satisfaction of seeing those who wronged him fall to their knees and beg for forgiveness while she stare at them condescendingly.

But from amidst of these thoughts, you always come crawling back to their mind, her heart pounding painfully, they don't know if they even have that anymore but it somehow did whenever they remember you smile and the way you lit up the room around you.

They groan whenever that happens, they just want to keep you in arms reach, or in other words, in their arms, and keep you away from prying eyes where others can disgustingly lay their eyes on your illuminating self.

It was yet another day of being alone in this dark world, 1x is seen wondering around the place, they seemed to have memorized it already, it was the only thing he can do in such place really, so he has no choice anyway.

1x sighed in boredom, the whole area felt empty without your presence, even though they've been there for what seemed like eternity, she still haven't forgotten who you are.

And when it seemed like it was getting too boring, she was teleported in a deserted hallway, that was until— of course a flash of red ran past him, only stopping a few feet away from behind her, and coming back once more.

"Oh oh!! A new person!!!" It? He said with so much enthusiasm, jumping up and down before physically dragging her from the place he came running out of.

"Lookie guys!! A new person arrived!!" The little guy yelled as soon as he entered the room, the door practically forcing open with his entery, his voice carrying that of excitement, cutting off the chatter in the room.

1x grunted in disapproval and distaste, brushing the kid's hand off of her, before standing there with his arms crossed, looking all too observant to his surroundings.

That went on for hours, and of course, 1x got the information they wanted, why were they here, and where are they.

1x sighed, the noise echoing through the confined space if their room, their first match is tomorrow, already, he already knows his abilities so is it even a surprise her first match is just right after she came to this world? No. The Spectre doesn't either.

You were confused, you spawned in on a room— a cabin, right on the cold wooded floor, luckily, a few people saw you and Introduced themselves and explained where you are, thankfully.

You understand the concept, but you don't know why you're here to begin with, judging by what the survivors around you, some looked like they hadn't seen a better day— which kinda is true considering their situation.

They also told you about your supposed abilities, which were pretty surprising considering you are just pretty much a normal robloxian, there is nothing important about you whatsoever, but did you complain? No, you're already here anyway.

Meeting again isn't in both of your bucket list, but here you are, face to face with one another— the other bleeding, and the other staring them down with so much emotion mixed into one.

You never expected to see him again, but neither did she expect to see you again, but here you are, faced to face with one another.

The time is running out, all your other teammates were down and dead, leaving you last, but did 1x made an attempt to move? No, they didn't, instead? They surprised themselves and you. He hugged you, brought you into his arms in a tight hold, muttering things about how stupid you are for getting hurt.

It was their way of saying they care and they missed you, but you didn't speak about it and just leaned into her hold, you missed this, you missed her.

"Death can't separate us," you would mutter in the past while you hold them in your arms similar to what she was doing now. It always made them smile and sigh in relief whenever you mutter those lines.

And now, they seem to be the one to be saying that, although albeit, silently, their hold on you tightening in the slightest while the time runs out.

It seemed like even when obstacles keeps you both apart, you will find each other over and over again, even after death.

IM SORRY IF 1X SEEMS OOC IN THIS I'M BAD AT CHARACTERS PERSONALITY...and it's not the canon either, I think....I also got lazy at the end😣😣

[acrosstheujiverse]

hihi ur introvert uji w reader headcannons came on my for you AND IM So GLAD omg i love it sm.

we see alot of introvert uji w the extrovert members but can u do a extrovert partner please 😭🙏

dynamics of an introvert and extrovert

【📂】 summary: scenarios you have with your introverted boyfriend, woozi, as an extrovert. 【🖇️】 pairing: introvert!jihoon x extrovert!reader. 【💿】 genre: FLUFF!! 【🧺】 tags: so sweet it makes your cheeks hurt from smiling; MY HEARTEU.  【📦】 w/c: 833

📬 — author’s note！thank you for your request, anonymous :)) sorry this took some time to write. i enjoyed working on it and hope you like it!

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it was at the annual high school talent show that you first fell for jihoon. he was one of the vocalists in a five-piece band, and his voice brought a kind of warmth to your heart.

you had talked with the other four members—jeonghan, joshua, seokmin, and seungkwan—but never once with jihoon. seeing him after the band’s performances was rare. you could never get the timing right.

it wasn’t until university that you finally had the chance to befriend him.

your love for jihoon would be loud—meaning everyone knows you two are dating. don’t get it twisted—you don’t talk about jihoon all the time. it’s just that when the topic of relationships comes up, you just happen to have a lot of loving words about him.

people notice how, whether he’s with you or not, your eyes and whole demeanor just scream “in love” the moment his name is mentioned.

you never fail to shower him with all the love you have—from whispering sweet nothings in bed to surprising him with thoughtful gifts.

jihoon sometimes wishes he could say the things to you that you so easily say to him.

“happy birthday to my ray of sunshine,” you once told him.

jihoon was confused. a ray of sunshine? you nodded eagerly and explained how—even though he’s quiet—he has a powerful presence whenever he’s on stage. like the sun, he lets his music speak for him.

sometimes… your love could be just… a bit overwhelming for an introvert like jihoon. sometimes, the way your energy fills every room, your endless words, and your bright, unfiltered affection make him retreat into the quiet corners of his mind to recharge. it’s not that he loves you any less—in fact, it’s quite the opposite. your warmth sometimes feels like too much to hold all at once, and jihoon needs those silent moments to gather himself and return to you with a full heart. but no matter how much he needs space, he never doubts the depth of your love, even if it’s louder than he’s used to.

you were one of the few lucky ones who ever received a long text message from jihoon—seungkwan was the other one.

you knew that jihoon would never say anything he didn’t mean.

“you were never hard to love, ji.”

you were always aware of his subtle gestures of affection—more than even he knew.

for jihoon, you would be his stars. you and he are of the same mind and body, but of different magnitude and abundance.

“unlike the moon, you don’t need the sun to shine. stars emit their own light. you shine brightly without me… but you shine more brightly with me.”

you once overheard him telling jeonghan, “they’re the chaos that makes me feel alive… but also the calm that brings me home. they’re like a supernova—blinding and explosive in presence, yet the light they leave behind lingers in quiet beauty for ages, guiding me even when they’re not near.”

you thrive in crowds, while jihoon thrives in corners. at parties, you’re the life of the room—he’s the person standing behind you, holding your drink and your jacket, quietly smiling because you’re shining.

jihoon always listens to your stories with an unreadable face, but later he’ll casually reference a small detail you didn’t even think he was paying attention to.

he’ll walk you to your class or the train station even if it’s out of his way—he won’t say much, but he’ll pull your hand into his pocket when it’s cold.

you once told him, “i love you,” at a crowded campus café and he went completely red. he didn’t say it back right away—but that night, he sent you a playlist titled “if i could say it better.”

jihoon won’t start pda, but he doesn’t pull away either. the first time you kissed his cheek in public, he stared straight ahead, then later texted: “can we do that again?”

when you’re venting loudly about something, he just lets you go off—then offers the most practical, well-thought-out advice that makes you pause mid-rant like, “how are you this calm?”

he sometimes writes lyrics about you, but he uses metaphors so layered even you have to ask, “is this one about me?”

you like grand gestures. he likes quiet consistency. you bring the spark; he keeps the fire going.

you once tried to surprise him with a flash mob dance (it was seungkwan’s idea). he panicked, ran the opposite direction, and didn’t stop blushing for three days.

on days when you feel overstimulated or burned out, jihoon wordlessly tucks you into bed, turns off your phone, and lies beside you with his hand resting over yours.

you said “i love you” first. jihoon said it second—at 2 a.m., curled around you, with your name whispered like a secret he finally let himself say out loud.

your relationship is like a sun and a star—separate lights, different intensities, but existing together in the same sky. never competing, always orbiting.

- fin.

[emmg]

Quod Manet

The sage (aka @lavenderprose) once said:

I think Emmrich deserves to take a heel turn. The man begs to be morally questionable. I love how good and kind and gentle he is but also. He could shove those things deep deep down inside himself and let his fear of death take over and do some REALY bonkers shit [...] He needs to claw his way out of the morally reprehensible mess he's made of his life, kicking and screaming, and he needs to do it because he's in LOVE.

and so I have written it

All mages, sooner or later, beckon a demon. 

His answers early. He is nineteen and luminous. Hands like peeled almonds, hair the shade of extinguished charcoal. He walks, already, with a scrip of acclaim tucked under one arm, a whisper of ink-smoke prestige trailing behind him. They call him promising; some say brilliant, and in that flattery, that coiling vine of praise, he finds both warmth and nausea. 

Yes, yes, he thinks, cheeks colored faintly with shame. Surely, he must be. It is not that he demands the world, but that the world owes him at least the token by which the rest might be bartered: talent. 

He assists. He observes. He murmurs syllables older than glass. The older members of the Mourn Watch nod, and he nods with them. Nineteen... nineteen is the age of mirrored swagger. Emmrich mirrors well. 

They soothe the dead. They instruct the living.  

Deep in the Vault of the Beloved, where the stone sweats and silence grows in stalactites, there is a spirit that does not whisper or drift or echo. It cries. Continuously. Without crescendo or resolution. A thin, reedy lament, as if sorrow had been distilled to a single, perpetual note. 

When Johanna means to wound him, she calls him sentimental. He never denies it. He wears the word like a smudge on a lens, frustrating but necessary to the viewing. It is not a flaw, he says, rehearsing the defense again and again, winding it through clauses and metaphors. She replies, as ever, by extending her middle finger, and their conversation goes nowhere. 

And yet, this softness, this ache for what trembles and breaks, it is the cradle of his talent. The fuel, he thinks, behind the small, slow fire that makes his work different, better. It is why he volunteers. Why he descends into the damp oubliette of memory and murmur. Why he believes he will rise from it adorned in new praise, gilded in commendation. Well done, they will say, heads nodding in bureaucratic rhythm. Very well done, Volkarin.

But the spell, like all first loves, fails. 

And in the Vault, something begins to wake that has long preferred to weep. 

Within the salt-ring: not the tractable dead, not the docile revenant he meant to cradle across the veil, but a thing. Heaped, convulsing, indecent. A clot of limbs bent against their nature, strung together with ligaments that flex like wet twine. Skin hangs from it in veils, peeling and pink as fresh burns. Teeth bloom from its flanks, nested in gums where no mouth should grow. One eye, yellowed and milk-fogged, rotates endlessly, while others blister open along its spine like boils ready to burst.

It reeks. An odor of old milk curdled in bone, of wet fur and the seared iron tang of childbirth gone wrong. When it breathes, if breath it is, it wheezes through holes punched in cartilage, dragging spit and air in uneven rhythm. The sound is not quite human and not entirely beast; more the groan of something being born unwillingly, backwards. 

It tries to speak, or maybe that’s wishful thinking. What comes is a vibration, a hot murmur from a throat sealed in pus. And from this rot-hymn he hears her: not his mother as she was, but as she ended, the brittle gasp, the splintered ribs shifting under stone, the ragged breath that gurgled red as it fled her. 

The thing remembers. And it wears that memory like a second skin, sodden, stinking, stretched too thin over too much. 

“No, no,” he breathes, and in that hushed repetition is the fullness of his terror: childlike and intimate. He is trembling now; excessively, visibly, the way leaves shake before the storm even touches them. His balance tilts. His foot slips. A fraction of misstep, and the salt, that brittle, sacred line, is scattered. 

The circle opens. 

It begins to crawl. Not move—crawl. A thing that knows it will have you. It drags its bulk across the stone in lurching motions, sloughing viscera in its wake, limbs glistening and warped. Where it passes, the ground seems to sicken.

Sweet one, it croons.

Dear, dear, come here.

A lullaby fractured into thirds: one voice sonorous as water in a cavern, another sharp and bright as a child's shriek, and the third, unbearably, his mother’s. Not quite mimicry, not quite memory, but something worse: recollection chewed and spat back up, still warm.

Dear boy, it sings. Lovely boy.

Its hand, moist and cold, the color of unrendered fat, settles on his ankle. Too many fingers. Far too many joints. They clutch with a strange tenderness, like a lover not yet sure if they’re dreaming. 

Don’t cry over the milk, Emmrich, it purrs, and his stomach turns because that’s how she said it, how she leaned down once, years ago, as he wept over a broken mug.

The thing pulls itself up his shins, its belly dragging wetly behind it, its skin opening and closing in slow, pulsing flaps. Fingers—too many, and not all whole—emerge from beneath its dragging mass. Some are cleanly forked, as if the bone inside had decided to go its own way. Others twitch, trembling with the blind curiosity of subterranean things. Their pads are moist and yielding, unpleasantly soft, like the inside of a child’s mouth, or the underside of a slug. 

And as it clutches him, kneeling like a devotee before a shrine made of meat, Emmrich begins to remember. Not just what is before him, but what was buried. 

There had been a day, quiet, indistinct in its beginning, sharp only in its interruption. He had opened a door. The room smelled of iron and wood. His father had turned too quickly, apron soaked and clinging to him, and in that graceless movement smeared a red thumbprint across Emmrich’s forehead. Not violently, just urgently. An attempt to hide the sight. To shield the child with his own body before shoving him back into the corridor and sealing the memory into silence.

But the mind cheats. 

He remembers what he wasn’t meant to: the cow’s head on the block, one eye slack in its socket, the cranium cleaved open like a cracked melon. The tongue already gone. The cheek—soft, pale, furred on the outside and raw within—looked like a bed of fleshy reeds. 

And now, in the Vault, the thing on him pulses with uncanny familiarity. Not just borrowed from mother, no, though her voice slips from its mouths, but from father too. From blade and block.

For it takes two to make one. 

It is not merely some echo of the woman who stitched lullabies into his marrow, who sang in flour-dusted kitchens and died beneath beams and brick. No, this monstrous concatenation is heir also to the man who carved in silence, who smelled perpetually of lanolin and lye, and who taught him to count to twelve by pointing at ribs, at vertebrae, at the neat white pegs of butchered spine. 

It speaks with her breath. It grips with his hands. And in that synthesis, so vile and tender, Emmrich understands: this thing knows him, because it is him, grown backward from memory like a tumor with teeth.

It is Dread. Not the pantomime specter spoken of in taverns or classroom warnings, not a shadow with claws or a name in old ink, but the true kind, the kind that shifts with the angle of your gaze, always known, never quite seen. For every eye it wears a different mask, and for his, it has chosen one with his mother's voice and his father's silence sewn into the seams. 

At last, he remembers. 

Not a memory of fact, but of function: the syllables, the shape of the thing he must say. His hands shake. His thoughts slip and scatter. But his throat, blessedly, does not close. 

The words come out fractured, but they come. And the thing, with an almost theatrical grace, begins to go. 

It burns, but without flame, consumed instead by something internal, a heat born of its own knowing. The scent it leaves behind is acrid and intimate: the precise stink of milk teeth gone rotten, of bone charred. 

It goes easily. 

Too easily. 

Because it knows that the haunt need not linger in form. The stage is struck, but the echo has been set. And Emmrich, kneeling in the stillness that follows, knows it too. 

He folds, gracelessly, as if his bones have lost their agreement with one another. Bites down on his thumb, hard enough to taste blood. Screams, but into the wet hollow of his own palm, so no one, not even himself, can hear it. 

His free hand slams into the stone. Once, twice, again. Each time less out of rage than an attempt to prove he is still there, still inside this body. Skin splits. That hand, once soft, once used to pen and page, opens red beneath him like a flower learning pain.

And after that—Dread stays. 

****

Emmrich understands—has always understood, in the quiet, coiling parts of himself—that he is very much afraid of dying. Understands it in the way a drowning man fears the water not for its depth, but for its silence. 

His life runs in a circle, the same way his thoughts do: not a tidy ring, but a slow spiral inward, a vortex of fixation. Everything turns back to the body: its fragility, its expiration, its betrayal. His research is not merely academic; it is devotional. Every theorem, every scraped parchment and sleepless translation, bends toward the same sacrament: avoidance. How to cheat the tally. How to slip through the hourglass. How to remain.

He begins, as all do, with sanctioned inquiry—professors who answer readily, books in the light-drenched front of the library that discuss the soul in tasteful metaphor. But Emmrich, meticulous and unsatisfied, presses deeper. Past the polite tomes into the dust-heavy wings where the air is thicker, where the pages are darker not with age but with secrecy. 

There, the guardian spirits start to appear, not stern, but sorrowful, turning him away with that peculiar expression reserved for children too curious to survive. Permission is required, they murmur.

So he obtains it. 

Because he is talented, and talent, properly shaped, opens all locks. His work has been praised. His hands are steady. His eyes are sharp. He speaks the dead tongue without stuttering. And so the permissions come.

Beneath that final layer, in a section with no name, he finds it. 

Lichdom. 

A word that does not sit easily in the mouth. A word that rusts as it is spoken. 

It is not immortality in the poetic sense; no golden apples, no serene elevation to the stars. It is flesh given up. It is the body made irrelevant. Bone sucked clean of meat. A sacrifice grotesque and glorious. A body traded for time.

His mind burns. Yes, it cries. Yes, this is it.

He imagines eternity not as heaven, but as absence: the absence of ending, of wheeze, of rot, of the slow collapse into helplessness. He thinks of his mother, breath fluttering, ribs groaning under their final effort. He remembers the animals brought to his father, bleeding or dazed, often not quite dead, their owners too squeamish, too slow with the blade.

It was always the butcher’s job to finish it. 

And Emmrich had watched. Watched how death stammered before it arrived, how it gurgled and flailed, how it lingered where it wasn’t wanted. 

No. Not for him. 

He will not wheeze. 

He will not beg.

He will not need finishing.

He will simply endure. 

****

At first, Emmrich mistakes his fear for a singular thing: a dread shaped like death, like an abyss he could name. But as years settle over him, as his shadow lengthens and quiet begins to hum louder in empty rooms, he begins to feel the outline of a second fear. One less operatic, more insidious: loneliness. 

At nineteen, twenty, twenty-four, he craved affection in elegant forms. He believed in courtship that resembled sonatas; gloved hands kissed in moonlight, pressed flowers between books, trembling confessions written but never sent. And when they did not stay—those pale-eyed boys and tempestuous girls—he told himself it was timing, youth, the inevitability of motion. 

So he gave more. 

More of himself, peeled gently back. More of what he had: access, knowledge, charm, gifts that glittered. He dressed his yearning in velvet and wit. But still, they left. Some with apologies, some with silence, some simply disappearing like chalk in rain. 

Slowly, his hair began to lose its color. 

There were years when he was not entirely alone—companions, students, half-lovers passing through—but even then, there were nights when the walls pressed in, soft and padded, reminiscent of an asylum's, and he wanted to claw them, not in madness but in protest. Why don’t they stay? he would ask the ceiling. Why do they always leave?

He is no longer the boy in the Watch’s hand-me-down robes, trousers hemmed with mismatched thread, shoes a size too small that made him walk like he was apologizing to the earth. No. That boy has long since been replaced. 

Now he is renowned. Now his name is spoken in the same breath as the great dead. His grave dowry—though he still harbors a childish hope he will never be asked to spend it—is impressive and gleaming. His fingers are heavy with rings, thick with gold so pure it should be too soft for use. It scratches at itself when he folds his hands.

The eternal metal. The unyielding gleam. 

Yet, each evening, when he removes the rings one by one, lays them in their velvet box like relics from a body already gone, his hands look strangely bare, as though they had forgotten how to be simply his. 

They should belong to someone. 

They should be held. 

They should be holding.

They should be known.

At the very least—he thinks this sometimes, never aloud—he should wear one ring that is not his. A simple one would do. A twist of tin, of twine, of whatever lasts just long enough to mean something.

It needn’t be lovely. It need only be given.

But no such ring comes. 

What comes instead is a curious little wisp, a flutter of presence, something half-formed and prematurely loyal. It appears seemingly out of nowhere, trailing him through the Necropolis, skimming along crypt walls, nosing into shadows. It floats just behind him as he walks his rounds, never touching but never gone. 

It begins to appear at his lectures, slipping under the door like a draft. His students laugh when it spins a circle round his head, mist catching on his hair like spider silk. He scolds it once—“Not now.” Another time he ignores it.

And then one day, perhaps more tired than usual, or lonelier, or just resigned, he flicks a hand and says, “Well, go on, then.” 

The wisp shivers, then drops. Condenses. Curves into something denser, more eager. It settles into a fragment of bone, a vertebra perhaps, or a bit of shoulder. From there it begins to build. A skeleton, clumsy at first, ribs like misremembered harp strings, a femur from one drawer, a jaw from another. They sit together—Emmrich and his not-yet-companion—among the bodies left for donation, the unclaimed, the forgotten.

They sort through limbs as though they were organizing a family archive. They find phalanges for the left hand, delicate and mismatched. A rib is slotted into place. The kneecaps are borrowed from two different donors, but they seem to agree with each other. 

Later—days, or maybe weeks—they sit together again, not at a workbench but at a table, turning the fragile pages of a book meant for expecting parents. The irony does not escape him. But the act feels solemn, absurd, necessary. 

And there, amid names scribbled in soft ink—dreamt up by people who imagined lullabies, not resurrection—he stops. 

They both agree. 

And so the little thing becomes him.

And the necromancer, still without a ring not his own, finds, at least, a name that was given, not taken.

****

He can whisper to corpses, yes, but he can also hush them. Still their mouths like pressing a finger to a sleeping child’s lips. The Watch does not need to know everything. Let them catalog his published studies, his sanctioned conjurations. Let them praise what they can cite. Some things, Emmrich has decided, belong to him alone.

Not everything must be peer-reviewed. 

The books run dry. The tomes grow repetitive, self-referential, devouring one another like snakes penned too long in a box. Lichdom, that cold, brilliant grail, eludes him.

The “guardians” whispered of in footnotes and marginalia fail to appear. No spectral gatekeepers. No final keys. He has visited every ossuary with a name, whispered through every hinge in the library’s spine. He is left gnawing at pages. 

And all the while, the clock ticks—not metaphorically, but audibly, somewhere in the base of his skull.

The lines beside his eyes have deepened into small, suspicious shadows. His hair is entirely grey now. 

In the tomb—a narrow, incense-stale chamber lined with plaques and familial smugness—a corpse weeps behind a bronze door. 

“Oh, no need for theatrics,” Emmrich murmurs, kneeling. His voice, once sympathetic, has been sanded down to utility. Whatever empathy once bubbled in him has long since gone flat, evaporated somewhere between the seventeenth and thirty-sixth exhumation. 

It seems, this one will not answer to spells alone.

They’re all the same. The dead. Nobles, paupers, bakers, mages. His mother, the women who bought her bread, the girls who wrote him letters on pressed flower-paper. Stripped of skin and scandal, they always return to the same script: hiss, plead, beg. 

Why? he wants to ask them. What else do you imagine you have left to lose? You have no flesh. Only secrets.

And secrets, like all currency, must eventually circulate.

This one is still fresh. Embalmed scarcely a week ago. The chemicals have not yet muddled the synaptic trails. The memory is warm and pliable. 

He remembers this one—a professor, once. A soft-voiced man with too many cardigans, who pressed a warm hand to Emmrich’s shoulder when his first paper was published, who offered quiet praise instead of thunderous approval, who always left the door open. 

But kindness is no shield. Not here. Not when time is closing its teeth. 

The body lies on the slab. Embalming has not yet erased the last traces of expression; the furrow of the brow remains, the corners of the mouth turned down in what might have been concern or simple refusal to die politely. 

Emmrich does not hesitate. He sets his tools beside the corpse with the same delicacy a midwife might reserve for birth. A little silver rod, hooked at the end. A bone chime. A polished black candle that burns with no scent. 

Whispering to the dead sometimes requires more than whispering.

He begins with the mouth. Always the mouth. 

The tongue is stiff, half-cured by fluid, but he coaxes it loose with whispered syllables. The lips quiver. Teeth chatter. 

“Tell me,” he says, as he slides a gloved finger past the lips, pushing down until the jaw cracks, not quite open, but wide enough. The corpse groans, a low, bubbling exhalation. 

“Tell me,” he repeats, voice low, as he begins the coaxing work of necromantic pressure. One hand on the sternum, the other pressed to the temple. The skull hums. The nails on its left hand curl inward as if gripping pain. 

The secrets don’t come easily. They rarely do. He has to reach for them; through nerves that no longer carry sensation, through sinew knotted by rot and ritual. 

The spine arches. A noise tears from the body, too wet to be a scream, too human to be dismissed. The ribcage gives a shudder, bones straining against ligature. There’s a faint pop, and something dark leaks from the ears, viscous, almost iridescent.

He feels the memory begin to yield like a molar being ripped from the jaw, still warm, still connected by its stubborn root. The corpse jerks, and for a moment, its eyes roll open. milky, directionless, aware.

“You had it,” Emmrich whispers. “In your last months. I know you did. You wrote in cipher. You left diagrams you thought no one would understand. You were afraid.” 

The corpse thrashes, subtly and pitifully. Its throat contracts, forcing out a ragged, breathless noise, a dry bark of a sound that might once have been no or please.

“I am afraid too,” Emmrich says, softly now, desperate not for cruelty but for communion. “Don’t you see? I’m still here. I still have time to lose.” 

“Give it to me,” he demands. He pushes harder. The candle flickers. 

And then something snaps, not physically, but beneath the surface. A vein of thought ruptures. He sees flashes: a hidden page, a sigil burnt into fabric, a phrase repeated until it lost meaning.

The body collapses. A puppet with its strings finally cut—only the strings were tendons, and they tore as they fell. 

Emmrich pulls back, panting, fingers slick with something that should not exist; neither blood nor sap nor spirit, but some fusion of the three. He looks down at his hands. The gold on his rings has been scratched again, scored by the tooth of a jaw that refused to be opened. 

The dead man has told him something. Not enough. But something. 

Emmrich wipes his hands on a linen cloth. His throat is dry. He does not apologize. 

There is no immortality without extraction. 

****

Still, it does not come to him. Not the final piece, not the elegant solution he has clawed toward for decades. Lichdom remains just out of reach, a shimmer at the edge of a fever dream, a name whispered through a keyhole that will not open. 

What comes instead is an invitation, spoken.

It arrives on an otherwise unremarkable afternoon, when the light through his study windows is the color of old paper. She enters without knocking—a girl barely twenty, flanked by an assassin carved from silence and a Warden whose armor bears the faded sigils of a broken order. 

She says his name—Emmrich Volkarin—like it means something mythic. Like it’s already been carved into some monument he hasn’t yet died for. She doesn’t bow. She doesn’t plead. She simply speaks.

The invitation is brief.  

They need him. 

The world is falling apart.

Her hand hovers between them, waiting to be taken. 

His own hand trembles as it rises—not from weakness, though he is fifty-two and no longer young—but from the familiar, coiled pulse of inevitability. 

He decides to take it, to take that outstretched hand of hers. 

He accepts, not out of heroism, not even out of courage, but because he fears what might happen if he refuses to act: 

The gods do not stay buried.

The Blight does not sleep.

If he says no, he knows exactly what will come: a life of waiting. Of watching. Of rotting.

He fears death—yes. Always has. But he fears uselessness more.

So he says yes. 

No cheers greet him. No horns, no accolades. The assassin turns and slips away. The Warden follows, each step heavy. 

The girl remains a moment longer. She watches him with the gaze of someone who has already mourned him in advance. 

Then, just before turning, she smiles. Softly, almost shy. 

And Emmrich, foolish, exhausted, long past the age of foolishness, smiles back. 

There is a warmth in his cheeks he does not recognize. It embarrasses him. 

But he does not look away. 

****

He learns, swiftly and with some small embarrassment, that there is nothing remotely shy about her. 

Rook, she calls herself. There is another name, once offered in a moment of idle conversation. When he tries to use it—tentatively, experimentally, like testing the depth of a cold pool—she grimaces, waves it away with a theatrical shudder, and mutters something profane in a dialect he cannot place. 

He does not try again. 

Rook, then. Rook is good. 

He can say Rook.

He does say it, often. Not aloud, but in the quiet syllabary of the mind. Rook, Rook, Rook, as though repetition might turn her into something tameable.

She flirts with the assassin, Lucanis—probably. Possibly. It is difficult to tell. She teases him with the air of someone who has never once second-guessed their own charm, then punctuates the moment by kicking him sharply in the shin and announcing, “Ta-ta!” before flouncing from the room, giggling like a bell swung too hard.

Lucanis collapses onto a bench with a hiss, pressing his hand to the offended limb. Emmrich helps him up, feigning nonchalance, adjusting his sleeve with too much care. 

“I lost a bet,” the Antivan mutters, teeth bared. He offers no further detail. 

In the morning, Emmrich notices something else. 

Lucanis pours her coffee first. 

Emmrich tries not to feel it. Whatever it is.

Disappointment is too simple a word. What he feels is more complicated; something brittle and childish tucked under the sternum. 

He had, after all, memorized the way she took her coffee: black, but with two sugar cubes, the second always dropped in distractedly, as if pretending she did not have a sweet tooth. He had intended—yes, intended—to fill her cup that morning. To ask, no, not to ask, but to offer, casually, like a man who had simply risen early and happened to be near the pot.

But Lucanis moved first. 

And Rook smiled at him—at him, not Emmrich—and took the cup without comment.

Emmrich, ancient student of death, mutterer of half-forbidden syllables, whose fingers had long ago stopped shaking before bone—felt, absurdly, the sting of being too late. 

****

He has always become fascinated a little too quickly. With things, with people, with the mere suggestion of affection. His mind snags on glances, on gestures half-meant. He loves—no, fixates—with a speed that startles, that repels. He gives gifts too soon, too grand. Poems copied in his own careful hand, obscure sweets from distant markets, relics that should have felt like treasure but only ever felt like pressure. He has ended more beginnings than he has had proper middles, not from cruelty but from this simple, incurable thing:

He is, and has always been, lovesick.

Not occasionally, not romantically, but as a state of being. As others are near-sighted or allergic to pollen. 

It is only the object that changes. 

The face. The scent. The cadence of voice.

The hands he reaches for that always, inevitably, pull away.

So it is with Rook. 

It begins with a smile; one of her careless ones, tossed over her shoulder like a scarf. Then a compliment: “Handsome,” she says, as if it were just another word.  

Then comes the pun. Awful. Delivered with the smugness of someone who knows it is bad and relishes it anyway. She repeats it for three days. Three.

He does not laugh. 

On the third day, he groans. “Enough.”

He rubs his temples with the slow despair of a man approaching migraine. She beams as if he had declared undying love.

He begins to want. Too much. Too fast.

It coils in him, low and quiet at first, then louder, as they share cramped hallways in the Lighthouse. When their doors are close. When he hears her humming through the walls. 

And in the wild, it’s worse. 

In the Arlathan forest, with their fire sputtering under damp wood, they sleep side by side in the dark like offerings placed before a god. He lies awake and watches the gentle swell of her chest, the blanket rising and falling. He sees, in silhouette, the shape of her shoulder, the dip of her waist. 

And in the morning, the sound of the river—splashing, voices, her laughter—pulls at him like a hook. 

Then her voice, sudden, too near. 

“Coming?” she asks, not coquettish, not shy—just asking—as her fingers toy with the laces of her tunic, already half-undone. She does not turn to look at him. She’s already walking, hair braided roughly, bare skin beginning to peek through cloth as she steps toward the water.

He cannot answer at first. 

Then, at last, with a voice he forces to remain level:  “No. I believe I’ll wait for the comforts of the Lighthouse. But… thank you.”

She tosses her head back and grins. “Prude.” 

Then she disappears into the trees, into the river, into light. 

He remains by the fire, utterly still. 

The air is cool. The flame stutters.

And nothing in the world burns quite as slowly as wanting.

****

There is always more to her. That is the great irritation. The quiet delight. The trap. 

More than the foul jokes she delivers with glee, more than the crude jabs, the pantomimed obscenities she flings like spells. Beneath the swagger and the noise—there is something else. Something she never advertises, never names, but which flickers out now and then like a trick of the light: a softness, a sincerity so abrupt it feels like a slap.

They’re in Minrathous again—what’s left of it—where the marble glows with soot and the sky has the sick yellow sheen of bruised parchment. She asks him, offhand, to coax information from a Venatori corpse—one they’d found stuffed in a cistern, a bureaucrat with blood still in his ears. Missing people. A list of names. A hope. 

He obliges, of course. It's what he does. 

The corpse groans. A low, wet syllable, meaningless. He exhales through his nose, already preparing for the descent. 

This is the part he knows too well. The routine. Pressure applied not physically but metaphysically; pushing deeper, threading through the brittle synaptic remnants, prodding until the memory gives way. 

The corpse begins to sob, or as close to sobbing as a dead man can manage. Airless, shuddering gasps. A jaw clicking with strain. 

He tightens the gesture, curling his wrist, an old motion, a habitual cruelty. The spine on the slab bends in reply, vertebrae scraping like teeth. 

Then—her hand. On his shoulder. 

“Stop,” she says, her voice low, unfamiliar in its disapproval. “What are you doing?” 

He glances at her. Her frown is odd. Not performative. Just… disappointed. 

“You’re kinder than this,” she adds, quiet. “I saw you feed the stray cats. You always bring something for them when we come to Minrathous.” 

Leave it to Rook, he thinks, to equate moral virtue with tins of fish.

“Oh, no, darling,” he says lightly, almost laughing, as he sharpens the motion of his wrist, dragging another groan from the corpse. “It is no trouble. He’ll talk. Sooner or later. I do not mind.” 

“Yes, it is trouble,” she insists, now clutching his sleeve, her weight dragging slightly at his arm.

And so—he stops. 

Not because he wants to. Not because the corpse has earned mercy. But because she means it. Because she really, impossibly, believes it.

He wants to tell her that kindness never opened the right doors. That he tried it. Again and again. That it failed him, left him in cold rooms with warm intentions and nothing else. 

He says only this: “Kindness doesn’t get you anywhere.” 

She doesn’t blink. “Kindness feeds cats.” 

The corpse collapses with a sigh, slack and quiet. Its jaw hangs open, as if relieved. 

And for once, Emmrich lets it lie. 

****

He is not proud of himself. 

He, of all people, ought to know better. Ought to know discipline. Mastery. He who can still a spirit with a glance, who speaks to the dead in the grammar of dominion—he should be immune to this.

But he yearns.

And the yearning grows, becomes something grotesquely palpable, like an organ that should not exist: a second heart, smaller and louder. All it takes is a phrase, careless, complimentary, tossed like a bone to a dog, and he practically folds at her feet. 

He could fall in love with her shadow, he realizes, and probably already has. 

If you are sincere, he wants to say—no, to beg, to etch into his skin with a scalpel, one letter at a time—I will have you. I will take you in with the same reverence I have for forbidden tomes and bone-white flame. I will be yours gladly. Gladly.

Instead, he says something quiet. Controlled. The tone even, the phrasing elegant. A line that could pass for a witticism, could pass for courtly banter, unless one were listening too closely. His voice, as she’s said before, is “pretty.” 

She stares. Not at his face, but at his shoulder, as though the words had landed there instead of in the air between them. There’s a pause, brief but thick. Then she grumbles something that might be approval or amusement or simply a startled exhale disguised as speech. 

And he... he yearns harder. 

Because now he knows he’s not dreaming. Because now the possibility, however remote, has roots. 

And he is not proud. 

But he is hers.

In silence. In waiting. In want.

He is not proud of himself. 

Not at night, not when the candle has guttered low and the walls seem to breathe with the heat of his own shame. Not when he lies there, sleepless, aching, clenched with want so taut it hums beneath his skin. He resents the softness of his sheets, the way they whisper around his thighs like a suggestion. 

But the yearning will not go. 

And so he takes himself in hand, efficiently, the way a man might carry out a duty he finds beneath him but cannot refuse. 

He closes his eyes. Tries not to see her. Fails. Of course he sees her. Her face, sun-drenched and scowling. Her hands, ink-stained, calloused. Her mouth, mid-laugh. And—worse still—the imagined press of her warmth, the impossible sweetness of her, the heat he has never known but now cannot un-imagine.

He spills into his palm with a whimper so soft it disgusts him. The sound startles even him; foolish, animal, unsummoned. 

He cleans up with haste. Turns his face into the pillow. Tries not to think. 

In the morning, she notices. Of course she notices. He cannot meet her eyes. His face feels like it’s glowing from the inside. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks, sing-song, already grinning. “What’s wrooooooong?” 

He shakes his head. He hopes she will drop it. She doesn’t. She never does.

It becomes unbearable, this slow needling, and when the others have gone, when the table is theirs and only theirs, when there is too much silence between his breath and hers—he says it. 

He confesses. 

That he wants her. Very, very much. That he’s sorry, unspeakably sorry. That he should not have said anything but now he cannot not say it.

The words all but tumble out. He looks down at his hands, one of which he cannot help but remember in that other, more private context. 

Rook blinks. 

“Oh,” she says, as if registering a shift in weather. She stares into the middle distance as if someone else had just spoken. 

Then, awkwardly—fumbling, too close—she reaches out and takes his face in both hands. 

And kisses him. 

It is neither romantic nor clean.

The angle is wrong, and she tastes like coffee and sleep. Her breath is warm and faintly sour, her braid coming undone, strands tickling his cheek. 

His mind is burning once more. With shame. With disbelief. With the dangerous flicker of hope. 

Below all that, he begins to want again. 

****

He tells her of his hopes. Of the way he dreams of slipping past the scythe. Of death packed away neatly, like winter clothes. Of lichdom: the cold, glittering answer. 

How he will never have to go. 

He tells her he has not found the key yet, but he will. One day, it will come to him. He will break open every tomb, disassemble every saint, gut every doctrine if he must. He will earn his permanence by force, if not by right. 

She makes a face at this, as if he’d offered her spoiled fruit. Her nose wrinkles. She recoils not in fear, but in distaste. 

“Oh no,” she says. “No, no, no. That wouldn’t suit you at all.” 

She leans forward like she’s whispering a spell. “You’re too kind for that. Liches... things of bone... they don’t feel. Or they do, but only for a while. And then it goes. It must. You’d forget how.”

He laughs and reassures her. If that’s the concern, he says, he’ll craft illusion. He’ll wear his old face, just as she remembers it, even after ritual takes it from him. He’ll keep his voice sweet. His hands gentle. She won’t even notice. 

She shakes her head at him, frustrated, like he’s missed the punchline of something terribly important. 

“That’s not the point,” she mutters, turning away, hands twitching. “You feel... everything.” 

She tries again. “And if you become... eternal... how long do you really think that’ll last? A decade? A century? You’ll stop crying over cats. You’ll stop getting migraines from bad puns. You’ll stop blushing.”

Her voice dips. “I don’t want an Emmrich who’s no longer kind.” 

He almost tells her the truth. 

That he shed that skin long ago; peeled it away like a scab and folded it neatly into the corner of some forgotten year. After Dread first visited. After the rituals. After lovers left without slamming doors. After he learned what kindness purchases: nothing but delay.

After that, he adopted efficiency. Precision. Quiet calculation. 

And yet—she sees it. Somehow. The ghost of it. The residue.

He wants to ask her—desperately—where she sees it.

Where, exactly, in his ruined shape, does that softness still show?

Because he has long since mourned its passing, and he would dig up its grave if she could only point him to it. If it would keep her. 

****

She is all longness. Long limbs, long hair, the color of candlelight through frost, soft like sleep, like something one ought to wake from with guilt. Her eyes are grey, the precise grey of his own hair, as though some shared melancholy binds them at the molecular level. 

She is soft and warm and naked, and he is lost, utterly and without defense.

He kisses her the way a scholar approaches an artifact; tender, awed, reverent to the point of trembling. Her throat first, which releases sighs like drifting smoke. Then the sharp grace of her collarbone. Her breasts, small and eager. Her belly, her hip, her thighs—each a continent on a map he is only just learning to read. 

And then—between them. 

He lowers his mouth to her, and there it is, that impossible heat, that slick ache, that proof that she is real and here and wants. His tongue moves first. She moans, open and shameless, and clutches his hair. When she comes, it is a pulse, a quake. He does not stop. He licks the remains of her pleasure like an oath.

Then he crawls back to her, up the gentle rise of her body, and kisses her as if to say, yes, yes, I am yours, say anything and I will believe it.

“Always so kind,” she says, and the words are shaped in that same tone she uses for jokes—but jokes she always means. 

And that’s what breaks him. 

Suddenly, his body betrays him. His arm gives, his mouth falters, and he collapses into the space between her shoulder and neck, that tender hollow that smells like sweat and skin and safety. He is trembling. Then—crying. 

Not sobbing. Not loudly. But weeping the way a building gives up heat after the fire is out. 

Because her words have landed now. Kind.

Kind, kind, kind. 

And he realizes: that’s the tether. That’s the condition. That’s the price. She will not stay if he isn’t. Not her. Not Rook. And if she leaves, then eternity will be nothing but echo, or, worse still, he won’t find it at all, and life will go on without her, and he is much, much too old to survive another name in his mouth that does not stay.

So for her, for Rook, he tries to remember the man he was before Dread came knocking. 

[illicitland]

thought of us

Alex Tran x Fem!Reader

Summary: Hidden feelings of two people about the oblivious other.

Request: HIII!! it’s totally fine if this isn’t possible but can i request an alex tran x reader oneshot where alex and reader are close friends and have been crushing on eachother for awhile and everyone in the office knows except them? i love alex sm and there not enough about him! thank you!! have a good day !!! <3 - Anon

Author's Note: To Anon, I'm sorry this took so long to write. Thank you for requesting this, Alex is just so majestic and every time he appears on camera I lose control of myself. Please send in more requests and ideas of what you want to see next!

Being on Smosh is one of the best things that ever happened to you. It was stable enough for you financially, and at the same time you got to pursue two of your dream jobs at a time, being a cast members and producer.

Hence, befriending Alex, who shares a similar enough job, came easy. Because other than your occupation, the two of you don't share other similarities. Like the dusk and the dawn. Making your duo unexpected to most people.

Befriending Alex is something that just happened. Instant connection and undeniable chemistry. The two of you can talk for hours nonstop without dead air.

Unbeknownst to you, your dear friend has been having a secret infatuation towards you. Everyone, from crew and cast to your actual viewers, sees it. Everyone but you.

During the Smosh Games meetings Alex would take his time explaining every single function and rule of the game. Everyone in the room would notice his lingering glances at you. How he'd blush as you listen to him intently. How he would perk up every time you had a question, like all he wanted to do was inform you.

His attentiveness to what you do even transcends to the videos. He would correct a misunderstood rule to your benefit. He would also defend you to the rest of the players. Hell, he wouldn't do that for Spencer.

The two of you would brush off the teasing and the game's producer's blatant favoritism.

For one episode of Duo You Know Your Duo, Crew vs. Cast, where you and Tommy went against Alex and Spencer. The scores are close. For one question you and Spencer were asked, “What are the names of your partner's siblings?”.

You were the one to go first, you stated that Tommy does not have any siblings, which you got wrong.

As for Spencer, he turned his paddle that has a name you are unaware of. “I know he has a sister, but I'm not sure if I got the name right.”

Alex replied with a laugh due to the name being not even remotely close.

“Coach, I actually knew that. Do I get an extra point?” You said turning your head towards Arasha.

“Mind your own partner,” was all she replied with.

“Alex, now you know who your real best friend is.” You writhe your brows at him playfully.

Spencer added "You don't know your own partners siblings." The two of you erupted into a chaotic argument of who knows Alex more.

Alex burst into a captivating giggle. It was one of those effortless quirks of his that never failed to make your heart flutter. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners—his pupils vanishing, his shoulders slightly shaking with the weight of his amusement—it was disarmingly genuine.

Just as you caught yourself fawning over him, you straightened yourself. You continued with the video-exchanging knowing glances and nods of curtseys. Right after filming the video the two of you were asked to stay behind for thumbnail.

You questioned why you two when you both are partnered with different people. The producers brushed it off by saying 'capturing both teams'.

The idea that there is mischievous intent, but you didn't press further.

‎Neither of you are oblivious to your ship. You've seen the edits and clip compilations of your interactions people made even through clip where he can't even be seen in the camera. You thought nothing of it. People would ship people to anyone even with the littlest interaction.

"They did it for the shippers." Alex leaned down to your level as he whispered.

You replied with a chuckle, "Can't wait for my velocity edits. I look especially good today, I believe.” You did not want to add to his comment about the people wanting the two of you together. Talking about topics that include feelings are something you avoid with everyone.

You are aware that your admiration towards Alex is close to surpassing the heights of being platonic. Maybe it already has.

You don't dare figure it out. Hell, you avoid even thinking about it. Your mind is already convinced that the worst case possible would happen.

He would find out about your silly little feelings, you will get rejected, he will tell you that the two of you can remain friends which is a lie—no one ever remains friends after being friend zoned. The two of you would just be stuck in an awkward situation. Your inability of expressing what you feel is keeping you from acting. In fear that what you might say will drive him away.

In addition, you don't handle rejection easily. Your immaturity forbids you to handle it like an adult. This would send your mental state into a downward spiral.

You don't even dare consider that he too might feel the same, but you would rather not find out at all. Genuinely, you treasure your friendship with Alex, something not worth loosing over unrequited feelings.

In short, you would rather not know.

Unbeknownst to you that's how he feels too. The difference is that he is more optimistic to what the two of you could be.

Alex is a man of few words. He's the type of guy who doesn't ask. He just listens, remember, and act. And when he jokes it is always a hit for you. He caught himself trying to craft more jokes as a desperate attempt of hearing you laugh. But most of the time he just tries to be there

The first time he saw you set the vegetable aside he asked for the reason. You told him that it's because you are simply not a fan of the taste. "I know it's childish to not eat the pepper I just can't get myself to eat it."

"You can give them to me." He said leaning his plate towards you. he also stated his love for the vegetable. "I love them."

"That's concerning. Are you serious?" Was what you said as you transferred them to his plate.

"I really do. Feel free to give them to me anytime."

During film week-cast get to line up for catering first. Alex usually comes few minutes late to lunch as often times he'd get too occupied by his work.

No matter how late he is everyone knew that the seat next to you is reserved for him. He'd sit next to you. Before eating he'd check your plate for capsicum and takes it himself without interrupting your conversation with Tommy who sat infront of you.

When they first saw the two of you act that way you were met with teasing. But as time passed by, along with your consistent insistence of being just friends, it died down. They learned to live with the fact that the two of you will remain being just friends with heaps of romantic tendencies.

The two of you would have been contented with the state of your relationship. Satisfied? No.

But contented, nonetheless.

No secret ever remains a secret. Even the greatest athletes slip from time to time.

When Alex was discussing with Shayne, Spencer, and Damien—his Games Pod Bros, about video ideas. They planned about making another Love Is Blind episode. Then talked about who they should cast.

Damien suggested putting you, "She's so charismatic. She'll do great with anyone."

Alex reacted what he thought he did internally. However, the intensity of his furrowed brows. His reaction caught the attention the of people in the meeting.

"I don't mean it that way, man." Damien explained that you are charismatic and currently is into reality dating shows.

The explanation caught Alex off-guard. Has he been too obvious? Did he react out of line? It was as though he just got caught doing war crimes.

He questioned why Damien felt the need to clarify what he meant. To which he replied with “You reacted with what I said, plus I've been seeing the two of you be close— Listen man, you know I have a hard time reading the room.”

This broke Alex. The meeting turned to him admitting his not so secret admiration to his friends. They encouraged him to finally tell you alongside an assurance that they believe that you too feel for him.

It didn't take him much convincing. He knows what he feels and he'll act on them.

Courage took over him. Whatever happens, it is what it is. All or nothing.

In terms of gambling, he's all in.

He saw you in one of the halls of the Smosh office. You turned slowly as he called for your name—like a scene from a movie. As he made his way towards you he wished his footsteps would go faster.

He fought the urge of just coming undone right there and then. But the remaining sanity of his body allowed him to escort you to a private enough area.

You were tripping balls, for the lack of better words. You have no idea on what's going on and what's about to happen.

This wasn't like Alex at all. He has never pulled you away to another room. Wherever you are are a good enough place to talk. He never felt the need to be secretive with the interaction between the two of you.

“Are you ok? This is so not like you.” Concern thick on your tone..

“Of course. This is not like me because you know how I am. You know me better than anyone in my life.” Alex said as he captured your eye. “I like you. I like you more than a best friend should. I could never hide anything from you. I have been living in the hope that you felt it too. I know that saying this will change us.”

The words got caught at the back of your throat. Your wildest dream unfolds right in front of you.

Words could not describe what you are feeling. Instead of saying anything you let your actions talk.

You leaned in. Your lips reached his and it felt like everything. It felt special, right, and freeing at the same time.

He reciprocated the affection you have given him. His hand caressed the lover side of your face. His hand was so gentle yet eager to never let you go.

As the two of you parted he asked, “Be my girlfriend?”

You darted him with your warmest smile. “I thought you'd never ask.”

The exclusivity of the two of you was surreal. If this was indeed a dream you wish to never wake up. Stay stuck there forever.

It was all you could ever wish for and more. It was like a bottle of finely aged wine, popped at the right time.

Your love is quiet, but it is all you could ever ask of.

[dioslesbianwife]

Hello, can I get part 4 jojo gang with a reader who's like Noelle from Genshin. Someone who is extremely strong, stubborn, reliable, and willing to endanger her life in order to help someone in need. With the reader's goal of becoming a Police officer

hi, sure! hope u enjoy and thank you for requesting :3

Josuke Higashikata

Totally in awe of you.

He first sees you one-arm lifting a scooter off a crushed puppy like “Oh thank goodness, it only got bruised!” while YOU’RE bleeding out and smiling like it’s no big deal.

“UHHH GIRL- ???”

He constantly has to heal you because you have zero self-preservation. “Y/N, you can’t protect the town if you’re dead!”

Thinks your goal to become a cop is noble but quietly worries about how reckless you are.

“You’d be the best officer ever… just please don’t run into burning buildings anymore.”

Lowkey gets flustered when you carry him bridal-style after a fight. 

Okuyasu

HE’S OBSESSED WITH YOU.

You’re strong, loyal, AND nice?? His dream girl?? His soulmate???

“You wanna be a cop?! That’s SICK!! I’d visit your station every day!!”

Tries to keep up with your workouts and fails miserably. You carried a vending machine once. He passed out after five pushups.

You once took a hit for him and he cried right there on the sidewalk.

Gets very emotional when you talk about wanting to protect Morioh. “Damn. You’re like a superhero. Like All Might, but, like… cuter.”

Koichi

Extremely impressed and extremely concerned.

The first time he sees you carry an injured jogger 3 miles back to town without breaking a sweat, he’s like 🧍‍♂️😳

“Y/N… you’re amazing. But maybe… slow down? Just a bit?”

Tries to talk you out of putting yourself in danger every time but you just smile and thank him for worrying.

“You’re way too good for this world,” he says, genuinely.

Thinks your dream is incredible and will support you 100%- makes you little flashcards for the written exam 

Rohan

Annoyed. Until he’s not.

“Ugh, you again. Charging into danger like some self-sacrificing anime cliché- ”

But the second you block a falling beam from crushing him and say “Are you alright, Mr. Kishibe?” he just stares at you.

He writes a character based on you. It becomes insanely popular.

Pretends he’s indifferent, but always keeps an eye on you during fights.

"If you die doing something stupid and noble, I will be very upset. That’s not permission. That’s a threat.”

Jotaro Kujo

Knows your type immediately.

“She’s gonna get herself killed,” he mutters. “...She’s also going to save this whole town.”

Watches from the shadows like a worried dad. Pretends not to care.

You: getting thrown into a wall

Jotaro: “Yare yare daze- ORAORAORAORA- ”

He actually admires your dream to be a cop, even if he thinks you’re too soft-hearted.

Trains with you sometimes. Quietly impressed when you flip him over once.

“Good. Just don’t die. You’re more useful alive.”

Yukako

Girl you are her IDOL.

“...She’s like some sort of noble girl knight…”

After she’s sure you’re not into Koichi, she latches onto you like glue. Will support your dream.

“If anyone stands in your way, I’ll hold them hostage while you do your paperwork.”

She gets scary protective though. If you’re bleeding and still trying to run into battle, she hair-tackles you to the ground.

“You WILL rest. You are NOT disposable. Understand?!”

Reimi

She’s so moved by your kindness she tears up.

“You’re exactly the kind of person I wish had been there for me...”

You visit her at her alley often, sometimes cleaning up trash or watering the flowers nearby.

Reimi thinks you’re the kind of soul that changes fate.

She 100% believes you’ll become a police officer and help protect Morioh from things no one else sees.

You’re her favorite visitor. You always listen to her stories, and she tells you, “Don’t ever stop being you.”

Tonio

IMMEDIATELY TRIES TO FIX YOUR DIET.

“Signorina! You cannot survive on instant noodles and bruised knuckles alone!!”

Every time you come into his restaurant he’s like “You have dark circles. I am making you soup. SIT.”

He loves your kind spirit and even customizes your dishes to help you recover faster.

You once collapsed from dehydration after lifting a car off a kitten and he NEVER lets you forget it.

“You must treat yourself with the same love you give others!”

Shigechi

Thinks you’re SO cool.

“Whoa!! You’re like a muscley version of Koichi!!”

Tries to show off by helping you help people- like “I can use Harvest to get this lady’s purse back!!”

He’s your biggest fan tbh. Follows you around and asks questions constantly.

“Why do you wanna be a cop? Are the hats comfy?? Do you get snacks?”

You gently explain your sense of justice and he just goes 🥺

Starts calling you “Detective Y/N” and tries to draw you little fake badges.

[jazzingout]

i come with a cxc prompt!!!

Beleth and Jophiel meeting for the first time after Beleth fell 👀 Jophiel giving 0 fucks about what Beleth is 😩 maybe even liking him as a devil more

- 🦐

ehehehe

Tags: CxC, some nsfw, some angst, not beta read or edited

Jophiel stared at Beleth in front of him, a dark halo above his head. Jophiel had snuck down to steal some of hell’s cigarettes and then sneak to the middle realm to get a quick smoke before heading back to heaven.

But seeing Beleth there, cigarette in his mouth, familiar smile on his face made Jophiel’s heart feel relieved. Having witnessed Beleth’s fall, his halo turning black and wings failing to fly as he fell to hell, Jophiel was filled with a flurry of emotions.

Relieved, fear, confusion, surprise; all of those mixed together as Jophiel took a step forward to Beleth. Beleth just looked at him with a bitter smile as Jophiel got closer, not moving or speaking before Jophiel stood in front of him.

“What’re you doin’ down here Jo-” Beleth’s words were cut off as Jophiel pulled him down and mashed their lips together. It was messy, rough, and uncoordinated, and Jophiel right now wouldn’t have it any other way.

Beleth was alive.

And Jophiel didn’t give a damn about anything else right now.

Beleth was alive.

Beleth kissed back with the same energy Jophiel gave him, slowly guiding Jophiel to be pushed against a wall, Jophiel wrapping his arms around Beleth’s shoulders and dug his nails into Beleth’s clothes. Beleth lifted up one of Jophiel’s legs and wrapped it around his waist and pressed harder against him.

Beleth cupped Jophiel’s cheek as he kissed him harder, kissing with a longing that they both had. Barely breaking the kiss to take a breath, they clung to each other like it would be the last they would ever see the other. Beleth now bound to hell, and Jophiel serving heaven, they both don’t know how all of this would end, and damn it if they don’t take advantage of this time they have together now.

Beleth and Jophiel clung to each other desperately, grinding against each other with such need and want. Beleth was the one who broke the kiss, pulling away despite Jophiel following. Beleth undid their belts before grinding back against Jophiel and capturing his lips once more.

It may be quick, it may be needy, but having Beleth alive and feeling all of him was all Jophiel wants. It’s all Jophiel wanted when he saw him fall, to know he was alive, to know he was breathing and okay.

Jophiel laid next to Beleth in bed, laying his head on his chest as Beleth shared a smoke with him. Jophiel’s hand laid right over Beleth’s heart, feeling the beat of his heart for reassurance that he wasn’t just a dream. For this to be just another dream he wakes up from would be torture.

Beleth’s hand ran his fingers through Jophiel’s hair, bringing the cigarette down to Jophiel’s lips to let him take a drag. Jophiel looked up at him as he inhaled the smoke, shuffling to kiss Beleth as he exhaled the smoke into his mouth.

Beleth was like nicotine; addicting, something bad, something Jophiel desired to have, and someone Jophiel could never get rid of. No one else could give him the same hit as Beleth, no other vice could give him the same high as Beleth.

Jophiel shifted to get on top of Beleth once more, snatching the cigarette out of Beleth’s hands as he took another drag, head thrown back as Beleth’s hands roamed over his thighs and teasing his ass.

Jophiel blew out smoke as Beleth’s fingers teased his hole, pressing into him and thrusting the cum already left there deeper into him. Beleth took a drag from the cigarette Jophiel extended to him, blowing it out as he looked up at Jophiel. His golden eyes locked with Jophiel’s mismatched ones, speaking without saying anything.

I missed you.

Why’d you leave?

… I had to.

Jophiel broke eye contact with him but Beleth gripped Jophiel’s chin and brought him down to kiss, lips pressing softly against his as Jophiel shut his eyes.

Beleth will always be Beleth, no matter if he is down in hell or up in heaven, Jophiel will always end in his arms.

Not that he would ever want to leave.

[sonoranbumblebee]

Q. Why did Adam Shapiro call Carmy?

A. Adam called Carmy to taunt him. Shapiro clearly suffers from insecurity and envy generally, and insecurity and envy in reference to Carmy specifically, and thus he felt some totally bizarre self-sabotaging need to tell Carmy about what he was trying to do to/with Syd. Under the guise of "professional courtesy," Shapiro called Chef Berzatto to crow that he was courting Carm's mildly disgruntled/estranged "friend that's a girl"/wife/chef de cuisine, and she was in fact considering the offer.

My instinct is that Shapiro somehow felt that toying with Syd made him equals with Carmy; they were just two chummy Chicago restaurant barons running people like pieces on a chess board. Adam Shapiro absolutely did want it to be some "gross poaching" because to him that felt like a win against Carm.

In regards to Shapiro's decision to make this call, I must to quote the great philosopher-concubine Vivian Ward: "Big mistake. Big. Huge."

(1) Carm's brain: How dare you?

(2) Carm's brain: I'm going to tear you into a thousand pieces.

(3) Carm's brain: Syd? My wife Syd? And you? That can't be right. Maybe I'm finally having a stroke.

(4) And then...and then, and then, and then, our famously histrionic manchild did not freak out. He was being baited, and he did not bite. He just took that little scrap of information, dismissed Shapiro like the irrelevance that he is, and started reacting internally, rather than externally.

(5) On the Syd front, he took it as seriously as a heart attack. I think on one level he thought maybe she should go, because if it made her happy, that was the important thing. But then he thought about Syd for a minute, and considered what he knew about Shapiro, and took a moment to grieve for what he had wanted for himself, and then began preparing a way for her to have her cake and eat it too.

(6) He knows he's forever employable. What had been a decade-long, all-encompassing dream transitioned in a moment into something he held as precious as dust. The Bear suddenly became just a building where Syd lived. "It's just a stupid restaurant I don't even need it." If she needs space, she can have it. If he is of no use to her, he might as well get out of the way and let her cook. She can keep the house and the kids and also he's going to send her embarrassing amounts of alimony, and maybe, one day, if he's good enough, she'll let him have visitation.

(7) Baby never imagined that he was filing divorce papers first and totally blindsiding her. Does Carmy even actually know that Syd turned down Shapiro? Would Shapiro have gloated about that? Probably not. Their final fight might have been different if she had shared that information, and it definitely would have been different if Carmy had succeeded in telling her about the partnership agreement plan on his own terms. It could have been presented a lot of different ways, but the way it was revealed, all she could feel was her nightmare coming true: they couldn't make this work, she wasn't good enough, she failed somehow, he had to leave for something better, and this was the end of the road for them.

It's fine though.

The heart-rending breakup fight was the first time in...ever?...that either of them, either together or separately, were so terrified and hopeless and uninhibited that they could say anything to each other without risking it all. Since it was all falling apart anyway, fuck it. They've both been gagging on the fullness of their unspoken feelings for a long long time, and if this brought a few of those emotions into the light and the air, it's only for the good.

[khloberry]

❝ A hot neighbor and a dirty little secret. . . ❞

Two Can Have a Secret

Nicholas Chavez x Reader | 18+ SMUT

I have a confession.

The view from my upstairs window lets me see perfectly into my neighbor’s backyard. I’ve always known this, but I never intentionally looked. Well, I never used to look. I’ve been watching him for days now. I guess you could say that it’s become a bit of an obsession. Don’t judge me. At least not yet. You have to know how this happened first. A simple curiosity turned into something more. Something that I never imagined I would be doing, but now seems that I can’t stop. Every night, I keep coming back to the window.

Wondering.

Waiting.

Watching.

It all started for me late one night when I went into the spare bedroom I used as my art studio. After feeling uninspired for weeks, I finally felt like painting again. What I didn’t know was that something was about to stop that from happening. I stepped inside the room and noticed a glow from my neighbor’s yard coming through the window. I could also hear the faint sound of water splashing. I knew that my neighbor Nicholas had gone on vacation, but I didn’t realize that he was back. Curious, I went over to the window to check.

Nicholas and I have been neighbors for a little over a year now. We weren’t exactly friends, but we were friendly and always chatted whenever we saw each other around. He was charming and funny, and did I mention that he was really attractive? Close your eyes and imagine the most handsome face you’ve ever seen. Now imagine a hot body that could be ripped right off the cover of a fitness magazine. That’s Nic. He was the kind of guy that made panties wet without trying. I can’t lie, I’ve always wondered what he was like in bed. I mean, who wouldn’t want to fuck a guy as hot as him? That’s actually where this story gets interesting. Let’s go back to that night…

I looked out the window and saw Nicholas with a cute girl in his pool. I have to admit that it was hard to not stare at the sight of his strong body gliding through the water, but I didn’t intend to keep looking. He was just out for a swim.

Or so I thought.

As they moved over to the pool steps, I thought they were getting out, but what happened was something that I never expected. Just before I turned around to leave, I saw Nicholas taking off his swim trunks. It was dark out, but the pool lights and soft glow of the moonlit sky made it possible for me to see every perfect inch of him. I found myself so mesmerized by the sight that I couldn’t move, think, or do anything but stare. How was I supposed to look away with his dick on display?

I watched as Nicholas sat down while the dark-haired girl stood in front of him. Slowly, his hands moved up her legs to her bikini bottoms and untied the strings at her hips. I watched as they dropped into the water and my heart started to race. I knew what was about to happen, but what was I to do? I knew I couldn’t watch them.

Could I?

She straddled his lap and he wrapped his arms around her, untying her top as they kissed. It got hot and heavy pretty quickly. I’m sure that anyone else would've turned away and chose not to be a creep, but I obviously failed the test on moral standards. Instead of turning away, I sat down on my window bench and secretly watched as she started riding him. I knew I shouldn’t have been watching, but I just couldn’t pull myself away. There was something about seeing my hot neighbor having sex that gave me a thrill.

From the way his hands touched her body to the complete look of satisfaction on his face as she rode him, I felt myself so turned on. I wanted to be in that pool with him and I began to imagine it. How it would feel to have him inside me. How my pussy would grip him, drip for him, take him so good. I couldn’t resist the urge that came over me to touch myself. While one hand came up and massaged my breast, the other slid down into my very wet panties. Was I really doing this? Touching myself while I watched my neighbor have sex? It all felt so wrong, but yet so right.

However conflicted I felt, I didn’t let it stop me. I let my fingers do their work as I watched Nic start to fuck her harder. His hands slid down and gripped her ass, holding her steady as he hammered her little pussy. Oh, he was giving it to her so good. She surely wasn’t going to last much longer. I wasn’t either. The harder he fucked her, the faster my fingers moved, bringing me closer.

And closer.

Until my body exploded in an orgasm so intense it actually shocked me. Who knew that watching my neighbor have sex could make me feel something like that? A desire I never knew existed was awakened. I didn't plan to start watching him, but I knew now that I wasn’t gonna stop.

“Don’t judge me. At least not yet.”

You can judge now.

We all have choices. This is what I chose. I would like to tell you that I realized how wrong I was and felt so guilty about it that I stopped. But this isn’t that story. Things only got more interesting. Let’s continue…

Thoughts of Nicholas occupied my mind every night, and it became routine for me to look out my window. While watching him on one of those nights, I thought I saw him glance up at my window, but I quickly dismissed it. I was careful to keep my room dark so he couldn’t see me. There was no way he knew my secret.

But my suspicions only grew stronger when we ran into each other the following morning. Nicholas was pulling out of his driveway as I was about to start my morning run.

“Hey, neighbor,” he called out from his car.

“Hey, Nic,” I said with a smile as I approached.

Nicholas stopped his car and gave me a smile back. “Going for a run?” he asked as he lowered his eyes to my legs. If I had known I would see him, I would have worn a shorter pair of shorts.

“Yea, gotta stay in shape, you know.”

His eyes wandered over my body again. “Looks like you’re doing a good job at that.”

He wasn’t trying to hide that he was looking. It excited me that he found me as attractive as I found him. I could’ve stripped down to nothing and fucked him right there in his driveway. He started to say something else, but I was so lost in my naughty thoughts that I didn’t hear anything he said and asked him to repeat.

Nicholas chuckled.

Even his laugh was sexy.

God, help me.

“I was saying running's good,” he flashed another smile. “I like swimming too. You ever try that for cardio?”

At his mention of swimming, I felt the small hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I remembered how hard I came watching him in his pool.

I avoided eye contact. “I usually just run.”

“It’s a good full body workout if you wanna switch it up sometimes. You can do a lot in the pool, you know.”

And there it was again. Was mentioning his pool simply a coincidence, or was he fucking with me? The small grin on his face told me it was the latter, but how could he know? I had to be overthinking. He didn’t know.

He couldn’t.

“I’ll have to add it to my routine. Thanks, Nic.” I smiled.

“Happy to help. Have a good run.” He began to drive off and then added. “Oh, and if you ever wanna go for a swim together, you know where I’m at,” he smirked.

With that, he turned and headed down the street. I felt my stomach drop. I had no doubt that he knew my secret. But he was never supposed to find out. How did he find out and what was I gonna do now? Just stop watching him and act like it never happened, right?

If only it were that simple.

Later that night, I returned home after dinner with my friends and began to unwind. After I took a shower and poured a glass of wine, I decided to do some drawing. My sketchbook was usually kept in my nightstand, but it wasn’t there. I realized I must have left it in my art room and went to get it. I can assure you that I wasn’t even thinking about Nicholas until I opened the door and saw that his patio light was on. Isn’t it funny how life can be a big cosmic joke sometimes. I said that I wouldn’t watch him anymore, but now that I knew he was outside, it was nearly impossible to resist.

Just a quick look I told myself.

Nicholas sat reclined on his outdoor couch. He had his phone in one hand while the other slowly stroked himself. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Was he really getting himself off right there on his patio? With the lights on? Didn’t he know that someone might see him? And by someone I meant me.

Once again, I started secretly watching him and felt myself getting hot as his hand moved up and down his length with slow, deliberate strokes. Tonight was a real treat because with the lights on I had an even better view. Before I knew it, my own hand drifted down and began to rub myself through my panties. Do you recall when I mentioned that things became more interesting? Well, here it comes.

Nicholas looked right at my window and smiled.

Startled, I jumped back from the window so fast, I stumbled over something in the darkness and it crashed to the floor. I didn’t bother to check what it was. I didn’t even care. I couldn’t focus on anything but how Nicholas saw me. There was no mistaking it this time.

He knew.

I’m not sure how long I stood frozen before I heard my doorbell ring. Then again. I knew it was Nicholas. And he knew I was here. My heart pounded as I considered my options. I seriously thought about running into my kitchen, sliding open the door, and fleeing. But I knew I couldn’t escape this. Not unless I never left my house again or moved away. I knew I would see Nicholas.

It was inevitable.

Taking a deep breath, I went downstairs to open the door. Nicholas was standing there shirtless and wearing a pair of gym shorts that hung low on his hips. My eyes instantly fell to his perfect v-line abs.

As if I needed another reason to stare.

“Hey, Nic. What brings you over?”

He looked at me amused. “Are you gonna invite me in, or just stand there and act like you weren’t watching me?”

I opened my mouth. No words came out. How was I gonna explain this? Nothing I could say would justify my actions. He probably thought I was a total fucking freak. My heart began to pound again as I stepped aside to let him in.

He walked into my house and immediately went to make himself comfortable on my couch. “So, how long have you been watching? Just tonight?” he asked casually, as if we were talking about watching a Netflix series.

I shook my head.

He flashed a smile and patted the space next to him. “Come tell me about it.”

As I started to sit down, he surprised me by pulling me onto his lap. That’s when I realized I had this all wrong. He wasn’t bothered by this. He was intrigued and perhaps even turned on. Then it hit me that what I saw tonight was intentional. It was no coincidence that he kept the lights on and sat on the couch facing my window. He wanted me to see him.

The voyeur or the exhibitionist?

Who’s really the freak?

“It was the other night,” I confessed. “You were in the pool with a girl. Is she your girlfriend?”

“Just a friend.”

“You fuck all your friends?” I asked without thinking.

Nicholas let out a laugh. “Why? You wanna be my friend?”

“I would like that.” I leaned my back against his chest and his arms welcomed me.

“Yea? Tell me what else you like.” He started to slide his hands over my body, his touch lighting a fire under my skin. “Did you enjoy what you saw?” His hands moved under my shirt and cupped my breasts before softly squeezing. I wasn’t wearing a bra. I wasn’t wearing much of anything actually. I had answered the door in just a tank top and a pair of cheeky panties. It wasn’t intentional, but hey, who was complaining?

“Yes,” l breathed deeply. “It was really hot.”

He kept one hand on my breast, teasing my nipple, while the other eased between my thighs. “Did you touch yourself?”

“Y—yes.” It was becoming harder to speak as I felt his fingertips brush against my panties. The way he talked to me. The way he touched me. The way he was slowly building me up. It was overwhelming in the best way.

“Like this?” His hand slipped under the wet fabric and began to stroke my clit. Pleasure hit me instantly, the feeling almost indescribable. I had fantasized about him for days, and here he was now with his hand in my panties, turning my fantasy into a reality.

“Yea, just like that,” I moaned softly.

The way he was making me feel was just too good. How he circled my clit with just the right amount of pressure. How he massaged my hole, getting his fingers slick with my wetness before he slipped two inside me.

“Fuck. You’re soaked, baby,” he whispered into my ear as he slowly moved in and out of me. “I love that I make you that wet.”

Oh, God.

His words made what his fingers were doing feel incredibly more intense. I felt that familiar feeling building up low in my stomach. It was building so rapidly that I knew I wasn’t gonna last much longer. Not with the way he pumped into me deeper and harder. Not with the way he stroked that exact spot inside me that made all my pleasure double. It felt so good that I didn’t want it to ever end.

“Tell me how hard you came.” His fingers continued their relentless pace, bringing me closer and closer. He had my pussy feeling like a bomb being primed to explode.

“So hard…” I whimpered. “…all over my fingers thinking about you.”

He groaned in approval. “You’re gonna do it for me again, okay.”

It wasn’t an ask.

More of a command.

His fingers fucked me until I couldn’t hold back anymore. It came rapidly and with a force that shook my entire body. I mean I knew it would be good, but damn. It was better than anything I could’ve imagined, and it was just his fingers. Oh, he was good, but I was about to find out that he was even better than that.

In what seemed like no time, my panties were off and Nicholas had me bent over my couch. Now if you have been keeping up this entire time, you already know everything that led to this moment. This is the part of the story that made all of my actions worth it. If I hadn’t looked out the window that night, would this have happened? Let’s finish…

Nicholas pushed inside me from behind, his hands gripping my hips as he filled me inch by inch. I gasped softly and he let out a sharp breath once he was fully inside. I knew it felt as good for him as it did for me. He took things slow at first, but that only gave for a few minutes before he began to fuck me with much less gentleness.

He was gonna ruin me.

No doubt about it.

“You good, baby?” he asked, though it wasn’t a question of concern, just him knowing exactly what he was doing to me.

“So good,” I replied with a breathy moan.

“That’s what I like to hear,” he groaned, keeping up the steady pounding that had me clutching at the couch cushion.

The moans wouldn’t stop coming as I felt him deeper with each thrust. The deeper he went, the better it felt. He was really giving it to me, but being the good little neighbor that I am, I couldn’t just take. I deepened my arch and started to fuck back against him.

“Fuck, that’s it.” His hand came down and slapped my ass.

I gasped.

“You like that, huh?” He slapped it again, this time harder, a satisfied expression on his face as he watched it jiggle.

“I love it.”

“Yea?” He gave it another slap. “Tell me again.”

“I fucking love it,” I moaned out.

He started to move faster, his thrusts growing rougher and deeper as he hit the back walls of my pussy with an unrelenting force that had me crying out his name. My mind went blank as he fucked me senseless. I knew my body was still here in the room with him, but I couldn’t tell you where I had gone. Mars, maybe? Maybe I’d been fucked into a whole new planet.

“Nic, I—” I gasped. “I’m gonna…”

“I know, baby.” His hand reached around and stroked my clit. “Do it.”

And just like that, another shuddering orgasm rocked me. Nicholas didn’t let up a bit. His hands gripped me tighter, his hips slamming against me as he chased his own release. With a few more thrusts, I felt him tense behind me before he let out an incredibly sexy moan.

What a fucking night.

About an hour later, we were showered and in my kitchen making a homemade pizza. I know, mind blowing sex and pizza, I was a lucky girl. Don’t be jealous. Maybe you will get a hot neighbor too.

As I sat on the bar stool watching him add the pepperoni to our pizza, I had one burning question.

“What?” Nicholas asked as he noticed me staring.

“How’d you know?”

He smirked. “It’s a secret, baby.”

Tags ♡: @oliviaambs @hoeforanakin @aisforarii @torikitten @iamsebastiansstan @fiftyshadeschavez @exqorcism @chavezwifeyy @lalavenderangel

[this-isapen]

Hi i love your writting.

Ive been dying for some drama with lots of make up sex if is ok with you. (Hozierx reader that is a member of the band or somenthing like that* thank you so much)

Thank you so much! <3 I really liked this idea, so I hope it's up to your expectations!! (though i will say i don't write sex scenes very often, so apologies if it isn't my best work).

My Fault

Pairing: hozier x fem reader

Warnings: slight angst and drama, mild (+ first attempt) smut

Description: You're having a bad day that culminates in arguing with Andrew, things not meant being said in the heat of the moment. But tensions have to ease eventually, one way or another.

Word count: 3, 479

titled after 'my fault' by zeph

fic under the cut :)

I stare at him from across the table, watching as he laughs loudly at some joke I didn’t catch. He meets my eye momentarily, and I recognize it as his silent way of asking how I’m doing. Not great, admittedly, having snapped at him earlier over something stupid during soundcheck that I can barely remember. I shoot back a halfhearted smile, trying to wordlessly convince him not to worry about it. The last thing I want is that much attention in the midst of getting dinner with the rest of the band. I don’t like to make a big deal about stuff regardless, but especially not around other people. Thankfully, he seems to catch on and doesn’t make any further indications that would draw unnecessary attention from our friends. I don’t think I’d ever recover from making a scene like that. 

I keep to myself, perfectly content to just absorb the conversations around me without participating myself. I take to twirling my fork around my plate, playing with the remainder of my food in hopes of killing time until we head out. I’m not in a particularly social mood tonight, though if anyone other than him notices they don’t say anything. 

Quietly excusing myself from the table, I slip out and head to the bathroom. It thankfully appears to be empty, and I feel myself release a breath as I try to expel the tension from my body. A quick look in the mirror above the sink reveals that I’m noticeably tired. This might be harder to keep under wraps than I thought. 

“Get it together,” I mutter under my breath as I run my hands through my hair. I wash my hands to feel like I’ve at least done something while wasting time in here, inevitably wiping my hands on my jeans when the air dryer doesn’t do much. I take a final deep breath, using up every ounce of willpower to go back out there. 

I’m startled to see Andrew standing by the bathroom entryway when I emerge, but try to walk quickly before he notices me. Unfortunately, my plan fails and he catches my wrist gently in his grasp. 

“Oh, hey.” I glance up at him with a tight-lipped smile, trying to play this off as though I hadn’t seen him.  

His brow furrows as he looks at me. “Darlin’? Everything alright?” 

I brush him off with a mildly exasperated “I’m fine,” before turning to head back towards the table again. 

“You sure? You seem... off.” He keeps his voice at a volume just barely above a whisper, the way he speaks when he’s worried. 

“Yeah, just tired,” I assure him, silently praying for him to just drop it. 

He lets me go, following me back to where the rest of the band is chatting. I easily insert myself into the flow of conversation around me, though whether it’s compensating for the risk of my distance being uncovered or an attempt to prove something to Andrew, I don’t know. 

Eventually, we’re on the sidewalk heading back in the direction of the hotel that’s a short walk away. Andrew reaches for my hand like he usually does, but I pull away quickly, refusing to meet his eye in fear that his face will be written with as much hurt as I imagine it will be. Neither of us says a word to the other for the rest of the trek, which is fine by me. Talking feels too difficult right now, like it will take up the remainder of my already depleted energy.  

I barely remember walking in the door, let alone getting to our shared room.  

The door is barely locked behind us when Andrew speaks again. “What the hell is going on with you?” 

His question stings more than I expect it to, the harshness of the words feeling like shattered glass pricking my heart. I don’t know, Andrew. Everything. Nothing at all. Too much to even begin to explain. 

“Nothing,” my mouth feels too dry as I respond, anxiety eating up the words I truly wanted to say. 

“Baby,” he sighs, and his obvious frustration only irritates me further. What right did he have to be annoyed? Why couldn’t he just leave this alone? “You’ve been acting weird all day; something’s up.” 

“I’m not acting weird!” my voice comes out whinier than I mean it to, causing me to cringe. I feel like a hormonal teenager arguing with her mother, the way I shut down. 

“Yeah, because you usually spend the day avoiding me and ignore me all throughout dinner,” he scoffs. “If something is bothering you, you can tell me. Hell, you can tell me to fuck off and leave you alone, but can you please just give me something to work with other than one-word responses?!” He’s getting upset now, and I feel a familiar sensation brewing in my chest – stress, anger, guilt. 

 “I’m fine, Andrew!” I snap suddenly, regretting it as soon as the words leave my lips. “I told you, I’m tired. It’s been a long day.” It wasn’t really a lie; it had been a busy day today, but that was more of an aggravating factor than a cause, and he knew me well enough to see right through me. 

“Darling, please. I just want to help.” 

“And why do you assume I need your help?!” I can’t seem to stop myself from getting snippy with him, but I just don’t want to talk about this right now. Whatever this even was. 

“Right,” he frowns, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Sorry for caring about you. Sorry for trying to have a mature conversation like fucking adults.” 

His last comment sends me over the edge; I can’t stand someone insinuating I’m immature. That one strikes me to very core. 

“Oh, so I’m not an adult capable of holding a conversation?” I shoot back, glaring at him as the threat of tears stings my eyes. The room feels smaller somehow, too cramped. I need to get out of here before it suffocates me. 

“That is not what I’m saying and you know it.” 

“Then what are you saying?” I question. “Actually, forget it. I’m leaving.” 

I rifle through my bag as quickly as I can until I find my hoodie, pulling it over my head as I make my way to the door. 

“Where are you going?” I can’t tell if he’s angry or concerned. 

“For a walk.” 

“Wait, please. Just talk to me.” 

“Andrew, please. Just leave me alone.” I emphasize, managing to slip out of the room, once again barely registering my route until I find myself outside again. 

It occurs to me I don’t know where I’m going, but I inevitably just pick a direction and start walking, the cool night air a blessing to my skin. I don’t really care where I end up, I just couldn’t stand to be in that room with him another second longer. 

*A* 

I groan, tossing my phone on the bed after approximately my fifth call to her that only resulted in me getting her voicemail. I was a total asshole, and I only want to apologize for acting like I did. It came from a place of love, but the last thing I said was a low blow and she didn’t deserve that. I just don’t understand why she won’t talk to me when clearly there’s something bothering her. Something I’m guessing I’m the cause of based on how she’s acted towards me all day. 

I rack my brain for anything I might’ve said or done to upset her, but can’t seem to recall anything of note. Had I been too distant with her? That doesn’t seem to be it. If only I knew what it was, maybe I could fix this. But then again, there’s only so much I can do when she refuses to tell me what the problem is. 

It’s not like I don’t understand it, though. I can be pretty stubborn about these things too, so I get that it might not be fair of me to judge her for the same way that I’ve acted on countless occasions. Still, I only want to help. 

Time passes painfully slowly, but I find myself spending all of it anxiously checking my phone for any potential messages from her. Eventually, I doze off, waking up to find my phone still clutched in my hand. It’s nearly four in the morning by now, and still no sign of her. Not a single call or text, no indication that she’s in the room. When she still doesn’t pick up my call, worry begins to take hold of me. 

We’d gotten back around what, eleven o’clock, maybe midnight? Either way she’s been out far too long for my liking. She should have come back hours ago; where was she? 

Unable to sleep now that I realize how long it’s been, I take to padding down the hall knocking on the band’s doors to see if anyone has heard anything. Alex isn’t much (or any) help, and I feel bad for waking him at this time of night. It hadn’t occurred to me in my anxious state that I’d be disturbing their sleep by doing this, and I make a mental note to buy everyone coffee in the morning.  

The rest of the band proves to be much of the same – exhausted people who don’t know much and aren’t too thrilled to have their boss come knocking on the door in the middle of the night. The last room I try is Kamilah’s, who unfortunately also hasn’t seen or heard from her since dinner, but offers me assurance that everything is likely fine. I hope she’s right. 

Sighing, I return to my room and pull my shoes on. I wouldn’t - couldn’t- rest until I at least knew where she was, that she was safe. And right now, it seems the only way to do that is to go looking for her myself. I don’t care if it takes me all night; I just need to know that she’s okay. 

* 

I finally tear my eyes away from the dark reflection of the lake, unsure of how long I’d been standing there. I’d purposely been ignoring my phone since I left, knowing that checking it would only serve to stress me out more.  

It was clearly late, but it’s not until I give in and check the time that I notice just how long I’ve been out here. Granted, I don’t know what time I got here, but it had been a couple hours at least since I started walking. The fresh air had helped, though the realization that I was alone outside in the middle of the night was beginning to unsettle me as I try to navigate back to the hotel. At least the city was well lit. 

I feel on edge walking down the street, hyper aware of my surroundings until I finally see the overhang bearing the hotel’s name. Relief washes over me as I slip inside, tiredly making my way to the elevator. Hopefully Andrew would be asleep by now because I don’t feel like resuming our argument right now. I’m barely in the mood to talk, let alone fight. 

As I open the door, I see him pacing by the window on the far side of the room, turning immediately towards me. Well, there goes that hope. 

“Where the fuck have you been?” he asks, his voice thick with emotion. “I was about two seconds away from filing a report,” he mutters softly. Had he been crying? His eyes looked a bit red. 

I don’t know how to respond, caught off guard by his admission. This is not at all the situation I anticipated walking into. 

“I was worried sick,” he breathes, moving closer to me until he wraps me in a hug, holding me so tightly I wonder if he thinks I’ll disappear if he lets go. “I - are you okay? You’re not hurt?” 

I shake my head, burying my face in his chest. 

“Good,” he hums. “Do not fucking scare me like that.” 

“I -” I choke out. 

“You weren’t answering your phone; I – I went out looking but I couldn’t find you. I was afraid something happened to you.” 

“I’m sorry.” I hug him back just as fiercely, hoping that it underscores my apology more than any words ever could. He searched for me? “For everything.” 

“Me too,” he whispers. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.” 

A few moments of silence pass between us while we cling to one another.  

“I just want you to talk to me.” 

“I know.” 

“You know I love you, right?” 

I nod against his chest, chuckling silently. “I know. I love you too.” Swallowing my pride, I add, “I don’t know why, but I think I was just in one of those moods where everything was pissing me off but I couldn’t figure out what was actually upsetting me.” 

“Love.” 

“I think being on the road has just started to take a lot out of me. I – I'm sorry for being such a bitch.” 

He chuckles softly, pulling back to look at me. “Darling, it’s alright. It’s just that these are the kinds of things I want you to tell me.” Before I can interject, he continues, “I’m sorry for prying.” The softness of his lips and the gentle scratch of his beard on my forehead calm me a bit, the tender familiarity grounding me.  

“I guess we’re both kind of assholes sometimes, huh?” 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, kissing my lips. “We are.” 

A smirk paints his lips suddenly, and he catches my eye. 

“What?” 

“What do you say,” he hums, rubbing gentle circles into my hips with his thumbs, “I make this up to you?” He bites his lip shyly, waiting for me to give him some sort of indication.  

“Oh,” I giggle, feeling a heat rise to my cheeks at the implications. “You don’t have to.” 

“No pressure,” he murmurs, kissing the tip of my nose. “But I want to, if you want me to.” 

This conversation had taken an... unexpected turn, though I’d be lying if I said the thought of whatever he had in mind didn’t excite me. I meet his gaze, and have my answer. Who was I to say no to those gorgeous eyes that bore into my soul with such adoration? 

“Okay.” 

I smile upon seeing the massive grin spread across his face at my response. He kisses me again slowly, passionately, walking me back towards the bed.  

His fingers tug at the waistband of my jeans, a silent plea for permission as he looks at me once more. I nod, and he unbuttons them, pulling the material down my legs. Without a word, I pull my hoodie and shirt off together, giving him even less clothing to work with. His fingers trail lightly up and down the sides of my thighs and up to my hips, leaving me with goosebumps as a result. 

He kisses me, lips slowly trailing from my mouth to my jaw, neck, collarbone. A contented sigh escapes me with each new feeling. He continues to kiss his way down my body, lowering himself to reach the next section until he’s kneeling before me. 

 I take in the sight of him; he looked so fucking pretty like this. The only word I can think of describe his actions right now is reverence. I gently work my fingers through his hair, watching as he instinctually leans into the touch. I can feel my breath catch in my lungs as he kisses me through the fabric of my underwear. He tilts his head up slightly to meet my gaze, a wordless check that I want him to continue. I nod, and seconds later his fingers are hooked in the sides of the fabric, sliding them off my legs and tossing them aside next to my pants. 

“Gorgeous,” he mutters quietly, my face becoming a deeper shade of red in response. Slowly, he encourages me to sit on the edge of the bed, placing my legs over his shoulders with a final glance up at me. “Alright?” 

“You really don’t have to,” I murmur, instinctively resisting despite how much I can feel myself craving this.  

“Darling,” he hums, chuckling slightly. “I want to, truly. Please let me.” There was the slightest hint of desperation in his voice, but I knew that he would stop without argument if I just said the word. 

“Okay.” 

With that, he buries his face between my legs, targeting the spot I need him most. The pressure of his nose and the feeling of his tongue provide a delicious feeling I didn’t realize how badly I needed. Before I know it, my words are a jumble of pleas and curses mixed with his name as his mouth and fingers begin to work in tandem to bring me to the edge.  

“Andrew,” I gasp, gripping his hair in my fist, knowing that I’d soon reach my climax. 

“It’s alright baby, I’ve got you,” he hums against me, sending a shiver up my spine. “Just let me take care of you.” The utter worship with which he treated me was still taking some getting used to. 

“What about you?” 

“I’m doing just fine, darling. My focus is on you tonight,” he murmurs, his fingers continuing to curl inside of me while he talks. Fuck, he’d be the death of me.  

“Andy,” I whine. 

“Shh, I have you, baby. I’ve got you, just let go for me,” he encourages, his words nearly enough to send me over the edge. Moments later, my orgasm washes over me, Andrew looking quite pleased with himself as I catch my breath. “That’s it, good girl,” he hums. 

He rises from his knees, electing to sit on the bed next to me. He wraps his arm around my shoulders, kissing my temple as he pulls me in. “Good?” 

“Great,” I laugh breathlessly in response. 

“Good.” 

“But,” I start, getting his attention. “I think I have some things to make up to you too.”  

“Yeah?” he chuckles. “Don’t feel obligated, love.” 

“I want to,” I assure him, finding it funny the way that we’ve managed to reach a complete role reversal. “You deserve to feel good too.” 

“Trust me, I felt plenty good pleasuring you.” 

I roll my eyes, playfully shoving him. I know he’s being serious, but he can still be so cheesy sometimes. “Shut up.” 

“Make me,” he chuckles, and I can only kiss him in reply. 

Suddenly, I’m pushing him back on the bed, our mouths and bodies colliding as we laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. Our hands are reaching for one another clumsily, happily. It’s nice to be with him like this after the day we’ve had.  

He eventually rolls us over so he’s on top of me and presses his lips gently to mine. I reach for the waistband of his sweatpants and pull them down, though he needs to kick them the rest of the way off.  

I smile at the sight of him in his boxers, blushing a bit despite this not being a new occurrence. He cups my cheek in his hand, kissing me once more before pulling back and sliding his underwear off. 

“You ready?” he asks, looking at me with a sense of adoration I still wasn’t sure if I’d ever get used to.  

I nod eagerly, letting him position himself between my legs comfortably. He presses into me slowly, allowing me time to adjust to the feeling of him inside me.  

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he compliments, the heat rising to my cheeks once more. “And God, I hope I never stop making you blush like this,” he adds, much more quietly, leaving me wondering whether he wanted me to hear that or not. 

He thrusts into me slowly, only gradually increasing his pace. Eventually, he brings my leg up, fucking me gently at this new angle. My hips meet his, and the fingers on his free hand entwine with mine. The sheer gentleness of our movements together almost brings a tear to my eye. 

I watch him as he loses himself in the feeling, his eyelids shutting contentedly as he eventually tips over his own edge.  

“I love you so much,” he mumbles softly, kissing my forehead. 

“Love you too,” I giggle. 

After a few minutes, he pulls out of me and pads into the bathroom, returning with a washcloth a couple moments later. My eyes start to flutter shut as he cleans me up, the emotional and physical exhaustion both finally catching up with me. The last thing I remember before falling asleep is him wrapping his arms around me and pulling up the covers.  

[itsall-delicate]

season 4 rant

hi, excuse me... I'm just gonna list all the Carmy and Syd paralels and invisible strings I can remember right now just because I feel like I'm going insane after THAT finale. I get why he decided to leave and all, but it doesn't mean I like the fact he LEFT SYDNEY ALONE. He knows how scared she is of failing and losing it all and instead of trying to idk GO TO THERAPY while being there or stepping away from the kitchen but still being at the restaurant to just give moral support he dipped to be a stay at home boyfriend to a girl who reminds him of fire, an element that has been associated to nothing but traumatic experiences for him on the show.

Most important: the best dish she ever ate was made by him, but not only that, we found out this season that she went to NY with the intention of trying his food and also, the first time we see him rebel against his asswhole chef is while making this random dish and pretending the customer has an allergy (which we know isn't true because Syd has used fennel in the first dish she made at The Beef right at the start). So even when they didn't know each other, they were alredy making each other better and pushing each other and being inspired. If that's not some cosmic fucking soulmate shit you'd what in a romcom, i don't know what would be.

The panic attack scene in season 2, I don't even have to explain it, it's just so on the nose it's CRAZY. It looks, sounds ans smells like samething a fan would make, but i'ts actually in the show.

All those montages of them fucking up and dropping shit and cleaning restaurants.

The beach montage where they're looking at the ocean with almost the same outfit (we have never seen Syd wear a cap ever since).

The sauce that looked like Syd's bandana and was obviously mde so because they zoom that shit and cut everything else around.

The table scene is also another crazy work, because what do you mean you're whispering to each other about how much better you make one another and how you, Carmy, wouldn't even WANT to do this all without her in your life, and you've know each other for less than 6 months atp. Aand the lighting and the voices are so soft and intimate and tender, I could go on and on.

As they're opening The Bear for the first time he legit lets her say his brother catch phrase in a way to show her that she's a legit part of this and the family

"You look nice".

All of the staring, all of it all the time.

The stare off affter he invites her to the Ever funeral

The way the static noise in his head that happens in season 3 alwyas stops when he listens to her voice or when he looks at her. It all just stops. In fact, he say's his head is always busy this season while talking to Claira and the few times when he's calm he's with Syd.

Both of them have a tattoo of fishes

One of the fist things he learned was how to remove the wishbone of a chicken, she has a tattoo of a broken wishbone

The first time we listen to strange currencies is they really talk in season 1 after the brigade fiasco and then it keeps playing in the backgound for Claire in season 2, but then there's the panic scene where it's palying fucking backwards ultill Syd comes in focus

She made the margins wider because he writes in the margins

i'm legit shocked about HOW MUCH i just remember about these fuckers. anyways... feel free to add more

[princessofgotham777]

Dating Jason Todd (Part Nineteen)

Jason Todd x Reader

Hey so I was writing the backstory then got this idea for the saddest fucking part ever. Yeah I apologize in advance cause this one’s ROUGH. I might add more I have a couple ideas and I will try to get the backstory going. If you like this part but have zero idea what’s happening check out my Masterlist. Hope you enjoy reading!!

Warnings: codependency from hell, toxic relationship lowkey, alcohol abuse, canon typical violence mention, lots of crying and yelling

Part Nineteen: gone again

It had been four months since everything went down. Four months since you’d spoken to Dick or any of the other Titans. Even Gar and Rachel, they’d both reached out but neither you or Jason answered. The only people you’d spoken to were your family, Thea and Jason. You always kept your family in the dark about your relationship and connection to all these random vigilantes. Thea you really only spoke to so she’d know you were alive. The truth was everything between you and Jason was perfect…for the first two weeks of being back together. After that it all came crashing down. That’s when the nightmares started, the screaming matches, the tears. You two fought over every little thing. Jason had changed, but you had to. When he died a part of you did too, and that piece of your soul didn’t return when he did. This wasn’t the same boy who saved you from Poison Ivy, and you weren’t the same helpless reporter he found needing saving. These past few months Jason started to drink, which was weird as fuck, he never really did before because of all the adults who’d failed him as a kid. You barely spoke, it seemed like when you did he either ignored you or snapped at you. Most nights Jason went out super late, doing God knows what and came back before the sunrise, often covered in blood. It wasn’t all bad though. It was the soft moments that made you stay. Those times at three am when you both couldn’t sleep so you reminisced about the beginning of your relationship. When it was just you two in your run down apartment two hours outside of Gotham, things felt normal. You lied your head on his chest listening to him breathing. It was about 100 degrees and you were in a tank top and underwear. Jason however was wearing sweatpants and a t shirt. You didn’t question him, too afraid to ruin this moment. His hair was messy, the dark brown curls mixing with the white streak. You noticed that since everything happened he didn’t hold you the same. You’re once affectionate boyfriend now only dared touch you in any way if you made the first move. He hadn’t went in for a hug in nearly seven months. You haven’t seen him without a shirt since before everything. It was the small things like that which made you question if he’d ever open up to you emotionally or physically ever again. You never pushed, you were patient and gentle. Moonlight pours in through the windows of your apartment. “Jason,” you say softly.

“Yeah?” He says.

“Can I talk to you about something?” You ask.

“Course, what is it?” He says sleepily.

“What are we gonna do?” You ask. You hear his heartbeat speed up slightly.

“What?” He asks.

“It’s been four months…” you say hesitantly. “I’m just wondering, how much longer are we gonna be hiding?” You ask.

“What do you mean hiding?” He says. “We’re not hiding,”

“I just mean what are we gonna do? We’ve been living off saved money, staying in this rundown town outside of Gotham. We haven’t talked to anyone in months, we haven’t heard from anybody…” you say before he cuts you off.

“Y/N,” he says in the same tone he used to reassure you with. For a moment you caught a glimpse of the old Jason. Then it faded, he looked as though a lightbulb went off in his head. “I didn’t realize you were so unhappy,” he says almost accusingly.

“What?” You say confused as you sit up.

“What do you want?” He says, fully awake now. “Go back to Gotham? Get back in touch with Dick and Bruce and everyone else who screwed me over?”

“No I just-“ you try to say before he cuts you off again.

“You just what? You thought everything was just gonna go back to how it was? You thought we’d start over and just live life as a happy couple!” He says starting to raise his voice.

“We were a happy couple, Jason,” you say, feeling so so small.

“Exactly…were. That’s in the past. I’m not the same person I was. I don’t know if you got the memo but I died and got resurrected. Tends to change a person!” He says condescendingly.

You look at him with tearful eyes but then you get angry. “All you do is pick fights with me,” you say. “Ever since you came back I cannot win with you. I suggest we go back to our life in San Franscio we built, you shut me down. I suggest Bludhaven or Gotham you get mad. I say you should let Roy, your best fucking friend, know you’re alive, you get mad. You disappear all the time, you go out and come back hours later covered in blood, smelling like beer and I don’t know how to fix it,” you say completely hopeless. He goes to say something but you cut him off, “my parents think I’m insane, sure they don’t know everything but they know I’m God knows where with you! My mom asked me the other day if I was on drugs or needed help. You scare them and you scare me!” You yell. With those last words something broke. Something invisible between you two shattered. You saw it in Jason’s eyes. As soon as you said he scared you, the damage was done; but it was the truth.

“Maybe you should be scared of me!” He yells.

“That’s not what I meant!” You yell as tears begin forming.

“No you’re right,” he says slightly lowering his voice. “I’m a fucking monster,” he says quietly. The silence in the room is defeating. The moonlight illuminates your shadows.

“Jason,” you say crying as you step forward. You stop when suddenly he takes his shirt off with a swift motion. “This is who I am now, how can you love a corpse,” he says in defeat. You stand there staring at him and the huge autopsy scar on his chest.

“I love you!” You say desperately.

“I’m a dead man Y/N,” he says putting his shirt back on. “I should’ve never come back for you…you deserve so much more than this bullshit,” he says. He grabs a backpack and puts it on.

“Where are you going?” You cry. He’s silent as he heads for the door. You jump in front of him. “Jason please,” you say almost sobbing. “Please don’t leave me,” He grabs his motorcycle keys. “Jason please,” you cry. He looks down at you crying in front of him. Begging him to stay, despite him turning into a nightmare. He then does the last thing you’d have expected, he gently pulls you into a hug. You instinctively wrap your arms around him. He holds your head and waist, calming your crying. You’ve done it, you think. You’ve gotten him to stay. But you’re wrong. He lets go and steps around you unlocking the door. You’re too stunned and choked up to even say anything.

He opens the door and before stepping out he says, “maybe in another life nothing bad ever happened and you and I worked out. I hope you find your happy ending and you have no idea how fucking sorry I am that it wasn’t me.” And with that he turned the light on, to not leave you alone in the dark, and he left.

Hey I hope you liked this part and didn’t cry too much while reading it. If you liked this check out the other parts on my Masterlist and the backstory that I’ll be posting soon!! All likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated!!🩷

Masterlist

[kylosbreedingkink]

This comic issue was mad. It was amazing. Charles Soule does not disappoint when it comes to Kylo Ren. Also I really really like this goggles-turban-all black outfit of his.

Many many lines stood out to me, but this one in particular made me laugh:

Now, he could be lying, Kylo is known to lie, somewhat frequently. However often his lies are laid in some truth. Usually a lie to himself primarily, seemingly to comfort himself in some way.

So, why would he lie about this? Therefore, should we assume it's true?

Let's take it at face value and say it's true, it means:

He has spent how long with the First Order knowing the general Resistance tactics and never thought to share? Meaning that he hs never, ever cared about the goals of the First Order.

Did Snoke make him a commander in the hope that he would start using his knowledge on these tactics?

Did he perhaps try and got shot down by Hux who assumed he was stupid? Assuming everyone else is inept is a very Hux thing to do, even when the evidence is to the contrary.

However, mostly, it's just further proof he doesn't give a fuck about the First Order. He doesn't care about the Resistance either as he could just go tell them what the FO is up to, but he doesn't.

I wonder what he really thinks of the FO. Does he think they are stuck in the past too? Stuck trying to bring about a legacy that died with the Empire? He has never shown to actually personally care about their goals. I believe he only wanted to be Supreme Leader as he wants the respect the title brings without having to work for it.

I am also curious to how much Leia realised about this. She raised him. She taught him about the resistance, about rebellion. That was what she knew, it was a big part of her life, and is even more now. Did she realise he could have really made it incredibly difficult if impossible for the resistance and just chose not to? She must have, surely.

No fucking wonder he did nothing about Starkiller being destroyed. He never gave one single fuck about Starkiller. Why would he. He never failed because he didn't care about it in the first place. He's existing on some other plane, so tied up in the Force and in his own heritage that he really thinks himself above others.

[gingergofastboatsmojito]

Sydcarmy´s blood deal

So, using the same knife without even washing it first was either a HUGE Health code violation, which Coco Storer wouldn´t have let slide, or a symbolic blood deal which was shown ON PURPOSE.

IMO the deal was to recognize the shortcomings each had to work on to get to a better place in their relationship.

Carmy needed to work on his communication congruence, meaning putting his money where his mouth was, actually following through and delivering on what he said, instead of saying one thing and doing another, consistently and fucking everyone up in the process because he´s UNRELIABLE, he means well, but does it wrong, so you can´t rely on him, ever. He means what he says, sure, but he doesn´t deliver consistently, so at the end of the day, you just can´t trust him. He´s acting like a child. Not mean, just immature, who can´t be trusted because of that lack of consistency and congruence that adult and effective communication, not to mention running a business or being part of a team in any project or endeavor, require.

Syd, on the other hand, needed to work on her honesty and accessibility, open up, be vulnerable with him like she was for a moment in S1 in the back alley and in S2 under the table.

Syd doesn´t lack honesty because she lies, but because for her communication to be effective, she needs to open up more and let him in, when Carmy wants to connect with her and brings up more personal stuff that exceed their strictly professional relationship in a bonding attempt that is meant to improve their rapport both in and outside the restaurant. He was, as usual, checking on her and being open with her, in one of the few moments throughout the season where we got a more human glimpse of who he is underneath all that rough and robotic exterior that simboliizes his inner and almost constant struggle between the man and the beast that he can be simultaneously or alternatively. His humanity is brought up by her, maybe not as often in S3, but surely, and his animal-like behavior was brought up by his quest to deliver on the only words he was ever truly congruent with, last season:

So till last season, they were still stuck in the same conflict they had been dragging since S1: She doesn´t feel heard by him, he doesn´t feel she will ever really accept him (aka: be good enough for her) unless he proves himself to her, that´s why he´s obsessed with giving her that star and self-boycots, because he´s at the same time afraid of failing at it, and thus, let her down AGAIN and lose his only chance to win her over, because without giving her a restaurant, a partnership, financial stability, a role as CDC, and a Michelin star, he can´t even begin to fathom he will be worthy of her ever seeing him as something other than a Chef, the most excellent CDC at the most excellent restaurant in the United States of America, a title he dreads because it brings him bad memories. He wants to be seen by her like a man and a potential prospect for a more "personal" connection, that´s why he´s always trying to bond with her and get her to open up every chance he gets, which aren´t many, and she keeps, most of the times, not letting him in.

The common denominators here are the 3 Cs:

COMMUNICATION

CONGRUENCE

CONSISTENCY

In that order, and they BOTH have to work on all 3.

So, when they shared that bloody knife, they sealed the deal of acknowledging that the other was right about demanding what they did because they both UNDERSTOOD each other. He understood she was right in pointing out his communication was fucked and was fucking everyone else up.

She understood he was checking on her and trying to connect on a different level, other than just professional. She showed him she understood that by asking him about how it was going with the whole "quit smoking thing" and trying to "get a taste of him",

showing she cared. Syd was trying to follow his lead in that "bonding" exercise, even when she didn´t like it at all.

She did it for him, to prove to him that for that moment at least, they were on the same page.

And when they try and put in the MUTUAL effort at the same time, they do re-connect briefly. They take turns at work and THEY WORK.

Just like they did for a short period of time here:

That alternation and clear and consistent communication is what works for them, even if it means talking about things that are not working, and it gets uncomfortable at times. When they talk it out like this, things work, and when they stop doing it, it ends up badly for both of them.

This symbolic deal they made and sealed with blood is the key to all that they will achieve in S4, all the conflicts that they keep dragging along, unsolved issues that so far have been holding them back in every aspect of their relationship, and therefore they will keep their words, they will apply the 3 Cs and get rid of the 4th one.

I wholeheartedly believe Carmy is telling Syd all of this; it´s his plea to get her to stay at the restaurant. He will speak the truth, as always, and THIS TIME AROUND HE WILL DELIVER AND FOLLOW THROUGH and SHE WILL FINALLY REALLY OPEN UP TO HIM (AND HIS FAMILY)

and as a result they will "bond" outside the restaurant as well and she will start seeing him as more than a chef and co-worker, she will start seeing and appreciating the man that Carmen Berzatto really is.

And all that can only lead to a SYDCARMY ENDGAME. PERIOD.

TONIGHT IS THE NIGHT, CHEFS! TONIGHT WE START WINNING! (but we´ll really wrap the victory up next season though because there´s probably gonna be a S5). HAPPY BEAR DAY, CHEFS!

Remember to follow my tag #Gingerpovs 💋 & #Gingerpredictions