#is that i know most everyone is fated for a bad end

[violentlilies]

Hot take - none of the dead primarchs should come back.

Doing so would ruin their story and the meaning of their lives and deaths

I know we all love them and want them alive forever but their characters had a full, round arc and a place in the story which is now over and beautifully finished. They are tragedies with super sad endings but that’s the beauty of these characters.

The death of Konrad was essential and meaningful to his whole tragedy character arc. If you bring him back to life you undo everything his death symbolizes and means. Also, what do you do with him at this point in the story? His story is finished, well thought out, etc etc - his time in the story is finished.

The reason Guilliman out of all primarchs was brought back is because he had very little character development or challenges in 30k. He’s the most privileged primarch who lived life with a silver spoon, and now, he faces hardship for the first time in his life, and goes thru character development. He’s an otherwise fairly neural character who can just vibe in the background.

Sanguinius’s death was deeply symbolic. It symbolized the cost of the Heresy, Horus’s fall and corruption, Sanguinius’s relationship with fate and his vision of death, etc. Bringing him back to life makes these moments pointless and weightless. The reason his story is so impactful, the reason the story of the Heresy hits as hard as it does is because there is real cost and consequences.

That’s one of the things that makes Warhammer / The Horus Heresy such a good story (wether you realize this or not), is that it’s not a fairytale format. Actions have consequences, people die, there is no magic rescue or magic saving of anyone. There is weight to everything.

Bringing Ferrus back to life would undo and make meaningless everything about Fulgrim’s arc. His death is what sent Fulgrim down his dark spiral and still keeps him there. The finality of murder, that what he’s done can’t be undone, his belief in being irredeemable. Bringing Ferrus back would make all this shallow and meaningless.

See I was a huge Supernatural fan when it aired and I can tell you ALL about the trap of constantly bringing back beloved characters for the sake of fan service: by the end nothing meant anything anymore. No death, no sacrifice, no danger meant anything anymore nor had any weight because we all knew that they will come back anyway. All the emotional moment surrounding past deaths, sacrifice, mourning, tragedy, etc were rendered meaningless because they came back. If that wasn’t bad enough, these resurrected characters had no place in the story anymore. The whole show become “unrealistic” (in terms of storytelling) fanfiction where characters did things and everyone was always around, there were little to no challenges, If there were any there was no risk on the line, everyone always came back - what even was the point in watching that? It was like watching reality tv with fictional characters. I simply didn’t care anymore. All these beloved characters I loved for years become meaningless and empty because despite their arcs having ended, arcs which had lessons, meanings, etc., they were still around, with no purpose, no arc, no character development that wasn’t just “became a good guy” or “became a bad guy” - they were just standing around.

I also don’t want to see a therapy process for all the characters where they get fixed and turned happy and healthy, and everyone resolves all the problems and they all hug under the Christmas tree. If I want that I read fanfiction. That’s what fics are for, and I’m not being snarky, I’m serious.

Please for the love of god, beware of the “fanficifying” of the source media. Fanfics are where ppl go to indulge certain fantasies or headcanons, wether they make sense in the bigger picture or not. Comfort, fix-its, au’s, etc. That’s why they were invented.

The source media is not meant to be fan service, it’s not meant to make you happy, it’s meant to tell a story with a message and a meaning, all the characters are written to convey something and their character arcs. What makes Warhammer so great as a story is its brutal cold realism. It’s what makes it so impactful and these characters so great. Turning the source material into a fix-it fanfiction would cheapen and ruin the story.

The reason these fix-it fantasies and scenarios are so popular and we want them so badly is because they aren’t in the canon. Do you guys get what I’m saying? The yearning for it makes them so great and beloved. If you were handed all of this in the story as fan service it would suddenly become cheap and boring.

Some characters like Curze are not meant to be fixed narratively. His story is a cautionary tale, a story of untreated mental illness, of a downward spiral, trauma, pessimism, etc - something that reflects reality in a LOT of people. Same for the stories of all the traitor primarchs.

I’m also against bringing Clonegrim back as Fulgrim. Him being collected by Trazyn is literally a message from the authors to the fans: Fulgrim belongs in our memories. There is no place in the story for him anymore. His arc is over, his story is over. Just like Trazyn collection, we remember him as his original uncorrupted self in our hearts and cherish him, but he isn’t a part of the story anymore. Placing a perfect uncorrupted version of Fulgrim in a collection of valuable historical artifacts is literally a metaphor by black library authors to the fans. It’s closure on Fulgrim as a character, a farewell and a lesson that you need to let things go.

Characters die and get corrupted and there is no going back. It sucks, it’s heartbreaking and we want it undone but doing so would ruin the story and deem this character hollow and meaningless. If everyone is back, happy and everything’s always great, what’s the story? That works for a 4000 word fic you read one and done for a feel-good moment but not as an addition to this huge story spanning 10.000 years.

If you get everything you want as fanservice spoon fed to you, that’s when you get Marvel movies and the last few seasons of Supernatural.

Remember how impactful Infinity War was? Then how hollow everything afterwards felt? That’s what I’m talking about.

The arcs of these primarchs ended. The arc of the primarchs in general.

I know GW will always be up for a cash grab and they have to keep the story going perpetually so they will be forced to bring back some of the lost primarchs like Russ, Vulkan, Dorn etc. but I hope to god they won’t touch the ones who are dead and who’s death meant something and their character arc is well rounded and finished.

Part of a good story and a good character is accepting when it’s over. A good story has to end. A good character has to die.

Every good storytelling has a beginning, an end and an arc, all carefully planned and written, all with a purpose of conveying a story, a lesson and meaning.

If a story or a character gets dragged out or resurrected past their natural end point, the story goes to shit.

It’s the reason reboots and sequels of popular movies made just for a cash grab when the original story has been finished feel hollow and unneeded.

Part of being a good fan is knowing when to let go. Mourn, yearn, write fics, what ifs, au’s - but know when a good story is over and let it be over.

If Warhammer turns into a “everyone is alive and they all get along or have petty conflicts for no reason leading up to no bigger goal”, it will be boring and worst of all, these powerful amazing character will be hollowed out

And before you start typing, no, there is no “good proper meaningful way” to bring them back. Their stories are OVER. Their character arc is FINISHED. Trying to tinker with it is unneeded.

LET. THEM. REST.

We don’t need a “somehow, Palpatine returned”.

I know you want to see your faves back in action but be careful what you wish for because it never ends well. I don’t know if a single example where it did.

This urge in you is a Slaaneshi temptation of it never being enough. You want more, more, more, you’re never satisfied when a story is over, until your insistence of dragging a story and characters on and on forever ruins everything and turns it to slop. I’m being serious, this is such a good example of the actual meaning of Slaanesh

Stop being Slaaneshi, be an actual enjoyer of literature which involves knowing when a story is over, clap and let the curtains close.

You have to know what a tragedy is and accept it as such. Tragedies don’t need happy endings or fixing. You have to know that tragic characters are a part of literature. Not everything needs to be smoothed over and fixed. Not everything needs to return to how it was before - it is ok, in fact desired, to show that actions have consequences, the world changes, characters change and the idea of “everything going back to the way it was before” is stupid because it’s not how the world works - and this is what makes a good, deep story.

Inability to accept such is a sign that you’re not media literate or mature enough to consume these stories. In that case, go consume Marvel movies, not Warhammer.

It’s a sad stupid consequence of the cash grab media environment when the audience sees a character die or disappear and the first thing they say is “how will they be back?”. You can’t even sit and mourn the finality of characters without leaving a door open in your head of “they may be brought back”. This is literally ruining your enjoyment of media and you don’t even realize it.

It’s actually ok for characters to have an open ending. It’s ok for you to not know everything. This is once again a consequence of the “movie theory video” environment where you need to know every detail of everything, otherwise you throw a tantrum (the whole “who is Snoke” crap).

It’s ok for primarchs to be lost. It would’ve been ok for the Lion to be asleep, trapped in ruins forever. It would’ve made for a perfect tragedy of the story of the primarchs. The primarchs being this chapter of Imperial history, an experiment that turned wrong, a civil war and it’s remnants. Like relics of a bygone age. Them being around but scattered or sleeping, their whereabouts unknown, the universe having swallowed them without a uniting force. It’s like conspiracy theories about aliens or mythological beings having been on earth millennia ago. It makes the universe even more grand and beautiful. Their open endings are unsatisfying but interesting. These lost primarchs could pop up here and there. But as said before, their times are over. The place for primarchs in the story of humanity is over.

Ps: this is NOT directed towards ppl who make au’s and fics where they resurrect, fix or bring back dead or lost primarchs. You keep doing that, that’s literally what the medium of fics is for.

This is directed to ppl who want GW to bring back and resurrect primarchs in the official story “because they want xy back”.

[appleyass123]

And then Sarada finally asks the question we've all been wondering, "Are you and mom's feelings truly connected?" and man, Sasuke just looks so tired, he even pauses before he says yes, he does not think their hearts are connected and when Sarada asks how he can be so sure he then says it's because they have her.

Yes, I am aware this meant to be a cute and sweet moment but the way Sasuke looks so tired just...GAH! Sasuke is basically saying the only reason he and Sakura are together is because of Sarada, she is the glue keeping them together and look at Sakura, she isn't so sure herself!

And the dinner scene doesn't look any better, Sasuke still looks hella miserable and even Sakura too, she is having this fake smile on her face just so Sarada doesn't get upset!

Then, finally the ending, Sasuke has to leave again and Sarada asks Sasuke if he will leave again and he doesn't answer and just hugs Sarada, he neither denies it and just says he doesn't like seeing Sarada sad

Even Sakura looks defeated, she can't do anything about this and can only just accept her fate!

And then he pokes her forehead

The symbol of lies and distance, he's doing just what Itachi is doing and Sakura can't do anything about this. and then Sakura hands Sasuke his bento and then leans then to have a kiss. This is most likely a call back from Sarada's question if she kissed Sasuke or not and instead of a poke she wants a kiss to prove to sarada that they are indeed in love but Sasuke probably realized it and blows her off!

And the fact that Sakura says "AGAIN?!" shows that this isn't the first time Sasuke has denied Sakura affection.

Yup, this is SasuSaku in Naruto Gaiden everyone...

I will never understand how most people think that Sasuke loves Sakura when this is how he treats her, and the fact it's their daughter who points out how "odd" their relationship is shows just how TERRIBLE it is! You know you need to improve your marriage if your own CHILD says that your marriage is bad!

And keep in mind that Sarada still doesn't believe that Sakura is her real mother because she never finds out that the umbilical cord was Sakura's and still probably thinks that Karin is her mother but no longer cares about it due to Naruto's statement about love being important and not blood!

Anyways, this took me FOREVER to complete and is probably the longest analysis I have done! But I had fun with it and I hope you are satisfied with this LONG analysis!

Part 1

[daveybun]

Bunny

I am sorry for Everything. I left u an essay on snapchat with another account. I dont know if u will ever will be able to read it or not. I wish explaining why i reacted like this was easy but its not. But i can tell u that I feared to lose my self respect. It felt hurting when u said that I talk too much and it has something to with people who disliked me, my ideas and views in the past. When I was a kid I enjoyed Communicating alot but over the years it Changed because people always tried to suppress my voice and ideas. As if everything I said didn’t matter at all. I started to overthink and keep quiet even when I had ideas, because i was fearing to face the same rejection. When u said it to me, u hit that wound of me. From the first day i thought u liked me and what I said. This is why i fell in love with u because u made me feel accepted. I dont know in what context u meant it or if u were trying to say it the same way the others did. I am not here to blame u at all. I decided to stay quiet because I felt like my voice didn’t matter. I felt confused because u wished I talked more. I didnt know how to react when u got upset and suggested a breakup. I thought u were personally attacking me, I thought yet again I am seen as the bad guy. And I thought u wanted that breakup. Atleast this is how it felt. I agree that I started assuming things, like calling ur actions manipulation. It was because I was scared, I wanted to defend myself. All my life i couldnt do it when others tried to bring me down - because i always ran on the cancerian emotions. I always tried to give to everyone and be nice and help. But I realized this is what other people like to use the most. (UR VULNERABILITY). I developed a balance between self respect and love towards others but I thought I would never be as vulnerable again in a relationship untill I met u. I felt comfortable around u and u helped me revive that piece of me. I got attached to u because I felt home. Within 1-2 months I believed that our relationship was fated. I even got alot of signs and I didn’t talk about all of them. But just like u, I also believed and still believe that we are soulmates. I know that not everything is perfect, I know that we have arguments. But also u must know that these impulsive choices of mine were never meant to be. Its just fear, fear from old relationships and friendships. Fear to be constantly judged again and seen as someone who doesn’t know what he is talking about. Its really hard for me to process these emotions. I have cried multiple times since yesterday because I love u alot. My heart and mind never wanted it to end like this. I tried to proove my worth for once in my life because I felt misjudged. I still remember our love song and I promised I would take u on a dance while listening to it. I still would. Its not the end for me, I always wanted and want to fight for u. Ur last words were that u were hoping I would find someone else I can be happy with but I dont want someone else. I only wanted u, it didnt matter to me what we went through. I believed that it was part of the journey. Old people have been through the same. Love isnt perfect from the start. Its build. We had really beautiful 6 months and we build a foundation. It just feels wrong to say farewell to each other when we loved each other every single say despite any challenge. At the end I want u to know that i feel guilt and pain for my quick and stupid reaction. But the pain I feel the most is not about losing u but imagining ur sad face and that I couldn’t fulfill ur dreams. The thing i enjoyed the most was making u happy and seeing u happy. I always liked helping and healing something inside of people. It never mattered to me with what kinds of things u struggle. I felt responsible for u and I always wished I could take care of u because I saw u like my sweet adorable angelic girlfriend

I hoped I could revive the kid in u because i enjoyed seeing u laugh and be urself.

I dont know if this is the end or not. But if we are meant to be then life will bring us back together. My feelings for u however wont just diminish. I always felt something deep for u that I myself couldn’t explain. This is why I started to believe in Magic.

I am sorry for everything

[silviakundera]

Empresses in the Palace ep 16

"And now she dares to take away my Persian Ink!" Hard agree, my darling Hua Fei. Screwing your man is one thing, but fucking with your brows is another!! ✊

but babe, why u want to live with a baby??

Lmao look I know its A BABY but it's a fictional one and I'm amused that her palace is so crap at taking care of it. My career girl is just NOT the maternal type. Drugs the kid with crushed sleeping pills; "It works just fine on me." lmaoooooo

ffffuvk she's looking ragged in front of the emperor GURL let that baby go. Neither of you are having a good time.

Zhen Huan, I know the emperor is your dad's age but this fickle dude that might kill you or your besties someday is not the DILF protector you need, in metaphorical OR literal thunderstorms.

Empress savoring the new girl being humiliated by the new new girl 💅

While Zhen Huan plans for the long game by serving up Ling Rong. She's in it to win it now. Definitely feeling disconcerted about matchmaking her friend with her husband but willing to do it so they have a stronger backing in the palace. The first sign for me tbh that she could be empress material. And tbh for once the Empress isn't laying it on thick. LR truly has a celestial voice. Consort Yu supposedly was admired for her pipes but she has nothing on LR. The way she looks back. Yaaaasss always leave them wanting more.

That half-sister is gonna become a real problem.

me trying to picture how u draw eyebrows "like distant mountains"

ep 17

Prince Guo is not hot but not grandpa. He's also not the source of humiliation & suffering for a busload of ladies. I'm sold! yeah, I ship it. Please bang in despair at your wasted lives at least once, thx.

Hua Fei taking a big swing to frame up Zhen Huan by poisoning the favored baby. But it's not actually that risky, because her brother is impeccable armor.

Duan Fei is the real MVP. Everyone knows she's lying but the emperor clearly respects her and isn't willing to embarass her. No more than he's willing to severely punish my gf Hua.

Hope Duan gets her revenge.

Ep 18

So the emperor totally knows Hua Fei posioned the kid that he actually likes, but General Nian's skills trump all.

I'm honestly not sure if Zhen Huan should be trying to push the emperor to not reward Hua Fei. He's gonna do what he thinks he needs to.

Half-sister Huanbi is getting on my NERVES. And finally ZH's, thank god.

Prince Guo is so chill. He just strolled by like, hey crying servant, what's up? oh, somebody dissed your look? you're doing amazing sweetie, don't worry be happy. (Exit stage left.)

I think I love him.

Our protagonist with a BIG WIN. (crowd sounds) 👏 👏 proved half-sister is a traitor and her nemesis finally annoyed the emperor enough that she'll miss a promotion.

Girl, u know I love u. You're the only one for me. But Hua Fei, darling, you really need to properly space out your scheming. It's too much. The man needs some time, space, and calm to properly ponder how much he loves & appreciates your brother.

Ep 19

This episode should be subtitled "The Tale of Two Loves' or '2 Ships For The Price of One'.

First she risks it all to sneak in to hold hands longingly and shed tender tears with her Mei Zihuang. Then romantic coincidental rescue by Prince Guo and a late night boat ride with poetry & literature musings.

And I'm winning because I ship both of them.

Not sure how I feel about Half-Sister Intervention. Huanbi's situation is fucked and in a different drama she'd be the revenge-seeking protagonist. But she's also dumb as hell to want to join the harem and give up the chance to escape to a normal life. She's seen what a hell this place is. Ultimately, she has reason to resent ZH and their family. And she has a dangerous secret. What if she flips again? Just get rid of her ASAP. It's life & death struggles over here, no space for second chances.

[miercolaes]

normalize your villains. writing wise. i think everyone knows villain behavior irl would get you a ticket straight to the highest security prison out there. but this is about building a fictional world. for context, i've recently been on a rewatch for the show once upon a time and this time, i've tried to stay impartial to the characters storylines. the villains seems irredemable in the first season and frankly, i'm disappointed that this changes. hear me out !!!!!

my version of wednesday addams is for the most part chaotic neutral. wherever the current sails, she'll follow. sure, wednesday has the potential to grow and have (somewhat) healthy relationships in her life, but at the end of the day, she's not a hero. she's not even the anti-hero. sometimes it plays out like that and she might look the part, but she's not good goddammit.

for the crimes that she've committed? guilty as charged. for all the people she had hurt? guilty as charged. for all the misery she'll cause others? you guessed it, guilty as fucking charged. i'm not going to water her down.

in my mind, the addamses were always the outliers, but with the bestest of intentions. morticia and gomez welcomed vile strangers into their homes and tried their very best to make them feel comfortable in their home. they have a skewed perception for the world, something that's unusual, morbid, downright grotesque. edgar allan poe, which netflix glorified and here i am doing a shoutout to train my beloved, would tremble had he known of the addamses. morticia and gomez are kind, in their way. but you know who never really was?

their kids. in the comics (both by the og author and some others icr the author, but more closer to our time), pugsley was the devil incarnate. he showed no remorse, he was clearly thrilled by the suffering he caused others. but i suppose the directors changed the storyline and made wednesday the brand new puglsey in the 90s movies. she showed no emotion, she was a okay with murdering her own, even if she knew as luck as it, their younger brother pubert would live. this time around, wednesday was the devil incarnate.

and i agree with the canon, she can be incredibly intelligent and even more ruthless than she is intelligent. but one thing i've noticed is that, she notices her parents being taken for granted. she is aware that others will use morticia and gomez's kindness against them. sure, they can take it, that's their thing after all. but wednesday noticed everything since she was a kid and she remembers.

and guess what?

just because someone went through hell and back (even if said hell is not the worst that could happen), that doesn't mean someone will come out kind and good. wednesday will forever doubt anyone in her life and she will push them away, just as she'll try to give them the world. but no matter the good she does, at the end of the day, she is the villain. it's not the addams family, it's just the kids and i say that because pugsley and pubert have the same rights as wednesday does.

at the end of the day, being evil after witnessing evil is okay. fiction wise, i feel like reminding. some characters are irredemable. just because they do good things sometimes that doesn't make them good. just like doing bad things sometimes doesn't make them bad. but here's the catch with the addamses. they always, always own up who they are. wednesday no exception to the rule.

wednesday, the villain, can do good things. she can save your muse, she can enjoy your muse's company, she can love your muse. but all of this, all the good things do come from a villain. did she deserve the awful treatment she and her family got in canon? of course not, that we can all agree on. but it doesn't matter what happened, what matters is what choices they make afterward. wednesday will always choose herself. wednesday doesn't pick good, she willingly chooses evil.

sure, a villain is capable of love. a villain is capable of both good and bad. but look at how it always ends. wednesday is a villain and she will suffer, your muse too if you dare to come too close. it's not fair, i know. but this is just my theory, vero's theory. and, you may expect it by now,

please, normalize your villains.

[nikovraskol]

crack baby ; three

wc ; 3745 masterlist after dying, you expected to be greeted with the open arms of the void swallowing your body, mind and soul. what you didn't anticipate is waking up sixteen once more with a chance to change your fate -- but something strange is happening, why are the locks changing and why are all eyes suddenly on you ?

tw ; brief mention of death, cursing, neglect

prologue, one, two, three, four, tbc..

Sometimes it feels like there is someone puppeteering you into the worst scenarios possible.

It started when finally, after days of contacting every single landlord in Gotham and Bludhaven, one kind old man reached back. The house he was willing to rent you wasn’t half bad either, certainly no Wayne Manor but a small apartment about a convenience store would suffice.

After regressing, you were stuck in a loop of tears and anger and whatever strange, uncomfortable feeling you got whenever you were reminded of your weird interaction with Dick.

But finally, light at the end of the rainbow! You could cry (of joy this time), but you’ve no time for tears. Not when you’re faced with a big, overpowering problem. Leaving the Manor.

Now, in the past, you could just get up and leave, however after your run-in with Damian and Dick, you’re apprehensive to leave your room. What if you’re ambushed again? By Tim? Or Jason? Or heaven forbid, Dick again? Terrifying! You don’t have time to dilly dally, not when Mr. Kim is waiting in your future home.

So, you’re very on edge, looking around every corner with apprehension, bracing yourself for anything and everything. When you finally reach the door, unharmed, you let out a deep sigh, only to hear a voice behind you.

“Master (Name).”

What now? You whip your head around, a sense of deja vu hitting you, oh, it’s just Alfred. You let out a sigh, glad it’s not Dick with his strange shenanigans. “Alfred, is everything alright?” You smile, out of everyone, Alfred is the one you love most, the one who cradled you close in those agonizingly lonely nights, when you’d call out for your mother, for your father, for anyone.

He was there.

“You’re heading out?” He asks, assessing you with an uneasy feeling in his stomach. A few days ago, Dick had informed him that you were acting strange, you had run away from your older brother. His mind raced, the implications of what that might mean has been weighing on the butler’s mind for days. It was uncharacteristic of you, up until about a week ago you would jump for joy if any of your family would glance at you.

But after that day, that day where you had skipped breakfast .. What changed? Why are you suddenly so uninterested in your family? It’s unnatural. Your whole life had always been dedicated to them, you’d do anything to be apart of them, to be seen. So why? When you finally had the chance to be centre stage, were you walking away? Something about your demeanour was off and he didn’t like it.

“Yes, I’ve–” You pause, should you tell Alfred? I’m going to move out and never speak to anyone from this house again! No, you’ll wait until you’ve secured a place before letting him know. You’re not prepared for that conversation. “I’m going to– for a walk.” The lie is stale on your tongue, you’ve never lied to Alfred, not besides petty ones to get out of trouble. But this feels different, a heavy knot tying in your shoulders as you watch the butler’s confused expression.

“Is that so? Because a few days ago, Master Dick–” You were out the door before he could finish his damn sentence. You are not in the mood to discuss Dick right now! It’s going to ruin your chipper mood.

The click of the door had Alfred’s eyes narrowing, his eyes trained on where you once stood. He believed that the small push he gave Bruce would be enough, but it’s just driving you further away. How troublesome, he doesn’t want for you to end up hurt.

“Wow! This is a really great place? And I get the first month free?” You are convinced whatever deity sent you back in time is responsible for the saint before you. The small, chubby old man who speaks to you in such a paternal voice it makes you want to cry.

“Of course, it’s no problem, I just need to speak to your guardian to agree on your emancipation, plus they’ll need to sign some consent forms.”

“What?” You blink dumbly, your heart momentarily stopping before the damn organ speeds up so quickly it could power a small village, you try to convey your thoughts but all you can manage is a few dumb noises. “Are– Are you sure?”

“Apologies, since you’re only sixteen – you must have a guardian’s consent, this is a legal rental after all,” he smiles apologetically, before adding, “if you want to live somewhere without your parent’s consent, it’ll have to be illegally – which can be dangerous, ‘specially for a youngling such as yourself.”

Oh, right. You’re sixteen. The fact slipped your mind once more, you’re so foolish. So damn foolish, nothing will ever be so easy, nothing in your life will ever be handed to you like this. “Right, I’ll– let you know.” You smile, your eyes scanning over the small apartment once more. It reminds you of the place you stayed with your mother, the small space encapsulating those memories you hold dear so perfectly that if you light a few ciggerattes and close your eyes, you'll go back in time.

“I’ll keep this off-sale for you, please let me know as soon as possible.” Mr. Kim, so nicely adds, his small face – wrinkled with age, softening at your disheartened expression. You so desperately want to beg for him to rethink, to make an exception, but you don't want to get him in trouble, not since he’s been so kind.

And so, with a heavy heart, you walk out, walking with effort since your feet don’t want to leave. Don’t want to leave a future that could be, that should’ve been. Ugh, how disgustingly sentimental.

You don’t feel like returning to the Manor, not yet. The air outside is nice, it’s nice to breathe in a taste of something other than the suffocating walls around you, even if it’s just some dingy back alley. It’s nice to see what could’ve been, that is until a large hand clamps down on your shoulder.

Oh, great. So the one time you leave the Manor you die again. Maybe you’ll regress to when you’re eleven next, you muse.

“What the hell are you doing around here?” You recognise that voice and immediately you don’t want to turn around. What is he doing out? During the day? You thought vigilantes only patrol during the lunar hours, so why? Your heart squeezes in your throat, desperate to claw its way out, to escape your pitiful body.

After a tense moment of silence, you turn around, there he stands. Red Hood, your older brother. Well, older brother is a stretch, you’ve never really interacted with him – much like the rest of your family. You were brought in when he was still Robin, but he died shortly after. A small, vengeful part of you blamed him for your neglect. That was until Bruce brought in Tim, and you watched bitterly how Tim was embraced immediately, he didn’t have to fight for any attention, he was accepted by everyone and you were forced to swallow the thought that it wasn't Jason's fault -- but your own.

When Jason was somehow brought back, you selfishly hoped you would be able to bond with him, that he’d be the one to look back at you, to get to your level and hold you close.

No such thing happened, the only time you saw him was when he was walking through the Manor to the Batcave, and even then, he gave you a bone-chilling glare. You didn’t think of him so optimistically after that. Now, with his hand clutching your shoulder, his expression covered by his menacing red helmet..

You’re ready to be shot 5 times again.

“I asked you a question.” He says, his hand tightening on your shoulder, you snap out of your stupor immediately, your fear morphing into frustration. You shove his hand off of you with more effort than you’re comfortable with, and even then you’re sure he’s the one who dropped his hand to not embarrass you any further.

“I’m allowed to go outside.” You huff, your nerves practically fighting against the restraints of your skin, a cold, overbearing feeling rushing over you. This was..– Everything was wrong, this is not how this is supposed to go, not at all.

“You were talking to Mr. Kim, why?” He asks bluntly, your heart stops beating for a moment, the only thing you can hear is the ringing in your ears, your brain trying to block this all out, trying to block out everything. “Actually, nevermind, I think I know why.”

You want to cry, why was this happening? You were so happy, so content. Why do you bump into them every time you leave your room, can’t you have one good day? Will you need to become a hermit? Will that get them off your back?

“I can drive you back to the Manor–”

“No, I’m fine.” You cut him off, your voice not masking any of your fear, it has Jason blinking under his mask. Why were you so on edge? What’s going on with you?

“I insist– Gotham isn’t safe for you to just be–..” He watches the downright terrified expression on your face before sighing and signalling for you to go, his stomach churns in an unfamiliar way as you scurry away.

Why were you so nervous? Could it be that you're scared of him?

That’s understandable, you’re not a vigilante, you’re just some average kid. But when he saw you walking alone, he detests himself for the way his heart swelled with happiness. In his Robin days, he loved watching the normalcy of your life, the way you would live free of any strings to the ghastly occupation he had.

He was scared to get closer, scared to shatter that illusion you had.

The fear amplified when he came back to life, he was relieved to see that you were still unaffiliated with Batman, but fuck, he was too cowardly to reach out, that day when you looked at him with gladness, he was hit with a paralysing fear of you getting too close, of you getting hurt. He replays the crushed expression that dawned your face like a damn broken stereo.

So when he saw you sulking about a few moments ago, he saw his chance to reach out, to get a taste of your normalcy, he took it, however selfish it may be.

“Whatever.” He grits, climbing up the roof to tail you, he’s content with watching from afar, for now.

The whole way back to the Manor felt like a fever dream, you can’t brush these oddities off as coincidences, why the hell did Red Hood approach you. Was he trying to pull a Damian? Was that a simple reminder of how pathetic you are? Why did he do that?!

Why was everyone acting so strangely?

The Manor offered you no comfort, it’s looming walls did nothing but remind you of your own shortcomings, you were afraid, you were perplexed but above all you were furious. Why now? When you’ve finally accepted your position in this family, why are they all turning their heads. Well damn them! You’re sick of this whole stupid charade, you won’t be that small child anymore, a child who knew only loneliness. You’re going to become your own person outside of the surname which has held you back for so long.

“We need to talk.” A voice calls out as you reach your room, what now? You’re sick of these damn conversations. You just want to move out, why is it so damn hard?

Oh, it’s Bruce again. Your lips press into a thin line as he stands before you, you can hear the soft humming running through the Manor walls. When you were younger, that sound brought you so much comfort, yet now it’s different. Like a warning.

“Talk? About what?” You try to smile, but it comes out as more of a grimace. You’re distinctly aware of the way his brows furrow at your pitiful expression. Oh hell, you hope this won’t be another walk down the Manor where you awkwardly fumble in silence.

You don’t say anything as he leads you away from your room, a sullen quilt draped over the Manor, a strange foreboding sense that something’s going to happen. Something bad. You’re utterly perplexed as your father guides you to a part of the Manor you’re somewhat familiar with.

As a child, you used to lurk around the corners of these very walls, watching your family, itching to reach out and join in but fearing ruining the delicate painting they created. Fearing rejection, the cold glares and sneers as they pushed you away. So you trailed silently, waiting, hoping that someone would look back, smile at you and maybe hold out their hand. But it only ever happened in your dreams, a pale illusion of a reality that should've been true.

“Where did you go?” He asks, his eyes boring onto you with such intensity you can distinctly feel the way your blood begins furiously to pump through your veins, why did he care? “Alfred said you went out.”

“I just wanted some fresh air.” You’re not sure why you’re lying, it’d be easier to tell Bruce that you went to go see a house, the consent forms are folded in your pocket, waiting for his signature. It’d be so simple, so easy. Just a dip of pen on paper and you’ll be out.

So why do you feel such dread? A dread unlike anything you’ve ever felt. When you were in that alley, bleeding out helplessly, even then this oppressive feeling, which tightens your ribcage, forcing your organs into a tight space until you couldn’t breathe, until you couldn’t comprehend if it was your heart pounding so heavily or your lungs, wasn't as scary.

“You’re only sixteen, you need to let someone know where you’re going.” His voice is so unbelievably despotic that it made your very core tremble with anxiety, with a looming sense of doom.

“It’s never been a problem before.” You mumble, your voice a lot quieter than you would’ve liked, your vocal chords burning with each word passing through it, your nerves invading each of your senses, as if warning you to stay quiet.

Bruce says nothing, and the moment the air grows stale you wish you could take your words back. You can see the way his brows crease, the way he looks at you as though you’re some sort of criminal and not his own flesh and blood, the soft humming in the walls has disappeared, left behind in your area of the Manor. Though it’s odd, when you would lurk around the Manor as a youthling, there was always some sort of background noise in this area, where everyone hung out. The silence unnerved you, another thing that’s changed, another thing you couldn’t have predicted.

“If you’re going out, make sure to let me know.” He sighs, his expression softening as he looks down at you with what you interpret as belittlement, a burning hot rage boils in your stomach, and once more, you’re hit with the knowledge this isn’t how things are supposed to go, Bruce isn’t supposed to care that you go out without telling anyone, he’s not supposed to care about you.

‘You don’t get to tell me what to do!’ you want to say, you want to scream, to ask what rights he has to treat you like a child? How dare he? It makes your very being tremble with frustration, your hands clenching with barely contained anger.

But you don’t. Why? Is it the natural response from your mind? The fear of disappointing him? The fear that if you speak up, you’ll be kicked out and left to rot? Or perhaps it’s the fear of confrontation you gained through his negligence, the weakness he moulded. But still, you’re not sixteen anymore, not really. Mentally, you’re twenty-one, you’ve been through each stage of your life, and maybe, sure, the day you died, you were content for them to walk all over you in exchange for a single glance at your direction.

But you’ve died and come back (in time)! You shouldn’t let them walk all over you anymore, shouldn’t be content as an afterthought. So– you open your mouth and–

“What’s going on?” Another voice speaks out, great, because this is exactly what you needed, another clown to join the circus. Oh.

Is this a joke? Is the person responsible for your misfortune giggling at your despair, is it amusing to see you suffer?

Damian, Dick, Jason and now Tim.

Why is Tim walking up to you? Why is he looking at you? A rush of dread, a sensation you’ve grown familiar with in the past few days, washes over you. You’ve never had his eyes on you, never for so long. It’s unnerving. You thought the calculating look in Bruce and Damian’s eyes was scary, but the way Tim looks at you now? His eyes zeroed in on you? It has your insides melting into liquid, the urge to cover your face, to hide in the corner and bury your face in your knees is overwhelming.

You don’t want his eyes on you, you decide. Years of clawing at your own shortcomings, of desperately trying to appeal to him, to have him look back – you would do anything at that time for him to look at you the way he is now.

But now? You don’t like it, he wears a neutral expression, but the look in his eyes makes you feel vulnerable, like he’s picking you apart one by one, each twitch, each mannerism.

“It’s about what we talked about.” Bruce says, his tone completely natural, like he’s discussing the weather, you don’t know the specifics but you have a nagging feeling that you know what he’s speaking of.

“Ah. Really? You’re still on that?” Tim tuts, his head tilting ever so slightly as he studies you. Just as you’re about to ask what the fuck does he mean by that, he turns his attention to Bruce. “I told you, they can’t do anything without your consent, they’re 16.”

How dare they? How dare they talk as though you’re not here? This is disgusting, what loathsome, egotistical dickheads! Your hands itch, the anxiety in you speeding all over your body like a livewire, mixing with your anger to create an overwhelming feeling of terror.

What was the point of Bruce bringing you here? To mock you? Show you how great they have it? What you’ve been missing out on? Well, screw him. You need to get away before you lash out, you’re better than that. Better than this.

The pair watches as you walk away, your whole body tense. For a moment, there’s a prolonged silence which is broken by Tim. “Did we do something wrong?” He asks, genuinely confused by your little display.

When he came back from a particularly tough mission, the last thing he was expecting was everybody collectively freaking out. Bruce, Damian, even Dick were all tense, looking around each corner – searching for something, someone. 

It was weird for a multitude of reasons, firstly – Dick was supposed to be gone by now, his stay at the Manor was for a few days only. Why is he here? And secondly, nothing particularly stressful was happening in Gotham, so what was with the gloom and doom?

When Bruce sighed, telling him about your plans to move out, well, to say Tim was confused was an understatement. That did not deserve such a reaction, but then he really thought about it, and, if this is how they react to you threatening to leave..

If you were to actually step out that door, to alienate away from them, to discard your last name. His head begins to throb at the implications, he’s acutely aware of how selfish it is for him to wish to keep you around, to keep you in this Manor all to keep himself happy.

But then the thought that, really, he’s doing this for you! If you thought it was so easy to just get up and leave, that at sixteen you’d just be able to pack up and go. Well, with that stupidity, you wouldn’t survive outside, in Gotham no less. He was able to placate Bruce’s stressing, thankfully, because the man looked three minutes away from a heart attack.

You wouldn’t be able to go without Bruce’s permission, so long as they had that – you’d stay with them. But that’s what led him to seeking you out now, if you had ideas about leaving that meant you were unhappy.

He was hoping to talk to you, to ask if you wanted to hang out – that’s what you want, right? When he thinks of you, his mind conjures up the slightly annoying, slightly endearing child that you were. He’ll hang out with you, destroy those silly notions and everything will go back to how it was.

So why did you stomp off? That’s not how you’re supposed to act. That’s not how you are.

“I don’t think so.” Bruce replies to his earlier question, his eyes still trained on the spot in which you were. How could you walk off?

Why were you so off during that conversation? He couldn’t…– This belies everything Alfred had told him about you, it's left Bruce conflicted. He had hoped that by bringing you here, he could ask which room you liked best. But you walked off, why? Why do you deny his affection? He was worried when he heard you left, a small, vulnerable part of him was afraid that you wouldn’t come back, that you had left for good, slipped through his fingers before he could hold you close.

So, when he saw you walk in – oh, he was elated. He just wanted to convey his worries, but you seemed to have gotten the wrong idea. He really doesn’t want that, you don't need anymore reasons to leave.

He doesn’t want the terrified expression on your face, he wants that dazzled look you used to carry around, he wants you – not this restless part of you, but the real you.

He'll get it back, he's sure he will.

ugh i hate the misunderstanding trope i say as i write the misunderstanding trope

tag list ;

@estreiiuh @beyondblissxoxo @jjsmeowthie @vanessa-boo @delias-stuff @d3nnji @wizzerreblogs s @lilyalone @strawbrysapphic @regulus-things s @iimichie @buckturd @eloriis @wassupbroski55555 @eyeless-kun @anakilusmos @peehall @bigeyedbaby @chaeugwi @snailpebbles @fandomly-obsessed @kitkatkitmeow @the-holy-pigeon @sheep-from-rad @mei-simp

[pinkmoontaco]

Spotlight on Us || Lee Jihoon

Pairing: Idol Jihoon x Idol Reader Genre: Fluff, Idol romance Summary: Jihoon and Y/N are forced to sit together at an award show, causing endless cheers, teasing, and viral moments. From sneaky glances to Woozi protectively covering Y/N with his blazer, the night is full of heart-fluttering chaos. When Jihoon tears up during his speech and sees Y/N crying too, it becomes clear—no matter how much they pretend, everyone knows. Feel free to make requests || M.list

Jihoon knew this would happen. He saw it coming from a mile away.

Yet, here he was, forced to sit beside you at an award show, and the crowd was absolutely losing it.

Seungcheol had nearly fallen over laughing when Jihoon realized where he had to sit. Jeonghan had patted his shoulder like a proud parent.

And now? Now, he was trapped.

The moment the camera panned over to your table, the cheers hit like a tidal wave. The entire venue shook with the sound of fans screaming their lungs out, and Jihoon could already see the headlines forming in real-time.

"Woozi and Y/N: Power Couple of the Century?"

"Woozi's Reaction to Sitting Next to Y/N is Priceless!"

"Destiny? Fate? Coincidence? We Think Not!"

He sighed, rubbing his temple as Seungcheol cackled beside him. "Hyung, it's like a concert in here," Dino whispered, wide-eyed.

Jihoon glanced at you, only to find you smirking. "Did you plan this?" he accused.

You feigned innocence, sipping your drink. "Me? I would never."

Liar.

The second the camera landed on your table, the screaming was deafening. The venue, which had been relatively calm just moments ago, erupted.

Jihoon fought every urge to groan as he kept his expression neutral, while you—completely unbothered—smiled and gave a polite wave. You were enjoying this way too much.

"Look at you," you teased, voice barely audible over the noise. "Are you blushing?"

Jihoon scoffed. "It's hot in here."

"Uh-huh, sure," you mused, nudging his knee under the table.

And then, as if things weren’t bad enough, the host on stage decided to make things worse.

"So, I think we have to talk about one of the most beloved pairings in the industry right now," the MC said, grinning. "Our audience is going crazy for these two—Woozi and Y/N, everyone!"

The camera panned right back to you both, a split screen of your reactions broadcasting to millions.

Jihoon shut his eyes. "Kill me."

Meanwhile, you? You blew a kiss to the camera.

The screams reached another level.

The members of Seventeen lost it. Seungcheol clapped like a seal. DK was howling. Jeonghan actually got out of his seat to dramatically bow in your direction, like you had just won an Oscar.

"You're enjoying this," Jihoon muttered, side-eyeing you.

"Oh, absolutely," you replied, resting your chin on your hand as if you lived for this moment.

His phone vibrated. Another message from Jeonghan.

[Jeonghan]: Just kiss on camera. I dare you.

Jihoon choked on air. You glanced at his phone and laughed. "What's he saying?"

"Nothing," he snapped, locking it immediately.

And then, it got even worse.

A special segment played—a montage of all the best collaborations of the year. And right there, in full HD, was a clip of you and Jihoon from a previous music show, standing way too close, exchanging small smiles.

It ended with a close-up of Jihoon watching you perform, eyes soft in a way that was damning.

The camera cut back to you both just in time to catch Jihoon covering his face with both hands.

Absolute pandemonium.

Even you were giggling now. "Wow, you really don’t help your case."

"I hate this," Jihoon grumbled into his hands.

You leaned in slightly. "Hate it enough to run away?"

Jihoon peeked at you through his fingers.

You smiled. The same smile that made his heart stutter every single time. The same smile that made him—despite all his complaining—stay exactly where he was.

Every time the camera even slightly panned in your direction, the audience roared in approval. At one point, the big screen accidentally caught Jihoon sneaking glances at you when you weren’t looking, and the fans lost it.

He knew the fancams would be everywhere by the time he got back to the dorms.

And then—disaster struck.

During a short intermission, you shifted slightly in your seat, adjusting your dress, when you realized—it was shorter than you thought.

The realization hit at the worst possible moment because, just as you moved, the camera cut back to your table.

You froze.

Jihoon noticed immediately. His sharp eyes flickered to you, then to the screen, and without thinking, he reached for something—his blazer.

With swift, natural movements, he leaned in and draped it over your lap, completely casual, like he had done it a million times before.

The camera caught everything.

A split screen showed Jihoon placing his blazer over you while you whispered a flustered, “Jihoon, what are you doing?”

"Just wear it," he muttered, pretending to focus on the stage.

Fans erupted.

Jeonghan burst into laughter, clapping his hands as if Woozi had just confessed on national television. Seungkwan gasped so dramatically that DK had to hold him back, and Mingyu was already on his phone, probably tweeting about it.

The big screen replayed the moment in slow motion, zooming in on Jihoon's effortlessly protective gesture.

Jihoon stiffened when he saw it. "You have got to be kidding me."

His phone blew up.

[Jeonghan]: ROMANTIC LEAD ENERGY!!!

[Mingyu]: Jihoon, OUR SWEETHEART???

[Hoshi]: THIS IS CRAZYYYYY

[Seungkwan]: GOODBYE, WORLD. THIS IS THE CUTEST THING I’VE EVER SEEN.

The captions wrote themselves.

"Lee Jihoon, the definition of boyfriend material."

"Woozi naturally protecting Y/N?? We are living in a fanfiction."

"When will my boyfriend be like this?"

Meanwhile, you were trying so hard to hold back your laughter. "Did you have to be so smooth about it?"

Jihoon cleared his throat. "It wasn’t smooth."

"You literally just gave me your blazer without blinking."

"Because you needed it," he huffed, crossing his arms.

You peeked up at him, a teasing glint in your eyes. "…Thanks, Jihoon."

He looked away immediately, ears turning red. "Shut up."

Jihoon should have known the night wasn’t over yet.

After all the teasing, the chaotic fan reactions, and the never-ending camera zoom-ins, the moment had finally arrived—Seventeen’s category was being announced.

The entire group sat up straighter, hands clasped together, nervous energy crackling in the air. You could feel it from your seat beside Jihoon, his usually steady hands slightly curled into fists on his lap.

“And the winner is…”

The pause was agonizing.

"SEVENTEEN!"

The entire venue exploded.

Seventeen shot up from their seats, hugging each other tightly, overwhelmed with joy. Fans screamed, members cheered, and Jihoon—despite his usual composure—looked stunned.

You watched as Seungcheol pulled Jihoon into a tight hug, and that’s when you saw it—his eyes, glossy with tears.

The camera captured the moment perfectly. Jihoon, the man who poured his heart and soul into every note, every lyric, standing there, wiping at his eyes as the weight of everything hit him all at once.

And suddenly, your own eyes burned.

You covered your mouth with your hands, trying to hold back the emotions bubbling up inside you. You had seen Jihoon work himself to the bone, staying in the studio until dawn, striving for perfection in everything he did.

He deserved this. They all did.

Jihoon stood on stage, microphone in hand, staring out at the sea of fans and glowing lightsticks. The award sat heavy in his grasp, but not as heavy as the emotions swelling in his chest.

The cheers had barely died down when Seungcheol, ever the leader, began their speech—thanking the fans, the staff, the families, and everyone who had supported them.

But when the mic was passed to Jihoon, the crowd fell into an expectant hush.

Jihoon took a deep breath. “Um…” He let out a small chuckle, voice already wavering. “I told myself I wasn’t going to cry.”

The audience cheered, as if encouraging him to let it out.

Jihoon swallowed hard, gripping the microphone tighter. “This… this award means a lot. More than I can put into words. We’ve worked so hard, and to be standing here, receiving this, it still feels unreal.” He exhaled shakily, blinking rapidly, but the tears still escaped, rolling down his cheeks.

Seventeen members immediately reached for him—Jeonghan placing a hand on his back, Seungkwan nodding at him reassuringly. The crowd cooed, some fans already tearing up themselves.

The camera panned across the group, capturing their emotions, before shifting—straight to you.

Sitting at your table, eyes glassy with unshed tears, you watched Jihoon with nothing but pure admiration and pride. You hadn’t even realized you were crying until the camera lingered on you, your lips pressed together to keep from outright sobbing.

And just like that, the entire venue reacted.

Fans screamed.

The members on stage noticed, and before Jihoon could even process what was happening, Jeonghan grabbed his shoulders and spun him around to face the screen.

There, clear as day, was you, wiping at your cheeks, eyes fixed on him like he was the most important person in the world.

Jihoon's face turned red instantly. He quickly turned back, covering his face with his sleeve, but it was too late.

Mingyu burst out laughing, Joshua clapped his hands like an excited kid, and even Seungcheol cracked up, patting Jihoon's back.

“Looks like we’re not the only ones crying,” Seungkwan teased into the mic, making the crowd go wild.

Jihoon groaned into his hands, but despite his embarrassment, he peeked up at the camera again—at you.

And in that moment, as he saw you smiling softly through your tears, he couldn’t even be mad.

Because no matter how much he pretended to ignore it, no matter how much he groaned when the cameras caught you both—deep down, he knew.

There was no one he’d rather share the spotlight with.

[myunghology]

THE LITTLE THINGS.

summary the little things they do for you, just because they love you. part 1/2 !!

pairings riddle, leona, azul, x gender neutral reader (established relationship)

tw none.. i think IDK

a/n — YAYYY I HIT 1.7K give me more clout pls ily all

✧ — RiDDLE ROSEHEARTS

Teaches you even though it's incredibly late at night. His eyes are already telling you that he's tired— and you try your best to tell him to go to bed.

But noooo, he cares too much about you to let you fail your worst subject. He casually waves his hand to dismiss your ideas for him to get sleep, putting you first before anything else. Well, at least he's learning more as well from teaching you.

Your head would be laying on his lap as he explains literal calculus at 4am in the morning, since you woke up in the middle of the night, making HIM wake up as well, why not torment you as well by making you learn with the time?

You give him such attitude early in the morning, saying "I'm sorry calculus sucks so bad, I'm sorry it's boring?" and yet he's completely whipped for you to the point that he's willing to sacrifice his sleeping schedule for you to learn. It's for your own good!

Riddle's possessive.. But in a good way! He just cares too much, not possessive to the point he's controlling, but possessive in a way that he's just overprotective of you.

He's the "Don't let anybody do this to you, unless that somebody's me." type of boyfriend. Can you tell he gets jealous easily? Gets extra snarky whenever someone asks about you, especially when they don't know you two are dating.

The type to pull you closer wherever just from being possessive, and makes an excuse that's basically just "Because you might get lost". Riddle.. The hallway is currently empty?

He will forever be your first and last love. The little things he does for you, it's everything. To you, and to everyone else who sees. The way he ties your shoelaces— which you didn't even notice that was untied.

When you make a mistake and a small "I'm sorry." comes out of your lips while your eyes get blurry, shaking his head as he shushes you and reassures you, everytime without fail.

The way he looks up at your pretty face right after, as smitten as ever and in complete awe, it's not that obvious, but you can see it in his eyes.

The way he's incredibly patient with you, the way you push your luck just to annoy him— luckily not getting beheaded by your own boyfriend. He has always fully believed time has brought you to him, hell, even fate itself maybe.

✧ — LEONA KiNGSCHOLAR

Leona always finds himself ending up with you, one way or another. At the end of the day, he's home. To you. And that's what matters the most to him.

The way he's burying his face in your chest, making a giggle escape out of your lips, a giggle he especially loves, but of course, would never really admit it directly.

This time, it's your turn to tease him for acting like this. But who could blame him? You're so comfortable.. And you're so.. Everything, really.

The soft sighs of relief he lets out when he feels your fingers thread through his long hair, indirectly asking you to not stop, and just keep going.

He compliments you without even realizing. Like it's a natural response to everything you do. From your little "Isn't this bow really cute, Leona?" with a soft smile as he goes, "Yeah. It'd be cuter if you'd wear it, though."

And you're left red and blushing, it honestly depends if he's going to tease you for it or not. But we all know, your blush is never going to get unnoticed by the prince himself.

Gets defensive whenever you bring this topic up. He will NEVER miss a day of complimenting you— even if it's something random. It's either that, or something completely heartwarming.

It ranges from, "You're really short, you know? Could barely even reach the top of the door even if you stand on your tippy-toes. But it's alright. I like it like that." with a smug grin.

To, "What's wrong with you? You're gorgeous. You're gonna be keepin' up with me in terms of persuasion, with those adorable little eyes of yours, are you?" sir this is a wendys

Can NEVER say no to you when you give him that special look. When you look up at him he absolutely melts— and it's painfully obvious it hurts physically (And by that, I mean butterflies.)

"If my significant other thinks they can just bat their cute lil eyes at me and get whatever they want, they're absolutely right." Type of mindset. He'd never admit it or say it out loud, either. We all saw that coming though, let's be honest..

Grits his teeth whenever you look at him with doe eyes, and it makes him weak because he especially loves your eyes, and how much they can say about you and how you're feeling.

✧ — AZUL ASHENGROTTO

Provides you with anything you need, without you needing to ask, almost everytime he notices. For other people, they'd need payment. But for you..? Ah, just forget about the goddamn contract at this point.

Actually, there IS a payment you have to do. Can you guess? It's definitely something cheesy or corny. Kills myself

Everytime you give him kisses all over his face, he's definitely all read. Who could blame him? We know he's not used to affection like this. And the fact that it's coming from you.. I don't know if that makes it worse or better at this point.

But of course, this will always come with a payment. More of a punishment— maybe. Having to wipe all your faint lipstick marks off his face when he has to be in the mostro lounge, making him just a few minutes late.

He picks up your habits. From talking or texting, no matter how different it is, he'll pick it up. From how much time you two spend together, I can't really say anyone's surprised..?

So, don't be surprised when he randomly responds to you with your usual attitude, or even just talking or texting a little bit like you as well.

The best part is, he doesn't even notice himself. When someone brings it up, he raises an eyebrow and acts like he doesn't know what they're talking about at all.

Gets all flustered when someone mentions you. It wouldn't even be about your relationship and he'd still be a blushing mess. Why? Um.. I dunno..

They probably wouldn't even realize you two are dating until they see Azul's wallpaper is you two, and when he opens his phone, most of the widgets there are your little selfies you send to him for fun.

Whether it'll be a literal thirst trap ("He's getting all red, please stop?" - Jade). Or a 0.5 picture of you sent by a mutual friend, or even Floyd who practically towers over you.

note — 𝔹𝕌ℝℕ 𝕋ℍ𝔼 𝔾𝔸𝕐𝕊 𝓑𝓤𝓡𝓝 𝓣𝓗𝓔 𝓖𝓐𝓨𝓢 𝙱𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙶𝙰𝚈𝚂 ꃳ꒤ꋪꋊ ꓄ꁝꏂ ꍌꋬꌦꇙ ฿ɄⱤ₦ ₮ⱧɆ ₲₳Ɏ₴ ᗷᑘᖇᘉ ᖶᕼᘿ ᘜᗩᖻS [̲̅B][̲̅U][̲̅R][̲̅N] [̲̅T][̲̅H][̲̅E] [̲̅G][̲̅A][̲̅Y][̲̅S] BURN THE GAYS ßÚRñ †HÈ GÄ¥§ B̶U̶R̶N̶ T̶H̶E̶ G̶A̶Y̶S̶ вυяη тнє gαуѕ ᏰᏬᏒᏁ ᎿᎻᎬ ᎶᎯᎽᏕ ᴮᵁᴿᴺ ᵀᴴᴱ ᴳᴬʸˢ БҴЯҊ ꚌӉЄ ԌДҰЅ ႦႮჁႶ ႵႹჹ ყმჄႽ B̤̮Ṳ̮R̤̮N̤̮ T̤̮H̤̮E̤̮ G̤̮A̤̮Y̤̮S̤̮ B̷U̷R̷N̷ T̷H̷E̷ G̷A̷Y̷S̷ B̲U̲R̲N̲ T̲H̲E̲ G̲̲A̲̲Y̲̲S̲ B̳U̳R̳N̳ T̳H̳E̳ G̳A̳Y̳S̳ B̾U̾R̾N̾ T̾H̾E̾ G̾A̾Y̾S̾ B͎U͎R͎N͎ T͎H͎E͎ G͎A͎Y͎S͎ B͓̽U͓̽R͓̽N͓̽ T͓̽H͓̽E͓̽ G͓̽A͓̽Y͓̽S͓̽ B҈U҈R҈N҈ T҈H҈E҈ G҈A҈Y҈D҈ B͙U͙R͙N͙ T͙H͙E͙ G͙A͙Y͙S͙ B͒U͒R͒N͒ T͒H͒E͒ G͒A͒Y͒S͒ B̻U̻R̻N̻ T̻H̻E̻ G̻A̻Y̻S̻ ḄỤṚṆ ṬḤẸ G̣ẠỴṢ

[sixeyesonathiel]

no one else needed to notice

pairing — g. satoru x gn reader

synopsis : you weren’t looking for connection when you replied to a quiet post on a jujutsu forum. but what starts as late-night messages with a stranger turns into something warmer, steadier, and unexpectedly real.

sometimes, the person who sees you best is the one you’ve never even seen. until now.

tags –> one shot, 6.4k wc, non-canon compliant au, internet strangers to lovers, emotional intimacy, mutual comfort, secret voice calls, found each other online, reader is from kyoto, soft gojo satoru, extremely mild angst with a happy ending, first kisses, lighthearted moments, a little rain, stupid jokes and late-night feelings, love is about compromise, rip to gakuganji’s office chair. inspired by the song ‘no one noticed’ by the marias.

a/n : writing this made me bawl, to be loved is to be known. there’s just something about being understood by a stranger and finding solace in each other that gets to me. being known & being loved without being seen in a literal sense? sign me up :P i wanna sob because my pookie bear deserved better aaaaa

red string of fate collection m.list

you didn’t mean to answer the thread.

you never do, usually. the forum’s a chaotic sprawl, a digital graveyard of encrypted usernames—like “void_eater69” or “cursed_snacc”—and timestamps mangled by timezones no one bothers to sync. posts pile up like offerings to some forgotten curse: cryptic rants about residual energy, half-baked spell theories, or someone whining about a shikigami that won’t behave. it’s not a place for real talk. more like a dive bar at the edge of a cursed womb, where everyone’s nursing their own ghosts and shouting into the void.

but that night, your room was too quiet. the kind of quiet that creeps under your skin, heavy as a grade-two’s miasma. kyoto’s winter had settled in, and your tiny apartment felt like a box of stale air, the radiator hissing like it was mocking you. your phone glowed on the tatami, a stubborn rectangle of light that wouldn’t let you sleep. your brain was a traitor, replaying the day’s monotony: a sparring session where you’d nearly twisted your ankle, a debrief that dragged until your eyes glazed, the faint smear of cursed blood you’d scrubbed from your sleeve hours ago.

you scrolled the forum to shut it up. past a thread arguing if reversed cursed technique could fix a hangover. past some guy asking if spirits could get drunk—seriously, dude?—and then you saw it. buried under the noise, posted hours ago, short and raw, no punctuation, no pretense:

“does it ever get easier”

you stared at it, your thumb hovering over the screen. the words sat there, small and unadorned, like a stone someone had left on a path. most posts like that were traps—bait for trolls or vents that fizzled into nothing. but this one felt… different. quiet, like a whisper you weren’t meant to hear. genuine, like it had slipped out before the poster could rethink it.

you broke your own rule. typed back without letting yourself second-guess: “define easier. like, emotionally? logistically? existentially?”

he replied in under a minute.

“yes”

and just like that, you were in it.

at first, it was anonymous, the way the forum always is. two sorcerers dodging missions and boredom, tossing words into the dark like talismans. you didn’t know his name, and he didn’t ask yours. just screen names—yours a string of numbers and a bad pun, his something absurd involving mochi and a curse word. you talked about things you’d never say out loud, not to the kyoto higher-ups or the first-years who looked at you like you had all the answers. like how a room full of people could still make you feel like a ghost, drifting just outside their orbit. or how debriefs left a sour taste in your mouth, like you’d bitten into something rotten—guilt, maybe, or just the weight of it all.

he was… unexpected. not funny in a cheap, knock-knock way, but ridiculous, like he’d turned life into a stage and forgotten the script. his jokes were elaborate, stupid, sprawling things, like he was performing for a crowd that didn’t exist. one night, he typed: “i think the veil’s thinning. saw a tanuki trying to do taxes with a stolen abacus.”

you snorted into your pillow, the sound loud in your empty room. “should’ve let it,” you wrote back, fingers flying across the screen. “might’ve gotten a better refund than me. my last one barely covered a coffee.”

he sent a laughing emoji—unironically, the dork—and you could almost hear him cackling somewhere far away. it made you grin, your face half-buried in a blanket that smelled faintly of incense and yesterday’s takeout.

the chats kept going, stretching across weeks. you’d be slumped on your couch, boots still muddy from a mission, when your phone buzzed with his latest nonsense. “ever wonder if curses dream?” he’d ask, and you’d fire back, “only if they’re dreaming of paperwork. that’s the real nightmare.” he’d reply with a string of sobbing emojis, and you’d roll your eyes, but you’d keep typing, because somehow, it felt like he got it.

then came the voice calls.

always at night, when kyoto’s streets went still and the stars pressed against your window like they had something to prove. he’d call from somewhere else—somewhere alive with sound. sometimes it was traffic, a distant honk cutting through his laugh. sometimes it was the ocean, waves hissing like they were gossiping with him. once, a vending machine jingled, coins clinking as he muttered, “what do you want? melon soda? or that sweet corn one that tastes like regret?”

you laughed, your voice muffled by the scarf you hadn’t bothered to unwind from your neck. “melon,” you said, curling your knees to your chest on the couch. “corn’s for masochists.”

“noted,” he said, and you heard the machine whir, then a can crack open. “one melon soda for the meanest sorcerer i know.”

“flatterer,” you deadpanned, but your lips twitched, and you tucked the phone closer to your ear, like his voice could fill the cold corners of your apartment.

you never asked where he was. he never asked your name. it was a rule you didn’t need to speak—just a line neither of you crossed, because crossing it might break whatever this was. but he was your favorite stranger, the one who made the nights less heavy, the one whose voice felt like a tether when everything else was slipping.

the thing was, you weren’t miserable.

not exactly.

just tired, the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t touch, like a curse that’s sunk its claws too deep. your life at the kyoto branch was a loop: wake to the chime of your battered alarm clock, spar until your muscles burned, assist on missions that left your hands smelling of ash and ozone, report to gakuganji in a room that always felt too small. sometimes you mopped blood from training mats, the sponge heavy in your grip. sometimes you taught theory to first-years, their eyes glazed as you droned about residuals, your voice echoing off chalk-dusted walls.

sometimes you lay on your futon, staring at the ceiling’s chipped paint, wondering if you used to feel bigger than this—brighter, like the sky before a storm.

he changed that.

not in a loud way, not at first. it was softer, quieter, like the sound of his breath hitching when you said something sharp. like finding a rhythm with someone, even if your steps didn’t quite match. he’d ask you things no one else did, questions that felt like they were peeling back your edges.

“what color’s the sky in kyoto tonight?” he’d say, and you’d lean against your window, phone cradled against your shoulder, and answer, “pink, like someone spilled their drink on it.” he’d laugh, and you’d feel it in your ribs, a small, stubborn warmth.

“do curses feel pain?” he asked once, his voice muffled, like he was chewing something—probably mochi, knowing him.

you hummed, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “maybe. depends if they’re sentient enough to know they’re hurting. what do you think?”

“dunno,” he said, and you heard a rustle, like he was flopping onto a bed somewhere. “but i hope they don’t. makes it easier to sleep after.”

you didn’t reply right away, just listened to him breathe, steady and slow. “you’re softer than you act,” you said finally, and he made a noise—half scoff, half laugh—that made you smile into the dark.

he loved dumb questions, too. “is it immoral to laugh when a cursed spirit looks like a balloon animal?” he asked one night, and you could hear the grin in his voice, like he was picturing it.

you were sprawled on your floor, a half-eaten onigiri beside you, and you snorted so hard you nearly choked. “only if it’s a good balloon animal,” you said. “like, if it’s trying to be a dog, you gotta respect the effort.”

“fair,” he said, and you heard a clink—probably another soda can. “you’re funnier than you think, y’know.”

“and you’re weirder than you sound,” you shot back, but your cheeks were warm, and you pulled your knees up, hugging them like you could trap the feeling.

the best moments, though, were when he dropped the act. when the theatrics fell away, and his voice went low, soft, like he was afraid the words might break if he pushed too hard. one night, after a call that had stretched past midnight, he said, “sometimes… i think i only exist when i’m useful to someone. is that stupid?”

you were half-asleep, your phone slipping against your cheek, but his voice pulled you back. you blinked at the ceiling, the shadows pooling like spilled ink. “no,” you said, quiet but firm. “it’s just sad.”

he laughed—not the emoji kind, not the loud kind, but something small, like he was letting out a breath he’d been holding. “you don’t pull punches, huh?”

“you’d hate it if i did,” you said, and you heard him shift, like he was nodding to himself.

“yeah,” he murmured. “i would.”

it went on like that for months, long enough that you started noticing things. the way he yawned before he said goodnight, a sleepy hum that made your chest ache. the pauses in his sentences when he was choosing his words, like he wanted to get it right for you. the way his voice warmed when you rambled about something small—like the stray cat outside your building that kept stealing your bento scraps, or the time you’d botched a talisman and spent an hour scrubbing ink from your hands.

he’d listen, really listen, he always does and then say something like, “bet that cat’s got better taste than gakuganji,” and you’d laugh until your sides hurt.

you didn’t ask who he was. he didn’t push for your name. it was perfect, fragile, like a bubble you were both afraid to pop.

until one night, your phone buzzed, and it wasn’t the usual late-hour joke or random question. it was a call, his name—or rather, the string of nonsense characters he used—lighting up your screen. you hesitated, thumb grazing the accept button, then pressed it, curling into your futon as the kyoto cold gnawed at the window.

“hey,” he said, his voice softer than usual, like he was speaking through a held breath. there was no hum of traffic tonight, no vending machine jingle—just a faint rustle, maybe his sleeve brushing the phone, and a stillness that made your pulse loud in your ears.

you didn’t answer right away, just listened to him breathe, steady but careful, like he was standing on the edge of something. your apartment felt smaller, the night pressing against the glass, cold and heavy, like it was waiting for you to move first.

“can I…” he started, then paused, a hitch in his voice you hadn’t heard before. “can I visit you?”

you froze, fingers tightening around the phone until it dug into your palm. the words landed like a stone dropped into still water, rippling through the quiet. your eyes flicked to the window, where the dark seemed to lean closer, listening. your heart did something stupid, tripping over itself, and you bit your lip, hard enough to sting.

“like… here?” you said finally, voice low, almost lost in the radiator’s hiss. “in kyoto?”

“yeah,” he said, and it was quiet but firm, like he’d been turning the idea over for hours before daring to say it. “i’m nearby. for a mission. thought… maybe. if it’s okay with you.”

you swallowed, your free hand fidgeting with the blanket’s edge, twisting it until the fabric bunched. you didn’t know what he looked like. he didn’t know your face. but the thought of him—your stranger, your tether—standing in your city, his voice no longer trapped in static… it made your chest ache, like a curse unraveling too fast to catch.

“we don’t even know what we look like,” you said, softer now, half a shield, half a truth, your breath catching as you spoke.

he was quiet for a moment, and you heard a faint shift, like he was leaning closer to the phone, shutting out the world. “i know,” he said, voice low, steady, like a vow he hadn’t meant to make. “but I think I’d recognize you anyway.”

your lips parted, but no sound came out. your heart stumbled again, and you pressed your knees to your chest, the blanket slipping to the floor. you wanted to deflect, to toss back something sharp, but his words sat there, heavy and warm, like they’d carved out a space you didn’t know you’d left empty.

“you’re weird,” you managed, but it came out too soft, too honest, and you winced, tucking your chin to hide the smile you couldn’t stop.

he exhaled, a sound that was half-laugh, half-relief, like he’d been holding it in all night. “you’re mean,” he said, and you could hear the curve of his mouth, faint but real, unguarded in a way that made your ribs tighten.

“you like it,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, and your fingers hovered over the phone’s edge, like you could reach through it if you tried.

he didn’t answer right away. just breathed, slow and close, and when he spoke, it was so quiet it felt like a secret. “yeah,” he said. “i do.”

the call didn’t end, not yet. you stayed there, listening to the silence stretch, his breath a steady rhythm against the night’s weight. and that ache in your chest grew, sharp and warm, like it was making room for something you weren’t ready to name.

that morning, when he texted for the address, you gave him the name of a small café tucked just off the main street near kyoto campus—nothing fancy, barely even marked, just a warm pocket of space where time slowed down and no one asked too many questions. not because you were scared. not exactly. but the idea of him—this faceless voice, this stranger you somehow knew better than people you’d seen every day—being in your space, standing in your doorway, seeing your real life... it made something flutter behind your ribs. something you couldn’t name without sounding stupid.

it rained that day. not hard. just the kind of persistent drizzle that painted everything in shades of grey, slicked the pavement until it gleamed like wet ink, and made your sleeves cling to your wrists. your shoes scuffed softly against the tile as you pushed open the café door. inside, the air was warm, thick with the smell of coffee beans and something sweet rising from the back oven.

a couple of students in uniforms sat by the counter, arguing in low tones about spell theory. the barista barely looked up as you ordered your usual, fingers drumming a quiet rhythm against the side of your phone. you picked the window seat. always the window seat. you liked watching people go by, liked the illusion of being somewhere else.

time passed.

you checked your phone once. then again. your fingers curled around your cup, heat seeping into your palms. condensation fogged the glass. you were early. or maybe he was late. or maybe the whole thing was a joke you’d fallen for, like a damn idiot. your heart did this stupid stuttering thing every time the bell over the door moved.

then it rang.

and he walked in.

white hair, slightly mussed from the rain. the tiniest drop caught in his bangs, trailing down toward the curve of his cheek. his sunglasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, and he was tall—taller than you'd expected, even though you should’ve known—and dressed like he didn’t care how loud he looked. hands in his pockets. shoulders loose. like he’d just wandered in off some catwalk that ended in your direction.

he scanned the room once, those ridiculous glasses perched low on his nose, catching the café’s dim light like twin moons. his eyes—sharp, too sharp for any one place to hold—skipped over the students bickering about cursed residuals, the barista wiping down a steaming espresso machine, and landed square on you.

his smile cracked open, instant, effortless, like the sun spilling through a storm cloud.

“hey.”

you froze mid-sip, your mug hovering an inch from your lips. your eyes locked on his, and the world did that thing where it shrinks to a pinprick, all cinnamon air and rain-slicked windows fading out. the ridiculous truth hit you like a badly timed talisman:

holy shit. that’s gojo satoru.

your mouth opened. closed with a soft click. opened again, because apparently your brain decided to blue-screen.

“you’re fucking kidding me.”

his grin stretched wider, all teeth and mischief, as he sauntered across the floor toward you. long limbs moved like they were choreographed, raindrops clinging to his white hair like tiny glass beads, scattering light. he shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, shoulders hiked just enough to betray how stupidly pleased he was with himself.

“surprise?” he said, voice lilting like he’d just pulled off the world’s dumbest magic trick.

you blinked, unblinking, your fingers tightening around the mug until the heat stung. your face was doing something—probably a mix of shock and are you serious right now—because his laugh bubbled up, low and warm, like he’d caught you red-handed.

“you—i—you’re you,” you stammered, eloquent as a first-year tripping over their own incantation.

“i am,” he said, tilting his head. a single droplet slid from his bangs, tracing the sharp line of his jaw before dripping onto the floor. “last i checked, anyway. unless you’ve got a better theory.”

“why didn’t you tell me?”

he paused a step from the table, one hand escaping his pocket to scratch at the back of his neck. his glasses slipped lower, and you caught a flash of those eyes—crystal blue, too bright, like staring into a clear sky after a curse’s miasma. he nudged the frames up with a knuckle, but then, in a move that made your breath hitch, he tugged them off completely. folded them with a click. set them on the table like a dare.

“didn’t wanna scare you off,” he said, quieter now, his gaze unguarded and pinning you in place.

yo squinted, lips pressing into a thin line to choke back a snort. your eyebrow arched, sharp as a well-placed shikigami. “you thought being yourself would scare me off?”

he shrugged, weight shifting from one foot to the other, his coat swaying like it was in on the joke. “it usually does.”

you blinked again, slower, and something in your chest unknotted. for a split second, he looked… smaller. not the gojo satoru who could level a city block with a wink, but a guy who wasn’t sure if he was too much or not enough. his hair was a mess, sticking up where he’d ruffled it outside, and his eyelashes were wet, catching the light like they were trying to apologize.

you set your mug down with a soft clink, the ceramic warm against your palm, and gestured to the chair across from you. “sit down, satoru.”

his grin snapped back, bright as a spark talisman igniting. “yes, ma’am.”

he dropped into the chair with all the grace of a cat knocking over a vase—legs sprawling, then tucking back, elbows hitting the table before he leaned forward like he was about to spill a secret. his coat bunched at his shoulders, and he smelled faintly of rain and something sweeter, like the mochi he’d probably swiped from a vendor on the way here.

“this place smells like cinnamon and potential,” he said, voice dipping low, conspiratorial. he waggled his brows, and you swore his eyes flickered with a tease no technique could replicate. “you sure you don’t wanna marry me right now? i’d get you a ring pop. blue raspberry, your favorite.”

you snorted, the sound punching out before you could stop it. your hand flew to your mouth, but it was too late—he’d heard it, and his whole face lit up like he’d won a bet with the universe.

“you remembered that?” you said, leaning back in your chair, arms crossing like you could shield yourself from his smugness. your lips twitched, betraying you.

“‘course i did,” he said, tapping his temple with a long finger. “you said it during that 2 a.m. ramble about cursed vending machines. blue raspberry ring pop, ‘cause it stains your tongue and freaks out the first-years.” he leaned closer, voice dropping to a mock-whisper. “i pay attention, y’know.”

your cheeks warmed, and you hated how your mouth kept trying to smile. you kicked his shin lightly under the table, just enough to make him yelp—a dramatic ow that had the students at the counter glancing over. “you’re impossible,” you muttered, but your eyes flicked to his glasses, still folded neatly beside his elbow. “and put those back on, idiot. you’re gonna give yourself a migraine squinting like that.”

he blinked, then laughed—a real one, not the showy kind he threw at missions or bad jokes. “what, you worried about my eyes now?” he said, but he didn’t reach for the glasses. instead, he propped his chin on one hand, staring at you like you were the only thing worth seeing. “i took ‘em off for you, y’know. six eyes makes everything loud—too many colors, too many things. but you…” he trailed off, and his voice softened, like he was peeling back a layer he usually kept buried. “you’re clearer without ‘em.”

your breath caught, and for a second, you forgot how to be a smart-ass. your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve, and you ducked your head, letting your hair fall forward to hide the heat creeping up your neck. “that’s sweet,” you said, voice dry but wobbling just a fraction. “also stupid. you’ll strain yourself, and i’m not dragging your whining ass to a healer when you’re seeing double.”

he grinned, undeterred, and flicked a sugar packet across the table at you. it bounced off your knuckles, and you swatted it back without thinking, starting a lazy game of tabletop tag. “would you rather i didn’t see you?” he asked, catching the packet mid-air with infuriating ease. his fingers were quick, precise, like he could’ve dismantled a curse in the same motion. “c’mon, admit it. you like being seen.”

you rolled your eyes, but your lips curved, and you couldn’t quite stop it. “i like when you’re not a headache,” you shot back, snatching the sugar packet from his hand. you tore it open, dumping half into your coffee just to mess with him—he’d gagged once during a call when you’d done it, claiming it was “coffee abuse.” now, he just watched you with a smirk, like he was cataloging every move you made.

“liar,” he said, stretching his arms above his head until his shirt rode up, flashing a sliver of pale skin above his waistband. you looked away, quick, and he noticed—his smirk grew positively diabolical. “you told me last week you like my voice best at midnight. all raspy and annoying, you said. direct quote.”

you groaned, sinking lower in your chair, but your foot nudged his ankle under the table, a traitor to your own defenses. “i was delirious from a mission,” you said, pointing a stirrer at him like a tiny sword. your brows furrowed, but your eyes were bright, dancing with the kind of energy you hadn’t felt in weeks. “and you were the one who kept talking about cursed tanukis stealing your socks, so who’s the real mess here?”

he laughed again, loud enough to make the barista glance over with a raised brow. his hand dropped to the table, fingers drumming a restless rhythm, and you noticed how his pinky brushed the edge of your mug—like he was testing how close he could get without you pulling away. “guilty,” he said, tilting his head until his bangs fell into his eyes. he shook them away, and the motion was so boyish, so normal, it made your heart do a stupid little flip. “but you laughed. i heard it. best sound in the world, by the way.”

you froze, stirrer halfway to your mouth, and your eyes flicked up to meet his. he wasn’t grinning now—just watching you, steady and soft, like the rain outside had melted all his edges. your lips parted, but no snark came out. instead, you reached across the table, picked up his glasses, and slid them toward him with a pointed look. “put these on before you ruin yourself,” you said, but your voice was quieter, like you were afraid of breaking whatever this was. “i’m not worth a headache, satoru.”

he didn’t touch the glasses. instead, he caught your hand before you could pull it back, his fingers warm and a little calloused, curling around yours like they’d been waiting to. “disagree,” he said, simple as that, and his thumb brushed your knuckle, light as a feather. “you’re worth a lot of things.”

you swallowed, and the café seemed to hum quieter—the clink of cups, the murmur of students, all fading into a soft blur. your pulse was loud, though, thudding in your ears as you looked at him. his hair was drying now, curling at the ends, and his eyes were still bare, unguarded, like he’d stripped away every barrier just to sit here with you. your lips twitched into a smile, small but real, and you squeezed his hand once before letting go.

“you’re gonna regret saying that when i steal your last mochi later,” you said, leaning back to break the spell, but your foot stayed pressed against his under the table, warm and steady.

he gasped, clutching his chest like you’d cursed him. “not the mochi,” he wailed, but his eyes crinkled, and he leaned forward, stealing your stirrer to twirl it between his fingers like a baton. “fine, but only if you say ‘satoru, you’re my hero’ first. gotta earn it.”

“in your dreams, pretty boy,” you shot back, but you were laughing now, soft and easy, and the sound made his whole face soften, like he’d been chasing it all along.

you stayed in that café for hours, trading sugar packets and stupid stories, your shoes bumping under the table, his glasses still untouched. the rain slowed to a drizzle, painting the windows in lazy streaks, but neither of you noticed. the world was just this—cinnamon air, warm mugs, and the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted to see clearly.

and somewhere in between the rain tapering off and your drinks going lukewarm, something shifted. not abruptly. not dramatically. but gently, like gravity starting to lean in a different direction. he was exactly the same—annoying, charming, impossible—but there was a quiet steadiness beneath it all. like he looked at you and saw not just a person, but a place. somewhere he could stay.

all while you were still trying to wrap your head around the fact that gojo satoru had been the idiot on the forum sending you tanuki memes at 3am.

he called you a cryptid. you called him emotionally constipated. he told you your voice was the only one he actually waited to hear. you told him he needed better taste. he laughed so hard he knocked his knee on the underside of the table.

when the café finally closed, the barista shooing you out with a tired smile, satoru held the door open, his clear umbrella already unfurled against the drizzle. it was comically small for his ridiculous height, barely shielding his broad shoulders, but he angled it carefully, keeping the rain from kissing your hair. his sleeve darkened, soaked through where the mist clung, but he didn’t seem to care. the night was quiet, steeped in that velvet hush that trails a long rain, streetlights casting blurry halos through the mist, like half-forgotten curses glowing in the dark.

his footsteps matched yours, slow and deliberate, scuffing softly against the wet pavement. he didn’t need to adjust his stride—you noticed how he shortened it, just enough, like he was savoring every second of this walk. his fingers brushed yours once, a fleeting warmth against your knuckles. he didn’t grab your hand. brushed again, lingering, like a question he wasn’t sure he could ask. you didn’t pull away, your pinky curling slightly, grazing his, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward, like he’d caught a secret.

“can I see you again?” he asked, glancing down at you, his voice stripped of its usual swagger. it was quiet, raw, like a wish he’d whispered to the night before daring to say it aloud. his glasses slipped low, catching the streetlight’s gleam, and his eyes—too blue, too open—held yours like you were the only thing tethering him to the ground.

you tilted your head, pretending to mull it over, your lips pursing to hide the smile tugging at them. your scarf fluttered in the breeze, and you tugged it tighter, catching the way his gaze flicked to the motion, like he was memorizing it. “I’d kinda like it if you called me first,” you said, voice dry but warm, your eyes darting to his before skittering away.

his smile softened, reverent, like you’d handed him a talisman he hadn’t earned. he ducked his head, damp hair falling into his eyes, and pushed it back with a quick flick, scattering droplets. “yeah?” he said, and it was so soft, so hopeful, it made your chest ache like a bruise you didn’t mind.

“yeah,” you said, and your fingers brushed his again, deliberate this time, a spark in the quiet.

he didn’t kiss you. not yet. but the way he looked at you—head tilted, eyes tracing your face like he was mapping a new constellation—felt louder than any words. like maybe, finally, he’d found the place he was meant to land, and you were standing right there beside him.

you kept walking, the umbrella tilting as he leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours. the mist curled around you like a veil, and he started humming—some off-key pop song he’d probably heard on a mission, the kind you’d mocked him for liking during one of your calls. you shot him a look, eyebrow arched, and he only grinned, utterly unrepentant.

“you’re gonna ruin my reputation,” you muttered, but your lips twitched, and you nudged his arm with your elbow, just enough to make him sway.

“too late,” he said, voice lilting like he was sharing a conspiracy. “you laughed at my tanuki tax joke. you’re already doomed.”

you snorted, the sound sharp in the quiet, and he laughed—low, warm, like it was his favorite sound in the world. “you remember that?” you asked, glancing up at him, your scarf slipping to reveal the curve of your neck. his eyes followed it, then snapped back to your face, like he’d been caught.

“‘course I do,” he said, tapping his temple with a long finger. “filed it under ‘proof you’re secretly fun.’ right next to you admitting you like my midnight voice.”

your cheeks warmed, and you shoved your hands into your pockets, muttering, “delirious ramblings don’t count.” but you didn’t step away, and he didn’t either, the umbrella wobbling as he tilted it to keep you dry.

then he stopped walking, abrupt enough that you turned to face him, a brow raised. “what?”

his expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between mischief and something heavier, like he was about to say something that could tilt the world off its axis. his hair was wet now, silver strands curling at the ends, clinging to his forehead, and his glasses fogged slightly at the edges, making his eyes look softer, closer.

“come work in tokyo,” he said, the words spilling out like they’d been waiting all night.

you blinked, your breath catching. “satoru.”

“no, I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer, the umbrella dipping until a stray droplet grazed his cheek. he didn’t wipe it away, just kept looking at you, earnest in a way that made your throat tight. “same uniform, better pay, vending machines that don’t eat your coins. plus—” he leaned in, voice dropping to a mock-whisper—“you get me. scientifically proven to make life less boring.”

you laughed, sharp and startled, and it broke the tension like a snapped thread. “you’re the cause of my stress,” you said, poking his chest with a finger, your nail catching on his damp coat.

“and I’ll keep causing it,” he said, catching your hand before you could pull back. his fingers were warm, curling around yours, and he tilted his head, grin softening. “but I’ll be closer. way better than those kyoto stiffs who don’t know how you take your coffee.”

you froze, lips parting, because he did know—black, no sugar, the way you’d grumbled about during a 3 a.m. call when a mission had you wired. “you’re ridiculous,” you muttered, but your voice wobbled, and you didn’t yank your hand away.

“you don’t belong there,” he said, quieter now, his thumb brushing your knuckle, light as a wish. “they don’t see you. not like I do.”

you opened your mouth to deflect, to toss back something sharp, but nothing came. because he was right, and the way he looked at you—steady, unguarded, like you were more than a shadow in a debrief room—made it impossible to argue. you closed your mouth, exhaling through your nose, and he smiled, small and real, like he’d won something bigger than he’d planned.

two weeks later, after one strongly worded proposal, two forged signatures, and a very public argument with gakuganji that ended with a chair launched across a meeting room, satoru showed up at your apartment, leaning against the doorframe with a grin that screamed trouble. his coat was slung over one shoulder, and he held a crumpled paper bag that smelled suspiciously like mochi.

“congrats,” he said, voice bright as a spark. “you’re moving to tokyo. pack a toothbrush.”

you stared, one socked foot still on the tatami, a half-packed box of books at your side. “what the hell did you do?”

“justice,” he said, tossing the bag onto your counter, where it landed with a soft thud. he stepped inside, kicking the door shut with his heel, and winked like he’d just saved the world. “also, maybe a little bribery. you’re welcome.”

and just like that, you were tokyo’s problem now.

on your first day, he was waiting at the jujutsu tech gates, a paper flower crown perched crookedly on his head, petals fluttering in the breeze. he held a sign—scrawled in marker, “WELCOME HOME, CRYPTID”—and two matcha lattes, one wobbling dangerously in his hand as he waved like a kid spotting their best friend. the other sorcerers passing by shot him looks, but he didn’t care, his grin wide enough to rival the sun spilling over the campus.

you tried to scowl, to keep your cool, but your lips betrayed you, curling into a smile that felt like surrender. “you’re ridiculous,” you muttered, stepping into his orbit, close enough to smell the sugar on his breath and the faint cedar of his cologne.

he looped an arm around your shoulder, easy as breathing, like the space beside him had been yours all along. his lips brushed your temple, a fleeting warmth, then lingered, soft and deliberate, like he was testing if you’d pull away. you didn’t.

“and yet,” he said, voice low, teasing, “you never left.”

you rolled your eyes, but your head tilted into his touch, just a fraction, and you felt him exhale, like he’d been holding it in. “I’m not wearing the flower crown,” you said, flicking the sign with a finger, making it wobble in his grip.

“not yet,” he said, adjusting the crown on his head, petals catching the sunlight like tiny flames. he handed you a latte, the cup warm against your palm, and you noticed he’d drawn a tiny cat face on the lid—lopsided, with one ear missing, like your stray back in kyoto.

“not ever,” you shot back, but you took a sip, and the matcha was perfect—sweet, not too bitter, exactly how you’d mentioned liking it months ago during a call about bad coffee stands.

he laughed, a sound like summer breaking through clouds, and you looked up, catching the way his eyes crinkled, the way his hair glowed gold in the morning light. his thumb brushed your cheek, featherlight, like he was confirming you were real.

and then he kissed you—no fanfare, no dramatic build, just the quiet press of his mouth against yours, soft and certain. it was the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for permission because it already belonged. like the final word in a sentence you’d both been writing in secret.

his lips were warm, moving against yours with a reverence that made your breath catch. his hand cupped the side of your face, fingers splayed gently against your jaw as though afraid to press too hard, like you were something delicate, worth holding and not breaking.

your eyes fluttered closed. the air between you and the world seemed to hush, like even the breeze knew not to interrupt. your fingers curled into the fabric of his coat—soft, heavy, smelling faintly of rain and something that had to be him.

your knees went a little soft. your heart, stupid and loud, climbed up into your throat.

he pulled back just barely, but didn’t let go. his forehead rested against yours, breath fanning across your lips, sweet with matcha and something sweeter beneath it—something like hope.

his grin was criminal. boyish. blinding. like he’d stolen something precious and gotten away clean.

“told you you’d like tokyo,” he said, voice low, still laced with laughter.

and before you could even think of dodging, he plucked the flower crown from his head—now slightly lopsided from the kiss—and dropped it gently onto yours.

you blinked. scowled. felt your cheeks catch fire.

you shoved it back onto him, petals scattering onto his nose, and he sneezed, dramatic and loud, making a passing student jump. “shut up,” you said, but you were laughing now, full and bright, and his fingers laced with yours, warm and steady, like they’d never let go.

and in that moment—the sun dusting your cheeks, his hand anchoring you, you knew one thing for sure:

no one else needed to notice.

because he did.

and that was enough.

(and yeah, he’d submitted three fake transfer forms in your name, because apparently love means committing light fraud. you’d yell at him later. probably.)

tag list : @akeisryna @esotericsorrow @prettilyrisse @cherrymoon55 @linaaeatsfamilies @k0z3me

[jasmineoolongtea]

it turns out, gojo satoru hates silence. to be more accurate, he hates the sound of total nothing when it comes to you.

that's not to say that he wants you to scream at him like all hell's breaking loose but he just wants something from you, good or bad he doesn't care, over this suffocating silence. you don't even look at him; instead, you focus on attempting to secure the sterile white bandages on top of his injuries. you pretend like you don't see the crimson red of his blood seeping through them as you do.

"baby..." his voice is barely above a whisper, a rare occurrence for someone who's always been the loudest in any room he's in. he gets no response from you, only the sight of your jaw tensing up as you grit your teeth. satoru tries and fails to meet your eyes.

"baby. please, talk to me." he pleads softly, using his other unoccupied hand to reach out to you. you freeze slightly at the feeling of his fingertips upon your arm.

a small sigh of defeat escapes him. "see? i'm fine, nothing's gonna hurt me alright? it's just a scratch, that's all." as if to emphasise his point, he raises his arms up in a show of goodwill, swallowing the harsh wince of pain that threatens to escape his lips.

for what feels like the first time in forever, you look back at him, your eyes meeting his cerulean ones. "that's not the point, satoru." you state, finishing up your bandaging of him. "what if one day you do get hurt badly?" the clang of your tools hitting the metal tray table echoes within the walls of the infirmary.

he brushes off your concerns with a wave. "that's not going to hap-"

"okay, but what if it does?" you cut him off bluntly. your expression is serious, deadly serious with your unwavering gaze and slightly furrowed brows, to the point where he's rendered speechless for the first time.

"have you ever thought about what would happen to the people you leave behind... about me?" your words trail off at the end of your sentence, your voice faltering slightly as well. maybe it's a trick of the light but satoru swears that tears are welling up in the corner of your eyes.

his chest tightens with an uncomfortable squeeze, his gaze falling to the floor. no one dares to speak for a moment, whatever words and phrases of reassurance satoru would typically throw your way now suddenly seem shallow and lack any sort of weight behind them. the air is tense around the both of you.

you don't even need him to respond to know the answer to your own question as it would be a resounding no. for most of his life, satoru lives and breathes like he's untouchable, detached from most things including other people. being someone who has been leagues above everyone else since birth does that to a person.

however, it seems that this has caused him to forget that others around him don't share his fate and that no matter how detached he still believes himself to be, there are still ones who crave his connection and see past his facade of godhood and more as the human he truly is underneath it all.

"...i'm sorry, baby." he murmurs under his breath as he looks back up at you, sincerity and raw vulnerability evident in his expression. "i promise that i'll be more careful next time." he brings your hands to his lips and presses a soft kiss against your skin, letting himself bask in the warmth, your warmth, that is radiating off of you.

"there shouldn't be a next time." you huff half-heartedly, trying to stand strong in light of his previous behaviour which led to this moment but you feel your knees start to turn into jelly the moment his lips graze your hands.

a faint laugh escapes him. "i'll make a promise on that too." he adds, spreading his legs slightly just so he can pull you against his chest and into his arms.

gojo satoru is used to living only for himself but now, he has to remember that he has someone to come home to and he's going to make sure that he starts living like he did. only a shame he didn't see this earlier.

[heartmix]

girl he's taking home - mv1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x fem!reader, Charles Leclerc x ex-situationship!reader

Word Count: 1.5k+

Warning: angst, but happy ending. not my favorite ending but i didnt know how else to end it

A/N: wasn't going to do a part 2 to 'girl you're taking home' but the lovely @lilorose25 gave me an idea. I meant to get this out last week, but work happened. Hope you enjoy this!

F1 Masterlist / Masterlist

If you were to ask yourself six months ago how you felt about the new season, you would have responded with dread, not looking forward to anything. The way Monza ended and the 2024 season ended in general did not benefit you emotionally. If you weren't living your dream right now, you would have definitely walked away. 

Having to continue and move on with Charles as his race engineer was harder than you thought. You could keep it professional, knowing how high-stakes this job was. The only mishap was being with Charles. 

The team noticed a change after that night. They expected him to be on a high in the following races but were met with the opposite. He didn't want to talk to anyone unless it involved racing. He spent most of his free time locked away in his driver's room or hanging out with Carlos. Even Carlos had a hard time trying to get Charles back to his old self. 

Soon, the headlines ran wild about his breakup with his girlfriend, the perfect excuse for his mood. No one batted an eye anymore, figuring he was just torn up. He was also fighting for second place in the WDC and first place for Ferrari in the WCC. The Prince of Ferrari had every excuse in the book at his disposal. 

You, on the other hand, distanced yourself as far as possible from the driver. Free times were spent with other engineers, going out for drinks after a team win was spent with the social media team and if you had extra time beyond that it was spent with Carlos with his last few races with the team. If you were in a bad mood everyone chalked it up to having to deal with a moody driver. An excuse was an excuse. 

When the season came to an end, you were beyond relieved. You didn't want to see a track or anyone from work till it was pre-season training. Distancing yourself from anything that reminded you of Charles was what you needed. 

Thankfully, with the new season and Lewis's arrival, you were busy making sure everything was perfect. Him personally requesting you sent you over the moon and you did everything to give your attention to him. From his first suit-up in red to pre-season training, you managed to avoid Charles, magically. It was hard since you had to work just in the other garage, but somehow, you made it work until the first race of the season. 

The paddock was roaring for the new season. Excited to see all the new rookies, all the new line-up changes, and Lewis in Ferrari red. This was the most anticipated season in ages. 

In the short time you had before you were needed back in the garage, you wandered around the paddock hoping to bump into a familiar face. There was a small chance you'd get to see him, but if it was for just a minute, you'd take it. 

While maneuvering your way through the crowd, it was going to be impossible to find him, but as fate would have it you bumped into the last person you wanted to see. 

"I'm so sorry." He apologized before he realized who it was. He stood there stunned for a second, taking you in. One would have thought he'd seen a ghost.

"Hi Charles," you smiled politely, wanting to be anywhere but in the middle of the paddock talking to him, where everyone could see. 

Anyone with a pair of eyes could see it was an awkward interaction. The better part of two years you've spent as his engineer and were as close as ever. When the news of you switching to team 44 broke out, there was speculation, but the public chalked it up to being part of Lewis' contract. It was no secret Lewis loved to shine the light on females in this industry. 

"Hi, um how are you? I haven't been able to see you at all in Maranello." He looked like he was forced to meet your eyes. Switching his weight to each leg and his hands fidgeting with the hem of his kit. 

Your response was curt and sharp, "That was the goal."

"I just wanted to apologize. I was selfish and wanted everything. I wanted the best of both worlds but realized you were the one for me. You were the only one I wanted to be around. I don't even know why I entertained the thought of another girl. I love you, and I'm sorry." Half a year ago you would have been over the moon hearing all of this, but now you wanted nothing to do with him and have him disappear.

"Charles, what did you want out of this?" A harsh tone slipped from your lips. You didn't mean for it to sound like that but you couldn't help it. After all the emotional damage he put you through you weren't about to cave in. 

"I just really needed to tell you this and to let you know that maybe we ca-" Before he could even finish his sentence you felt an arm wrap around your shoulders. At this, you couldn't help but smile, about time he showed up.

"Charles." His tone was calm but stern, setting the tone of his intention. 

"Max?" Charles was shocked, looking in between the both of you. The way you melted into his arms, the smile that replaced the scroll in a second. Charles also knew Max enough to know when he was protective and when he wanted to get a point across. You were his point. 

Max knew everything that had happened between the two of you. He was the one who caught you walking back to the hotel with tears in your eyes on that Sunday night in Monza—the one who let you vent about the situation. You were too emotional to even think about how bad it looked to dish out your affair to Charles' friend and another driver, no less. You haven't even had a proper conversation with the Red Bull driver, just being in his presence when he would talk to Charles. You expected him to degrade you and look at you in disgust. Instead, he did the opposite. He reassured your feelings, told you some not-so-good choices of his own, and made sure you weren't alone.  

Since then, you've built a small friendship. He checked up here and there to make sure you were okay. You send him a good luck text before every race. When he was declared 4-time champion in Vegas he invited you out to celebrate. How could you turn that down, especially with the drama that came out of that grand prix? After many gin and tonics, you don't remember much besides waking up in his hotel room. 

You were fully prepared for him to throw you out, never wanting to talk to you again, but were surprised that he didn't regret anything, that he wanted you to stay. There were, of course, reservations on your part. If you went through another incident, you weren't sure you could convince yourself to stay at the job you loved. 

Max, being the ever-understanding man that he was, told you to think about it, but he wasn't going to give you space. He wanted to continue going out with you and spending time with you. There would be no embarrassment being around you and couldn't care about the stories the media would spin. He didn't define you about what you did with your past relationship, he only cared about a possible future one with you. 

"If you don't mind, I'd like to take my girl for lunch with the little free time we have." He gave a tight-lipped smile, leaving no room for questions. 

"Oh, yeah, yeah, of course." What else was Charles supposed to say? No? You weren't his, not anymore, not really ever. Just a minute ago, he wasn't above begging for you to take him back, but how could he do that to you, seeing how happy his friend made you? At the end of the day, he still cared for you and wanted what was best. If that was Max, he would come to accept it. 

"See you on the track Charles." Max bid a farewell before turning the both of you in the opposite direction. 

"Took you long enough." You teased, being met with soft laughter. 

"Sorry schatje, next time I'll get you from Ferrari." 

"And have rumors about you moving to Ferrari? Horner would kill me." You could only handle so much news for this season. The cameras flash, capturing you and him walking together was enough to deal with. You couldn't imagine what both of your teams would think. 

"Not before I kill him."

Smiling at his serious intention despite the playfulness undertone, how could you ask for a better guy, "So romantic, Mr. Verstappen." 

"Only for you." At that moment, he leaned down for a kiss. Well, cat is definitely out of the bag. 

[pearlessance]

Killshot, Baby! —part one

summary: nanami kento is a meticulous man; calm, stable, and precise. a perfect antithesis to your messy, impulsive ways. the longer you're around him, the more you're convinced you'll never agree on anything. well…except for the way you fuck.

pairing: brat tamer!nanami x fem!reader

warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, 10 year age gap (reader is 18, nanami is 28), fingering, dirty talk, pussy pronouns, use of 'little girl' as a pet name, cum eating, semi-public, praise, size kink, hair pulling, brat taming, reader has added backstory to progress the plot

wc: 3.8k

note: this is my first ever jjk fic pls be niceee :') not sure how many parts this will be, rn I'm thinking like 5-8 but we will see!! heavily influenced by the song killshot by magdalena bay!! tysm for reading i love u <3

[masterlist] [read on AO3!]

Places like this make your skin crawl. 

Even knowing you need to assimilate yourself to the glitz and glamour of it all, you just can’t shake the turning of your stomach as you watch drops of top-shelf liquor spill over the rims of glass tumblers. Liquid splashes that cost more than a day’s pay for someone less well-off than every person in that room.

When you step out onto the balcony, the air feels icy against your too-warm skin. The city lights twinkle in the distance, disturbing the black of night and shining too brightly to grant you the luxury of seeing the stars.

You wonder what time it is, wonder if curfew still applies for an event like this. And if it does, you’ll surely catch a reprimanding from Yaga in the morning even if Gojo takes the brunt of it. Maki’s incessant questioning that’s sure to come when you step back into the dormitories might be an even worse fate, though. 

“It gets to be a bit overwhelming, doesn’t it?” His smooth voice startles you.

Overwhelming is a cordial way of putting it, you think. “Suffocating might be a better word.” 

He huffs. Not quite a laugh, but a sound of agreement nonetheless. The shadows in the dark corner of the balcony keep you from getting a good look at him. You can only make out a handful of features—a few strands of blonde hair that have gone rogue from the combed, slicked-back style, falling rebelliously in front of his warm eyes. The tan slacks he wears look expensive and pressed, a stark contrast to the wrinkles in his white button-up. The sleeves are rolled casually to his elbows, and the moonlight reflects off the crystal face of his watch. 

There’s something about him that feels…familiar. A strange sort of sameness. And despite the way he exudes the same lavish energy that everyone else at the party does, you can’t help but feel like he’s somehow different than they are. Maybe it’s because you’re seemingly the only two who are struggling to find enjoyment in the reception.

“That bad, hm?” He stands from his seat in the corner and joins you at the railing. Even bent over with his forearms on the stainless steel edge he looms over you; a powerful, menacing presence. A man with an iron grip on control. “Which part, exactly, feels so asphyxiating?”

His voice sends a shiver down your spine. But maybe it’s just the chill in the air. “All of it,” you admit. “The gluttony. The carelessness. Everyone is so out of touch with reality. It’s like they become so absorbed with all the extravagance, they forget most people struggle to make ends meet. Ten minutes out of the city a mother is working eighty hours a week and still having difficulty feeding her children, and they’re drinking bottles of whiskey that cost more than she gets paid in a month.”

Your gaze focuses on his long fingers as he interlocks them together. “You don’t think those with money deserve to enjoy it?”

When you roll your eyes it feels involuntary, like second nature. “There’s a difference between enjoying it and flaunting it. I’ve never met Nanami Kento, but he seems like a real asshole.”

This time he does laugh. And the smile that stretches across his face, revealing a row of perfectly straight, pearly white teeth, is nothing short of debilitating. He’s beautiful, achingly so. And the deep, baritone sound of his laughter stirs something strange and warm in your chest.

You continue, asking, “How much do you think it cost him to host something like this? I mean, all together. The drinks, the food, the pay for the waiters, all of it. Even that ridiculous fucking ice sculpture.” He’s still grinning, and as you animatedly speak you can feel the heavy weight of his stare on the side of your face. It makes your cheeks burn. “My guess? Two million yen. Easily.”

“That seems a bit much,” he says. “It’s not that extravagant, is it? It’s being hosted in his home, after all.”

“Yeah, his penthouse,” you say with disdain. “What’s your guess, then? How much do you think was spent on this asshole’s little soiree?”

He seems to contemplate for several seconds, turning his head to the view of the city. His profile is breathtaking; all chiseled jaw and Greek nose and lush lips. You have to fight the urge to reach out and touch him, to feel the barely-there stubble along his cheek beneath your fingers. “One and half million,” he says.

This time you’re the one who laughs. It’s the first time you’ve done so all night, despite being promised otherwise. “As if that’s any better,” you say. “If he donated even half of what he spent to host a party like this, it could change someone’s life.” 

“I suppose that’s true. But maybe you’re wrong about the reason he’s gone to such extremes. Maybe it’s less about flaunting it and more about filling his home with people. Giving them an excuse to come here.”

“Why would anyone want this many people in their home? Making a mess, pouring their money down the drain? It’s not like this kind of luxury comes easily. He might be an asshole but he’s certainly a hard-working one. Why blow it on something as insignificant as a party?”

His answer comes quickly. “Loneliness.”

He says it with such conviction it’s as if he’s speaking from experience. And you suppose he very well could be. Standing in that crowd, not knowing a single soul apart from the one who’d dragged you here and promptly abandoned you, speaking empty words to people who won’t remember your name tomorrow—it had made you feel lonely, too. Lonely enough to step outside, to find comfort in the quiet as the beautiful man beside you had. “Maybe he should get himself a girlfriend,” you suggest.

“Maybe he should.” The lightheartedness returns to the conversation the second he smiles at you. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“That’s because I never gave it to you.” Your teasing seems to please him. 

His stare is intense, flickering between your eyes and the clear gloss on your lips. You want him to lean in and taste the cherry flavor. “What should I call you, then?”

You shrug, turning to face him fully, leaning against the balcony’s steel railing. It brings you just a little closer to him. Close enough to inhale the woodsy scent of his cologne. It makes you feel dizzy, makes you feel drunk. You say, “Whatever you want.” And mean it.

This is dangerous, you know. Standing out here alone with an older man, a stranger to you. Away from any semblance of safety. He could do anything to you right now and you’d have no way of fighting him off. He’s too big, too strong. And the worst part, you think, is that you’d just let it happen. That you wouldn’t even mind.

He reaches out and touches your cheek—a gentle, respectful caress. Despite the innocence, it leaves nothing but sinful thoughts swirling in your head. You lean into his touch, trying to ignore the way goosebumps rise over your skin.

“You’re a strange little girl,” he mutters. His voice slides through your center, sultry and captivating. You’re not sure if he’s complimenting you or not. It feels kind. Affectionate, even. But you can’t fully decide because your brain begins to short-circuit, hung up on the way the words little girl sounds in his tantalizing mouth. 

“Strange is better than boring,” you tell him. 

“You could never be boring.” There’s that conviction again. So sure of himself. Confident, steadfast, and solid. You wonder silently what that must be like.

Since learning you housed a rare ability to use cursed energy, there hasn’t been a single moment where you’re sure of who you are. But…right now, feeling the heat radiate off his skin, you think maybe you know what you want. “You don’t know me.”

“I want to, though.” The response is quick. Final. He presses his palm flat against your jaw, cradling your face, and slides it slowly to the nape of your neck. The friction feels intense. Heightened.

Your breath comes slow and labored, a conscious effort now. And you figure if he can touch you, that you can touch him back. But it’s less for enjoyment and more for necessity as you place a hand against his chest, feeling the softness of his cotton button-up beneath your palm. The way he looks at you makes your knees tremble. And he’s the solid, magnetic force you need to keep yourself upright.

“Pretty dress,” he says. It’s revealing, more so than you’d realized in the dressing room. Low cut and shimmery and pale pink—your favorite color. His warm eyes pierce yours as his free hand comes to your hip, resting against the textured sequins. “Expensive. Indulgent.”

He’s trying to call your bluff, you know. But your dislike for over extravagance is sincere and though he’s shaken your once calm equilibrium, it satisfies you to know he’ll never dissuade you in this singular thing. “I didn’t buy it.”

“No?” He fists the fabric, pulling the already too-short edge up higher. “Who did, then? Your boyfriend?”

My teacher. You don’t have the nerve to say it, though. Don’t have the words, patience, or breath to explain that Gojo gave you his shiny black card and insisted you find something worthy of tonight’s event. You find evasion an easier line of conversation. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

He fists more of the fabric, hiking it higher—inch by devastating inch. The air is cool against your exposed thigh, but it’s hard to notice. You can’t see or hear or feel anything but the way his deft fingertips stroke the lace edge of your panties, a teasing caress. “How…fortunate.”

Your pulse rings in your ears. Warmth builds between your thighs with the promise of his touch that seems to be all-knowing and omnipresent. He presses into the softness just beneath your navel and you can feel the pressure down to your toes. His presence is somehow even more smothering than the energy inside, but this is…different. Hot.

Every nerve ending in your body flares on edge when he slides his hand between your legs, the pad of his middle finger ghosting over your center. Your lips part and your eyelids flutter closed. Separated by only a thin layer of lace, you can feel the heat of him and have to fight the urge to rock your hips against his hand.  When he speaks, the words come out strained. “I need to know that you want this.”

There’s never been anything you’ve wanted more, you think. And you decide to tell him, to let the honesty bleed through, but then he’s moving his hand again, caressing your pussy with deft fingers. He does it with intention—a meticulous discovery of your body, preserving it forever in memory. It's such an intimate touch that it leaves you feeling open, chafed raw. All you can manage is a meek but resolute nod of your head in answer.

But it’s not enough for him. With such decorum, he says, “Use your words, sweetheart. Please.” It’s so polite it makes you ache.

You have to crane your neck just a little to look him right in the eye, but you do it anyway because you want him to see the truth. Want him to see just how bad you mean it when you say, “I want you.”

The corners of his lips turn up into a sinful smirk. And before you have time to catch your breath, before you can process just how unbearably handsome he looks with the city lights reflected in his honeyed hair, he’s slipping his hand into your panties and finding out for himself just how bad you want him. 

He separates your folds and finds your clit with expert precision, already wet and messy for him. Everywhere, all at once—he’s everywhere. His other hand rests firmly on the back of your neck, his body pressing against yours. He’s all you can see, all you can smell, all you can taste. The moment he begins circling the throbbing bud your spine arches, pleasure filling you with each calculated movement. “Oh, god.”

You spread your legs further for him, allowing even more access. The steel of his silver watch is biting cold against the too-warm inside of your thighs, the only sensation keeping you tethered to the Earth.

But any attempted salvation is shattered to pieces the moment he presses a finger into you, curling upwards as if he has known your body for far longer than just the night. “Fuck—”

“Language,” he quickly chastises. He slides his hand on the back of your neck into your hair and pulls, forcing you to stare up at him. It is so nearly like punishment, except he adds another finger inside you to join the first which feels much closer to a reward. The stretch is bliss, and you can feel your slick dripping down his thick knuckles.

“I’m sorry,” you whimper. And you’re not even sure why, but an apology just feels right. Feels good. But not as good as it feels when he presses hard against that soft spot inside you, quickly finding a rhythm that has sweat beading at your hairline. “I’m sorry,” you say again, because all other words have vacated your brain. 

He quickens the pace, fingers drawing out obscene moans from your chest. You wish he would kiss you. You want to feel the pressure of his lips against yours, want to taste the inside of his mouth. But you can’t bring yourself to ask for it, can’t bring yourself to do anything but watch him watch you. 

There’s this look in his eye that makes your heart stutter in your chest. Like he holds something more than divine in his hands. As if you’re not just some girl at a party but some god-like creature instead. You feel warm under his intensity. Burned. 

And when he speaks, his voice is so sultry and deep that you whimper. “S’that feel good? Right there?”

“Yes, yes—please, don’t stop.” You don’t even recognize your own voice. Can barely hear the way you beg for him over the ringing in your ears, permeated only by the wet sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of you.

It’s rehearsed. Practiced. It takes just seconds before you start to feel yourself pull tight, straining against the unforgiving pace he sets. You're a gasping, desperate mess, and he seems to find such joy in it. Grinning down at you, forearm flexing in exertion, veins protruding from his wrist. He curls his fingers inside of you and positions his thumb so that it passes over your throbbing clit with each stroke. “You’re so pretty,” he says. “Do you know how pretty you are, little girl?”

“I—God—I’m gonna cum, I—”

“Yeah,” he coos, tone affectionate and tender. “I know it. Can feel this sweet pussy squeezing me so tight. She needs it bad, doesn't she? Hm?”

He thrusts his fingers into you hard—once, twice, and then your thighs begin to shake. Your fists tighten, knuckles paling as you grip the soft fabric of his button-up. Your breath gets stuck in your lungs and then it’s all happening at once, pleasure exploding beneath your skin.

You bite back your moans, trying not to think about the throng of the party just inside. Your entire body vibrates beneath his unyielding movements, slick walls squeezing and pulsing around his thick fingers. You don’t tell him but it’s like he just knows. “There you go,” he whispers, pressing his lips into your hair. “That’s it, sweetheart. That’s it. You’re doing so well. Let it happen, jus’ let it happen.”

Earth-shattering. Liquid pools in the palm of his hand and trickles down the inside of your thighs, soaking through the lace fabric, but he keeps you upright on trembling legs. Fucks you through it with those magical fingers of his, and doesn’t stop until tears prick the corners of your eyes. He slows, massaging that sacred spot inside of you just a few times more before slowly sliding his fingers out. When he holds them up between you, shiny and glistening with your slick, you can’t fight off the way your cheeks burn. 

It isn’t until this precise moment that you realize he’s breathing hard, the only chink in his armor of composure thus far. In all your life, in all your experience, it’s never felt quite like that.

Yet still, even more satiated than you’ve ever been, you feel your clit throb as he presses his middle and ring finger into his mouth and sucks them clean. “I…” You what?

Words evade you. You want to tell him how good it was, want to get on your knees and repay the favor, want to tell him your name. But his stare is intense and intimidating and—

The balcony door slides open and you both move quickly—stepping away from each other, smoothing the wrinkles out of your clothes.

Your heart races behind your sternum as Gojo steps out, all-black suit pristine save for the unbuttoned coat. “Nanami! I was just coming to find you to introduce you to our very special student, but it seems you’ve found her all on your own.”

Nanami?

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him wipe the hand that was inside you seconds ago on the back of his slacks. “Satoru,” he greets cooly.

Suddenly the balcony feels more suffocating than the unruly party inside. For a single second, the thought crosses your mind that you could jump right off the edge of the railing without a moment’s regret.

Gojo shoves his hands into his pockets and speaks with an airy tone, but you can’t hear him over the ringing in your ears.

Kento Nanami. 

The reason you’re here. The man who’d invited you. The man who’s hosting this party.  

Every second that’s passed since you stepped foot onto the balcony flashes through your brain. All the terrible things you’d said about him, every word of agreement he’d uttered back. Every signal, every sign he’d given you to shut the fuck up, and somehow you’d missed every single one and just kept on talking.

Guilt slithers down your spine, settles in your gut, and makes a home inside. You’d meant it, though. Every single word you’d said. But you’d never meant to say it to him, had never intended to be cruel. 

And then you proceeded to let him touch you without an ounce of resistance.

A grade one sorcerer, someone you should be learning from, someone you should revere…and you’d let him stuff you with his fingers before even knowing his fucking name. Begged him for it, even.

He’d licked them clean.

Gojo says your name, pulling you out of your head and back into the conversation. “Are you alright? You seem a bit…out of it.”

“Fine,” you answer too quickly for it to sound convincing. “I’m fine, sorry. It’s just…late. What did you say?” You try to ignore the sticky feeling between your thighs to no avail. 

“We’re going to head back now,” Gojo repeats. “If we stay much later I worry Ijichi might send out a search party for us.”

You’ve never been more ready to leave than you are right this second. You turn to Nanami and nod politely. “It was…uhm. Nice to meet you, sir.”

There’s nothing else to say, so you don’t. Pushing past Gojo and back inside, you weave your way through the moving crowd of people, trying to find the front door. It takes longer than you anticipated, but once you’re walking down the long penthouse hallway to the all-glass elevator you start to feel your shoulders dropping. 

You recognize the pattern of Gojo’s long strides easily, and he catches up to you just as the elevator doors slide open.

Ever the gossip, he’s making insinuations as soon the two of you step inside and begin the timely descent. “That was the most awkward thing I’ve ever witnessed. What the hell happened between you two?”

“Nothing.”

“Right…” 

“I mean it,” you insist. Because you might be older than the other students and Jujutsu High, but the last thing you’d ever want to do is put Nanami in a position to be ridiculed. He didn’t know. And you didn’t, either. “Nothing happened.”

“Oh, okay,” he says, voice holding a sarcastic edge. “Nothing happened. That’s why you had this look on your face like you were trying really hard to make yourself spontaneously combust. Right, right. Sounds like nothing.”

“Sounds like nothing because it was nothing.”

He sighs dramatically, turning to fully face you. “I can keep a secret. You know that. Just tell me now and we never have to talk about it again, I swear.”

You stand stone still, lips sealed firmly shut.

Gojo presses his hands together and juts out his bottom lip, and you wonder how the fuck you’d ended up here. Watching your mentor—a grown man—pout like a child for a scrap of information. 

With a roll of your eyes, you say, “We can stop at that mochi place tonight if you never speak of it again.”

“Deal.”

He stays true to his word, and you stay true to yours. 

When Gojo told you all about it on the way to the party, you’d thought he’d been exaggerating the decadence of the treat, but it truly was the best you’d ever had. You return to the dormitories with kinako dusted fingers, and Gojo doesn’t ask about Nanami again. 

You think, hope, that it’s the end of it. Hope that when you inevitably cross paths with Kento Nanami again, you’ll be able to act professionally. You’ll put this calamity behind you, never to be repeated, and absorb the knowledge he can provide about wielding cursed energy like a blade.

But when you wake up the following morning, Maki’s pounding on your bedroom door, holding a bouquet of white flowers in a pale pink crystalline vase. There’s a white, lace ribbon tied around the center of it with a hand-written note attached. The penmanship is meticulous. Precise. 

It reads, Thank you for the perspective. Apologies for the overindulgence. -K.

Maki’s brows are raised and her eyes are wide. She pushes you back into your room and seals you both inside. “Talk.”

taglist; @maybe-a-bi-witch @zeunys @mima0127 @unicornflutter

[sovamurka]

Thinking about how Ma Meilleure Ennemie can be considered a continuation and an interesting thematic expansion of Enemy.

"No shit, lmao, they both have the word enemy in them".

Like, yes, that's exactly the point.

But there's more to it than meets the eye.

We all know that Enemy in many ways is meant to be from Jinx's perspective (music video supports that) - it's HER internal worries, it's HER exhaustingly sad sarcasm, it's HER wreck of emotions that she can't stop.

The song explains why and how she basically convinced herself that she's a curse and will never be a saint no matter what she does.

She exclaims that everybody wants to be her enemy. For her this word means "the person that everyone hates, the person who everyone abandoned, the person for whom no one prays or hopes".

And then in Ma Meilleure Ennemie Ekko... agrees with her - she IS his enemy. But to him this word has so much more meaning and underlying feelings than just "the person I'm against, the person I hate".

For him enemy is also someone who's always near - if not in body, then in mind. Someone who truly shares history with you and can hurt you in more ways than one.

Who you hate so much because you had too much love in your heart for them.

Hatred is not the opposite of love, it's just love with a minus instead of plus, the true opposite of love is indifference. And Ekko feels anything but indifference towards Jinx, even though he tried so many times to convince himself otherwise.

First verse of the song is basically his admission that she's an essential part of him - no matter what he does, no matter how many times he forces himself to forget, no matter how much he tries to keep his enemy out of his mind.

He knows he should stay away, he knows he should keep his own heart under hundreds of locks to not let anyone break it again. But he can't help it. He still loves her despite everything, including his own self.

That's why he also agrees that she's indeed a curse. The most beautiful one. She haunts his thoughts and he hates himself for finding comfort in it. But it's better to be in a bad company than alone, am I right?

The chorus of Ma Meilleure Ennemie sounds almost like a last resort - a mutual attempt to push each other away.

To make matters worse, the whole "meilleur/pire" (best/worst) dichotomy that is constantly present in the song literally from the beginning, is a simple yet clever play on a famous wedding vow - "Pour le meilleur et pour le pire" (translation: for the best and the worst of it). The more they try to convince each other that they should not be together, the more they intertwine their fates because they repeat this vow again and again.

And then in the second verse of Ma Meilleure Ennemie Jinx finally lets herself say things she was so afraid to say before. Lets her feelings and thoughts be known in the most vulnerable way possible. Not with Enemy's upset angry screaming but with this gentle melodic whisper.

And what does she have to say about her feelings towards the person who she shares so much complicated history with?

That his name cuts her open every time she hears it. And that's why she doesn't say it - it hurts her so much.

Ekko's name literally echoes in her mind. Jinx can't even say for sure whether this pain she feels comes from hatred that formed over the years or from pure sweetness, softness and gentleness that she still keeps in her heart for him.

And then comes Je t’avais dit: “Ne regarde pas en arrière” (translation: I told you not to look back) which is such an obvious Orpheus and Eurydice myth reference when you say it out loud.

Albeit, their situation is an interesting take on this myth.

Let me explain. Orpheus had a chance to bring his wife Eurydice back to the land of the living if he guided her there without looking back or else she would end up in the underworld again. There are several versions of the myth that give different explanations on why Orpheus turns back, but they all agree on one thing - it was done because of love.

However, in Ekko's case it's kind of a reverse situation - Jinx will disappear if he turns away from her.

That's what, in my opinion, Turn Your Back and I'll Disappear song means, actually.

And here, at the end of second verse, Jinx explicitly tells Ekko that he shouldn't look back. He should leave past behind, should leave her behind, let her disappear from his life and from this world altogether or else everything will get infinitely worse.

But of course he doesn't, of course he turns back (time) again and again.

He does it because he loves her, just like Orpheus loves Eurydice.

Despite not having much screen time, timebomb still managed to tell such a wonderful intricately woven story.

I analysed just a small part of Jinx and Ekko's symbolic lyricism. Believe me, there's still so much more to talk about and uncover since this story is told through different forms of art that are all worth your attention.

[moonstruckme]

hi, love! i have a silly request for james or sirius. there are a lot of wonderful fics out there where reader or the love interest confess their feelings when they’re loopy from drinking or being sick and whatnot, but i think it would be quite funny for reader to just, completely sober, get fed up one day by how lovely he is. She confesses but she’s so angry that it doesn’t even register as a confession at first.

Thanks for requesting lovely!

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 1.4k words

Sirius is braver than you are. You’ve always known it, but you think he likes to remind you by doing things like this, sitting on the edge of his building’s roof with his legs dangling off the edge. You don’t have nearly enough trust in yourself not to lean too far forward and go toppling over, so you’ve got your legs drawn in close to your chest and have situated yourself a few inches back from the edge, watching Sirius as he tempts fate for his lungs as well. 

“I sort of knew he was going to end it tonight,” he says, smoke billowing out from his mouth into the darkness. 

He’s melancholy but trying to hide it, looking off into the distance instead of at you. Your heart aches for him. Sirius likes to pretend that these little rejections don’t phase him, that he’s only dating casually and having fun, but he gets attached quickly; when things don’t work out, he hurts. 

“How did you know?” you ask. 

“He said he wanted to talk over dinner.” 

You wince. “Yeah, that’s never good.” 

“No.” Sirius smiles wryly, the cherry of his cigarette flaring orange as he takes another drag. “But I suppose I can hardly blame him. He wanted something easy, and I’m hardly the easiest person to be around.” He laughs. It’s not a happy sound. “I really make you work for it.” 

“Sirius,” you chide, already exhausted. 

This, unfortunately, isn’t uncommon. Sirius’ heartbreaks, big or small, always come with a horrid bout of self-deprecation hidden under the facade of humor. Even hearing about his dating life isn’t so bad as this; you’re somewhat jealous of the people he finds attractive enough to date, sure, but what you really want, most of all, is for Sirius to be happy. You’re fine with it if someone else is the key to that. But hearing him like this, using jokes to paint himself as worse than he is, is agonizing for you. 

“Don’t say that. It’s not work to be around you.” 

“Oh, but you would say that.” If there’s some bitterness in Sirius’ voice, you know well enough that none of it is for you. He turns to look at you with one eyebrow raised, unable to keep himself from flirting even now. “You’re the sweetest thing on this side of the equator, babe. We can’t expect everyone I go out with to have your saintlike patience.” 

You level him with a stern look despite your heating face. “Stop.” 

“M’just saying,” Sirius goes on, unaffected by your remonstrance, “it’s not like I’m bringing tons to the table.” 

“Don’t say that. You don’t have to bring anything to the table, it’s not an exchange of goods.” 

“But that’s sort of how it starts, isn’t it? And what do I have to offer? Fucked up ideas of intimacy?” 

“You have plenty to offer.” 

“Right. Like a cold, bony shoulder for them to lie their head on.” 

“Sirius—” 

“I’m careless, and impulsive, yet unbearably clingy,” he’s really on a roll now, laughing at himself as he talks and brings his cigarette back to his mouth, “and Evans is always saying I’m arrogant—”

“That’s”

“Plus the anger issues I suppose, and altogether that’s really not—” 

“Oh, would you quit!” Your voice climbs to a shout. Sirius turns to you in surprise, and you snatch the cigarette from his mouth, putting it out on the ground. His eyes follow the movement. 

“My cigarette,” he says bemusedly. 

“Fuck your cigarette!” You’re seething, his words nettling you worse than insults against yourself, and Sirius looks at you like you’re something new and unexpected. Good. Maybe he’ll listen. “You are not difficult to love.” 

“Now, I’m not sure I quite said—”

“No, shut up!” You pin his stare with yours, vehement. “You are smart, and kind, and brave, okay? You are impulsive, but it’s because you’re brave. And you’re not clingy, you just care, Sirius, I—” Your voice grows fraught, and you have to fight past an intrusion in your throat, blinking away some dampness in your eyes. “I don’t want to be a part of your pity party if it’s just going to be you shitting on yourself. You’re a good person, and you’re easy to love, and for those of us that love you, it’s—for all of us, that love you, it’s awful to hear you talk about yourself like you’re not. You’re great to be around. It’s not work.” 

Your voice gets softer at the end, squashed defeatedly under the weight of your emotions. Sirius’ brow pinches. 

“Okay, okay.” He holds up his hands like he’s surrendering, then like he’s reaching for you. “Message received; I’m the shit.” 

“You are,” you insist tearily. “You can’t say it like you’re joking.” 

A little laugh stutters out of him. “I’m sorry. C��mere, babe.” 

If there was ever a time to hold out on going into Sirius’ arms this would be it, but you’re not sure you’ll ever have that much willpower. He folds you into him with one hand, using the other to brush away the still-hot cigarette butt before pulling you closer. 

“And your shoulders are nice,” you whimper, pushing your cheek into one to prove it. 

Sirius chuckles again. “Thanks, sweetheart.” He rubs tentatively between your shoulder blades. You feel bad that you’d met up tonight so you could comfort him, and somehow you’ve made it the other way around. “You’re too good to me.” 

“I’m not just saying that because I’m good to you.” You pull back from him, wiping under your eyes. “You’re a thousand times better than you say you are.” 

“I…” Sirius’ expression looks somewhere between confused and disbelieving, but there’s a caution there you know enough to be wary of. “Did you mean what you said about loving me?” 

Your heart stutters. “I said all of us that love you.” 

“No, but before that,” he presses. “You said those of us, and then you changed your mind, but it seemed like you were talking about you.” 

You shut your eyes, mortified. “That wasn’t the point.” 

“You did mean it, didn’t you?” Sirius’ voice isn’t gentle or pushy, just full of pure, bald curiosity. He sounds mystified. “You really feel that way about me?” 

“Sirius.” You keep your tone measured. “I realize you’re having a shitty night, but please don’t make fun of me right now—” 

“Hey.” Sirius sounds so genuinely wounded that you open your eyes. Once you look at him, his expression gentles. “Hey, I wouldn’t. I’m just surprised.” 

You give him your best attempt at one of his wry smiles. “Well, you shouldn’t be. I’ve just finished telling you about how lovely you are.” 

He laughs again, a breathy, startled sound. And beyond your humiliation, you can still appreciate the rare privilege of seeing him like this; shocked into his truest, most genuine self. 

“Yeah, but you’re only supposed to tell me nice things to make me feel better,” he says. “You’re not supposed to start believing them.” 

You decide to give him a pass on the self-deprecation, but you shoot him a half-teasing irked look. “Thin ice, Black.” 

“Fair enough.” He’s smiling an awful lot, his real one, pretty and dashing at the same time. It keeps coming back like he can’t hold it at bay. “I’m in love with you, too, you know.” 

Your heart can’t decide whether to be in your throat or your stomach. You feel like you’re choking on air. “Don’t fuck with me.” 

“I’m not fucking with you,” he laughs. 

“You are not in love with me.” 

“I am! And who are you to decide? You don’t get to tell me everything about myself, you know. I can know some things.” 

“But,” you’re shaking your head, bewildered and still looking for the trick, “why haven’t you said something?” 

Sirius shrugs, the first hint of that feigned nonchalance making its return. “I didn’t think you’d want to hear it. I do make you listen to me whine about all my woes and heartaches, after all. It can’t be very attractive.” He shoots a look at you, sizing you up. “Why haven’t you?” 

You sigh. Your voice comes out quiet. “I was always hearing about all your woes and heartaches. With other people.” 

Sirius makes a low groaning sound, but he nods. “Sort of shot myself in the foot there, I suppose.” He offers you a little smile. “Maybe we both ought to have given ourselves a bit more credit.” 

You rub your lips together, grinning despite yourself. “Maybe so.” 

[thelikesoffinn]

„Astarion ending as the Vampire Ascendant is the correct ending for him, because it is what he wants.”

That is a claim I’ve been seeing pop up more and more often these days. And I think it’s both a very bold and a very odd claim to make.

But first things first: Hello, I’m a licensed social worker! So far, I’ve worked with children, refugees and youths with behavioural issues stemming from bullying and or abuse.

Please be aware that I will be mentioning different kinds of abuse, coping mechanisms, and victim/abuser relationships. If any of this is difficult for you, don’t force yourself through it. My jabbering about a traumatised vampire is not worth your wellbeing, not ever.

I will, however try to stick to Astarion and not use other examples. If, in any case, I do use a non-Astarion example, I’ll add a warning beforehand so that you can skip the part. And I’ll make it clear what will be discussed in the next bit, so that you have a chance to skip it entirely.

This is an effort to make this as accessible as possible for everyone that wants to indulge on a mad woman’s rambling – and I know there’s a few people that like this sort of stuff!

And, uh, there's obviously spoilers for all three acts. Serious spoilers, even.

Before I can get into the whole ‘why Astarion didn’t really want to ascend,’ we need to understand him a little more. And to understand this pretty boy’s brain, we first need to understand the gist of what we’re talking about when we throw around the word ‘abuse.’

“Abuse” is when someone is treated with cruelty, violence, or neglect – often to bad effect – on a regular basis. Repetitively. Check’s out for Astarion, I’d say, but we all knew that already. I mean, if one thing was obvious, it was this.

1. Astarions Abuse

Next we need to look at what kind of abuse Astarion faced over his long years of torment, seeing as different types of abuse will have different effects on the victim.

Not that that is anything we have to worry about with him – Astarion won the abuse lottery, to put it bluntly. In a horrible game of fate, he got everything. He himself indirectly mentions all the types of abuse he faced, albeit never using the correct terms.

The first we properly notice – fitting, seeing as it is often the most obvious form of abuse – is the physical abuse. Astarions scars are probably the biggest tell Larian could shove down our throats, only underlined by Astarion’s tale about the night itself. About how Cazador ‘misspelled something’ every time he flinched or screamed and had to do ‘many corrections. On top of this, Cazador locked Astarion up for months on end and tortured him – or had him tortured – on a regular basis both as a rite and as a punishment.

Next up, we have the fact that Astarion was forced to basically prostitute himself repeatedly. This is what we call sexual exploitation.

“I spent two hundred years using my body to lure pretty things back for my Master.” – Act 2

Two hundred years is a long time, filled with great many people. Now, we don’t know how many of those people actually tapped into the sexual exploitation and how many he could just lure back with other means, but the fact that it happened a lot is undeniable.

Next we have a form of abuse that we often disregard in adults: Neglect. It sounds odd, I know, saying that a fully grown adult was neglected. They can care for themselves, can they not?

Well. Yes and no.

Adult neglect is proceeded by the condition that one adult has to lean on another adult to fulfil their needs for whatever reason. This could be anything, from disability to income-based issues.  

Seeing as Astarion had absolutely nothing, while Cazador had everything, we can assume this was the case. Cazador had the house, the money, the power. Astarion owns but one pair of clothes, assumedly, that he has fixes over and over again. Fair to say, that’s pretty neglectful. (And it’s one more reason to shower the guy in pretty armour and camp clothes. Go ham, people.)

Last we have the form of abuse we actually get to witness later in the game – emotional abuse.

Once again, it’s undeniable that this happened. Especially since we’re all seeing it in the flesh upon meeting Cazador in his crypt.

“Have you no respect for yourself?”

“I strove for perfection in all things. Even those as imperfect as you.”

“A pity you amounted to so little, despite my efforts.”

“A pathetic little boy who never amounted to anything.”

All Act 3, Crypt

Here we have just a few examples of things Cazador throws in his face. It’s like reading a textbook on emotional abuse, this one (and it’s definitely a reason to throw hands).

Blaming the victim, keeping their sense of self and their self-worth as tiny as possible to make them cower and flee. A true classic.

This pretty much shows that Astarion suffered all forms of abuse we commonly see and it is implied – once again by Astarion himself – that at least a few of those instances were ritualistic.

Now, what does that mean exactly? Well, I fear I need to use a real example here, so please skip the next paragraph.

Ritualistic doesn’t refer to a proper ritual – it can, but that’s mostly a thing for those in a cult. So, we’re not necessarily talking about a ‘Vampire Ascendent Ritual’. A husband, beating his wife every evening after his third bottle of beer is also called ritual abuse. It happens regularly. It is part of a routine. Both parties know what will happen.

I can’t find the exact quote, so I’m working of my memory here, but at one point he said that when Cazador invited him to eat and he said yes, he would be served a putrid rat. If he said no, he’d be beaten.

The way it was phrased made it clear that it happened more than once and that Astarion clearly knew what would happen. So, this can be classified as ritualistic abuse.

2. A Note on Conditioning and Compliance

By default, abuse victims are conditioned to behave a certain way or in a certain fashion. This is a natural response to avoid further abuse.

In Astarion, the thing we see most often is his inherent need to please. Not literally, he doesn’t mind being an arsehole. But he initially feels the need to follow Tav’s orders, even if they go against his own wishes.

This can be clearly seen in the conversation with Araj Oblodra. Astarion very clearly doesn’t want to bite her. He doesn’t. But he will do so, if Tav tells him to. This behaviour is not conscious – he doesn’t know why he does it, he just does – and it is to be expected. This is how he kept himself save for two centuries, so of course he will fall back into his usual pattern when the pressure is high.

This goes hand in hand with the fact that most abuse victims don’t fight. Maybe initially, but not after long term abuse. Especially not after two fucking centuries.

This is true in Astarion – offered by his ‘siblings’ during act 3 and unhappily acquiesced by the man himself. Astarion stopped fighting and, once again implied, cowered, and did as he was told in order to survive.

3. The Astarion we know and love

Obviously, all that abuse does have an impact on our vampire boyfriend. He shows various common signs of abuse and just like with the forms of abuse, Astarion raked every coping mechanism he could find. (Not really, but it feels like it.) It’s also important to note that nearly all of the following things happen inwardly. Astarion is not one of the victims, that tries to rationalise and minimise the actions of his abuser. Quite the opposite, actually.

I’ll note from the beginning, that rationalisation will not be covered in this bit, as most examples will be important later on. But he definitely does it.

One of his biggest skills is to hide every ounce of fear or hurt behind sarcasm and snarky theatrics. He doesn’t seem to hide his anger much, though, so that’s something! Our boy is cool with anger, not so much with being afraid.

“Ahahaha, now that you mention it….I might have done…that.” – Act 3, regarding the Gur children

“The thing that will decide my fate forever more? Yeees, it’s been on my miiiind. Why?” – Act 2, regarding the Ritual

And there’s many more instances that prove this. Honestly, half his dialogue is sarcasm, so it would really be too long to get into and we all know what I mean, right? We have alltalked to the guy before. It’s obvious that he’s sarcastic to a fault.

This goes hand in hand with his penchant for defensiveness. I would personally state that he’s simply not really good with guilt. When talking about fear, he usually just opts for sarcasm or avoids the topic completely, but guilt especially has his defences going up. This is also when he’s most likely to shove all the blame off to Cazador.

“Don’t look at me like that. Cazadors orders.” – Act 3, Crypt

“I just did what I had to!” – Act 3, Crypt

And don’t get me wrong, he does that anyway. And with good reason. Astarion didn’t have a choice for the most part, but he’s still easy to shove things off.

This kind of connects to his penchant for denial.

Astarion doesn’t really like to talk about most things. He firmly believes he is an ‘action’ sort of person that just does instead of plans, which invertedly just means he’s great at pushing the thinking stuff away. He also likes to get rid of stuff, so that he doesn’t need to face it ever again.

“I never want to see these little scraps of misery again. The world doesn’t need to know my shame.” – Act 3, about the children

And yes, this partly rings true. He’s probably ashamed and doesn’t want anyone to know what he’s done. But it’s also very clear that he himself simply doesn’t want to face his own actions, something that is just  underlined by his extreme willingness to red rid of the other spawn.

As mentioned by Astarion himself, he’s big on manipulation. I mean, I don’t think there is much explaining necessary. The guy is willing to do a whole lot in order to get what he desires – which mostly revolves around safety and survival, to be honest – and he’s not really shy about it either. And that’s despite the fact that he doesn’t really like intimacy – especially in form of sex.

It’s not a secret that Astarion is not big on sex and anything surrounding it. This goes far enough for people to consider him either ace or ace coded.

A claim that, personally, I’m not super in line with.

Now, it’s not entirely wrong and if this is your head cannon I’m surely not going to stand in your way – but on a larger spectrum, I think he’s more traumatised than ace. And while those go hand in hand sometimes, it’s a bit difficult for the ace community if you attach traumatised characters to them because it can fuel a whole lot of stigma that is honestly neither needed nor wanted. But I digress!

If it comes to his own behaviour, he’s great at minimising his mistakes. Honestly, he’s a master of minimisation. A very obvious and famous example would be:

“’Killed’ feels like a…strong word. Not many corpses have your vigour.” – Act 1, after killing Tav

Astarion. You literally sucked poor Tav dry and left them flopping around, cold, and dead. Killed is exactly the right word and we all know it.

“Quite the deviation from my usual routine. Capture, not lure. I didn’t bring them in with sweet rolls or anything.” – Act 3, Gur Children

This is another attempt at minimising what he did, if a bit less obvious because at this point there isn’t much he can say. But at least he didn’t sexualise the gur children, right? They’re still spawn but whoo, at least that didn’t happen.  

The next point would be dissociation, which is extremely common in abuse victims – of all forms of abuse.

Astarion himself mentioned certain moments that could be classified as dissociation over course of the story, which is probably the coping mechanism I personally expected the most.

The pale elf has a penchant for violence, but he’s not entirely shameless or abhorrently vile, which gets clearer the more the story progresses. So, two hundred years of forced prostitution, torture and doing whatever other horrible things? Yeah, I’d be more surprised if he didn’t dissociate.

Examples of that would be:

“A moment of disgust to push myself through and then I could’ve carried on, just like before.” – Act 2, after Araj

“I felt nothing the moment I handed them over.” – Act 3, Gur Children

“Did you enjoy it? It felt like you weren’t fully there.” – Act 1, Tav after Sex

The latter is generally more of an assumption than actual prove, but with context it does make sense.

The last common sign of abuse we find in our boyfriend would be his low self-worth. It’s a consistent trait that stays over the course of all three acts, noticeable in many different conversations.

We can see it in his reaction to wanting to break up before finishing his story. We can see it in his genuine surprise when Tav picks him over any of the other characters. We see it in his insecurity whenever Tav asks to sleep with another character. He’s fine with it, but he still worries their decision to sleep with someone else is based on something he did.

It eases up ever so slightly after Cazador is dead, but even then he’s still struggling which is once again perfectly illustrated if you try to break up with him.

“Oh shit. I- Did I do something wrong?”

That is the first thing he asks and I think it speaks for itself. He genuinely doesn’t believe he has much to offer and for Astarion, it’s likely that Astarion will always be the problem.

4. "Oh, I tried them all none of them answered.”

Another big thing that’s important to note, is that Astarion was never saved. No one came to save him from Cazador. There was no darling boy on a white steed riding into that castle to rescue him and princess carry him away. Not even the gods answered his desperate calls.

So, he never received any kindness or luck. To him, the world seems as cruel and horrid as before because he didn’t have the chance to experience goodness in two centuries.

But worse than that, he didn’t even get to save himself. Astarion didn’t stand up to Cazador, he didn’t run out of his own might.

He was beaten to near death and ‘saved’ by Cazador, who would become his abuser.

He tried to save someone and, in turn, was locked up and starved for an entire year.

He was abducted by mind flayers, i.e., saved from Cazador, only to end up tadpoled and on the cusp of getting a fancy, squiddy beard.

Anything that’s good, any kindness, any selfless action…it all came with a ginormous price tag.

5. Over the Course of the Story

Astarions behaviour changes a whole lot over the course of three acts – which is important once we talk about his quests climax – so let’s review what we’re working with!

Act 1 Astarion is guarded as fuck. The man has walls around him that are so high, even the gods can touch them.

A lot of his behaviour in act 1 revolves around staying save and staying liked. He lies, manipulates, and flutters his lashes in order to get what he wants and needs. Instead of asking, like Wyll, Karlach and Gale do, Astarion uses all he has to offer to get by. He is still very much in survival mode and tries to weasel his way through an unfamiliar situation with familiar methods.

On top of that, and most notably, he’s absolutely not fond of kindness or selflessness.

#I saved a child and now my boyfriend is mad

Here, we are most likely to gain disapproval for doing the decent thing – unless you sent him outside for a minute whenever you’re being a good person.

And I’d assume that this is because of two things.

First: The very traditional ‘Why not me?’

As I mentioned before, Astarion wasn’t saved. He hasn’t experienced kindness in a very long time so seeing that the world is literally filled with kind people is hurtful. Why didn’t anyone save him? Why was he left to his own devices for so long? Why should he care about others when it’s so clear that no one ever cared about him? No, dead to all of them. If he didn’t get it, neither will they.

“And what am I owed? What about the injustices I suffered? Am I not entitled to anything?” – Act 3, Crypt

“I was in the prime of my life when I was turned. Everything was taken from me too.” – Act 3, Crypt

And secondly is the fact that, as I mentioned, goodness always has a price. And it’s one most people won’t be willing to pay. That’s how his life has been, so why would theirs be different?

This is precisely why Astarion may disapprove of kind actions, but he mostly neither approves nor disapproves if Tav asks for payment. That’s just how the world works.

Once you venture out into act 2, after getting to know him a whole lot more, he starts to mellow a bit – if only towards Tav.

“He’s afraid, so afraid, of everyone but you, who she should fear the most.” – Sceleritas about Astarion

His approval is a lot easier to gain – or at least keep! – and he tends to approve of some more proper actions. He doesn’t throw a fit if you promise to find Mol, he approves of Tav being kind to His Majesty, of saving Aylin and he even approves of Durge apologising to Isobel after threatening to rip her to pieces.

He's slowly starting to open up, allowing Tav to see some parts of him he previously kept hidden. He accepts their offer to help, if hesitantly and, by god, the man starts experimenting with boundaries.

The social worker in me is shedding tears at this. It’s my favourite thing to see in my clients and it’s no different here. Yay to saying no!

Of course, it’s still a bit hit or miss. If Tav urges him to bite Araj, for example, he will only to later notice that he didn’t fucking have to. He recognises this on his own and he calls Tav out on it. Just like he calls them out on not helping him with his Orthon quest.

Good job, chap. Good fucking job.

And the growth-train won’t stop going even as we reach act 3.

In act 3, there’s not many things he disapproves as of right now – those he does, mostly have to do with how Tav treats him and not with anyone else. In fact, he’s more likely to approve good behaviour now, like giving Yenna food or money.

And yes, we need to consider that this could simply be because he gets used to Tav’s behaviour and just learns to roll with it. But it’s also highly likely that he notices that there’s truly good people around. At least one person. And that person is not only good, no, they’re in the process of helping him break free once and for all.

They’re helping him save himself.

By act 3, he has learned that he can absolutely say his piece where Tav is concerned and he’s more likely to disagree with them on certain things. It’s seen during a lot of small dialogue that he’s no longer terribly afraid to be honest with them, willing to listen and talk and he’ll ask for help if he needs it.

“I can do this. But I need your help.” – Act 3, Crypt

Something that can be viewed both positively and negatively is that he’s definitely loyal to a fault. He will stick by Tav’s side, no matter what.

“I really hoped we could avoid being pawns for a dark god, but here we are, I suppose. I’m with you, my dear, wherever this might lead.” – Act 3, After Jaheira confronts durge

As I said, this can be both positive and negative. On one count, it’s a recipe for disaster, seeing as he could be waltzing into a really bad situation for Tav alone.

But on the other side…this is a man who only cared about himself because that is the only person he could afford to care about. He needed to survive. He now has enough room to breathe and the capacity to care for someone else and I’d be inclined to count that as a good thing.

6. The Crypt

All the progress he made in act 2 and 3 is nearly tossed into the wind as soon as the crew enters Cazadors castle.

It’s not an immediate thing, of course.

At first, Astarion tries to stay light and simple and he hides behind flippant tones and relaxed faces. The way he recounts this is almost comically disinterested and the façade is actually quite good.

It’s start’s cracking after we meet Godie, one of the people who tortured him on more than one account, but he mostly manages to remain as upbeat as one can honestly expect for the first half of the journey.

All that, however, is done for the very moment we meet Sebastian. His mask not only slips, no, it full on shatters and there’s none of his apparent lightness left.

Which, of course it does.

The man is suddenly faced with years and years and years of victims. Innocent, unlucky people he lured back to his master over two centuries. People he liked, people he pitied.

“It’s sickening, seeing them again.”

It’s basically a room filled with guilt, exclusively for Astarion. And, as we mentioned before…Astarion is not great with guilt.

The guilt, however, is not where it ends.

No, he’s also faced with reflections of his own past. The spawn pose as reminders of what he did, sure, but also as reminders of what he was.

Weak, desperate, hungry.

There’s an abundance of images of his worst moments, reflected back at him in the thousands. It’s probably like staring into a funhouse mirror, but instead of seeing yourself in a funky way he just sees everything he so desperately doesn’t want to be.

“It should be [who I am]! I don’t want to be like them. They’re pathetic, horrible…”

He’s forcefully made aware of how darn weak he can be, which claws at all the wounds he’s barely had time to close. Something, he of course won’t admit if asked.

“THEY DO NOT [remind me of myself]. That weakness in me is dead, IT’S DEAD. I have a higher purpose.”

The high pressure of the moment brings out all of his act 1 traits in but a few moments. You can pretty much watch how he starts to shut down mid conversation, one of his old walls snapping back into place to remove himself from the situation.

Thing is though, walls usually become a bit brittle after disuse. Especially when talking to a person you don’t usually want to wall out.

Or, in his case, when talking to Tav.

After meeting Sebastian, Astarion shows extreme reactions to Tav nudging any of his weak spots. His reaction varies on whatever choice you make, but it ranges from aggression to defensiveness, to denial and even to downright begging Tav.

“Don’t hate me. I just did what I had to. I swear I did what I had to.”

This probably the most shocking out of all of them, since that is not something we got to witness before. The begging is likely a mixture of intense fear of losing Tav, his low self-esteem and pre-Tav behaviour, since we can assume that Cazador made him beg more than once.

Another old coat he puts back on would also be the least surprising of them all.

Manipulation.

He falls right back into it, using Tav’s affection to get what he want if we trigger the right action.

“If they die and I ascend, I won't have to rely on the parasite to walk in the sun. I'll be free. Truly completely free. Isn't that what you want?”

This, to me, was probably the biggest tell that Astarion was back in survival mode. He’s panicking, for fucks sake, and who can blame the guy? He’s back. He’s about to face down his abuser.

Of course he’s fucking panicking.

Panic leads to an increased craving for safety and, in his case, power. This is why he clings to Tav, why he begs them to love him still. And this is why he jumps head first into the rationalisation pool.

“I will need to sacrifice them all if I want to perform the ritual. - [You can save them.] – What’s the point? They're as good as dead! I thought they were dead. If they are unleashed, they will cause incredible carnage. […] They must die. Better they serve a purpose.”

Another textbook example.

They must die anyway. They’re basically dead. No need to save them now. They’re dangerous, I’m doing the right thing by sacrificing them. I already thought they were dead, so it’s not changing anything for me. They’re a lost cause and I deserve  all this power. I deserve it, because I suffered and nothing will change if they die.

So, seeing as we already spoke about his usual behaviour in act 3 – behaviour he showed after we allowed him to breathe and be himself for a while – I think we can fairly easily conclude he’s not thinking straight.

Astarion is right back in survival mode, where all that matters is he himself. If it weren’t for the seven thousand spawns, he might have moved through this more gracefully, but seeing those tipped the scales and Astarion is absolutely losing it.

Remember that for the last section, per favore.

7. The Ascension

“Astarion wants to ascend and Tav manipulates him into doing what they want.”

That is basically the essence of what people often claim and I can’t help but shake my head at such a blatant disregard of everything he has become. This is completely ignoring the change and growth he has gone through over the course of their journey.

Astarion wants to be free. He wants to be safe. That does not mean he wants to ascend.

And the claim that Tav manipulates him into doing anything is even more baffling. We are all aware that Tav is not manipulative by nature, yes? That is entirely on you. You decide who your Tav is.

And then let’s remember: Astarion is panicked. He’s afraid and he’s not thinking straight. His abuser is on his knees before him and he still feels so weak. And there’s seven thousand spawns that need handling.

Astarion is very much not okay right now.

In fact, reading his thoughts just proves this theory.

“You can see the fear in his eyes but also the hunger. The thick smell of blood in the air and the promise of power being so close is intoxicating to him. All he can see is the power of the ritual and the freedom that power brings. The freedom to do anything. To be anything.”

Tav, however, has none of those problems. They can actually see beyond the current situation and they are fully aware what the consequences are. Astarion is not. As we previously established, Astarion is a doer. Not a thinker. He didn’t think this through, not at all.

The only thing Tav is doing – the persuasion roll – is reminding him of the very real consequences he is facing. The consequences he hasn’t thought about before.

"I know you think this will set you free, but it won't. This power will trap you, just like it trapped Cazador."

And that is the kindest thing Tav could do in this situation. They’re not bodily dragging him away from Cazador. They’re not even telling him to not do it. They’re just offering him the truth. He can do with that information whatever he desires.

“Astarion cries when he doesn’t ascend, that just shows that it was the wrong choice.”

A hare-brained point that I thankfully have only seen once so far.

That crying? That is healthy crying.

That is him, crumbling under the stress that suddenly dissipates. That is him mourning two hundred years of torment. That’s him letting out feelings he hasn’t been able to for centuries.

And, for the love of god, try to put yourself in his shoes.

Two hundred years of torment, ended in but a moment.

Astarion was abused and tortured for so long, afraid for so long only to see his tormentor die just like that.

Cazador died within a moment and all Astarion needed was a darn blade. Of course he fucking cries.

Seeing how pathetic a being the very core of your life’s misery actually is hurts. It hurts like hell because not only are you finally free – free! – no, you’re faced with the fact that this pile of nothing, the thing that’s bleeding out right in front of you…this was what tortured for so long.

This thing hurt you so much. That guy took everything from you, everything you once were, and broke it again and again and again over years.

You were so scared of this thing.

And yet he has the gall and the gumption to die just like that.

It was so easy.

And yet you suffered for so long.

8. Evil Playthrough?

An evil playthrough is really a different setting altogether.

All of this, as you can probably tell, is really only applicable on a good playthrough. Realistically speaking. I’m not sure how the game mechanics handle it.

On an evil path, Astarion never really gets to experience kindness and goodness. Evil Tav will just prove him right in his believe that the world is a vile and cold place, meaning that he realistically would be more inclined to actually want to ascend.

9. Final Conclusion

I think all of this should be enough to make it clear that no, ascended Astarion is not the best ending for the guy. In fact, it is probably the worst. Because it’s just him, running away. He’s running into a lonely and cold state of being, where cruelty and power lord over everything else and he’s running because he’s terrified of being hurt again. He’s running despite desperately wanting to stop running.

“I'll spend the rest of my life running watching the shadows, never feeling safe…no, this has to happen. Here and now.”

And, the worst part is: Nothing about Astarion is left after he ascends. Even his tone of speaking gradually changes, his theatrics fading. He’s slowly losing himself, until there’s nothing but an evil caricature left.

So, in the end, ascension will have proven him right.

That version of him is dead.

[with-my-calamitous-love]

saved this for valentines day because i am so astronomically down bad for this man. anyway bodyguard! chuuya 🤍🫧❄️ gn! on the first section, nsfw f! below the divider 💌

bodyguard! chuuya, who born to do this job. who is a natural protector, who can be both rough and affectionate, fiercely loyal even to a fault, even if it seals his fate. but even statues crumble if they're made to break.

bodyguard! chuuya, who has lost everything that he's ever cared about. who is sure it's a curse- that whatever comes close to his heart is sent to fall into ruins, a product of gravity. he knows that he should have faith, but finds himself questioning the universe, if he's simply destined to be alone. who contemplates even getting close to you on this job, if he'll only end up more alone.

bodyguard! chuuya, who has the powers of a god that he didn't ask for. who sometimes wakes up in a cold sweat, dreary eyes picturing glowing red marks up and down his skin, weaving around his limbs, a monstrous form he's scared of bringing to late. who sometimes feels that his desire to be human are like the last drops of an ink pen- something that isn't going to work.

bodyguard! chuuya, who isn't sure if he should open up to you, who knows that the most singing pains of the heart come from stabs while vulnerable. who knows that by admitting his faults, he opens himself up to betrayal- the one thing he hates most in the world. who learns from you that to be hurt is to be human, and that his pain is a symbol of that humanity.

bodyguard! chuuya, who barely catches himself falling for you. who starts out his task as a simple mission- protect you, and nothing more. who fails to see you cracking the locks in his chest, crashing into you like a head on collision. who falls so hard and so fast, his feelings appear to him as a paradox. he's lost everyone, and the universe is giving him another chance to protect them.

bodyguard! chuuya, who you share a vow with, one that you'll both uphold. his is to protect you, to throw himself in front of flames and bullets to keep a smile on your face. where yours is to imagine things that haven't happened yet, keeping him grounded, teaching him that it's okay to love. that he may be dangerous, or deemed wicked, or a monster, but that you don't care. that you see him for him, and thats enough for you.

bodyguard! chuuya, who does so much more than protect you from physical threats. who holds your hand during panic attacks, stroking your hair and letting you breathe with him. who holds your hair back when you throw up, and carries you back to bed. who will kiss your hand and hug you when you need someone, when you need him. who sometimes struggles to keep his longings locked, knowing he needs to protect you, and wonders if that means protecting you from him- from the monster he knows he can be.

bodyguard! chuuya, who melts in your touch, never crossing the line, never wanting to make you uncomfortable or unsafe. who, even after learning you feel the same, hesitates. he isn't supposed to love, or care. everyone who has ever come close to him has ended up leaving. who learns that you have a funny way of surprising him, of assuring him that if this isn't forever, it'll be for as long as it lasts. a star that burns out is shines brighter than infinite darkness. given the choice between forever with someone or a night with chuuya? the choice is obvious.

✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.*

bodyguard! chuuya, who is a passionate lover. who indulges in messy kisses, setting your bedsheets ablaze with every touch. who will slowly undress you, pulling down the fabric, unlacing and undoing whatever he needs. who sees more and more skin as just more area he gets to lavish and love, gazing at every part of you- from the tip of your nose to the very depths of your soul- with nothing short of perfect adoration.

bodyguard! chuuya, who talks you through it. who asks if you like this position or if his fingers feel good. who looks up at you while he goes down on you, lips wrapped around your clit, fingers angled just right, and asks if you feel good- as if you haven't been bawling his name.

bodyguard! who does it slow and passionate. making sure his cock reaches in at your deepest parts, savoring how your pussy clamps down on him. who will take your wrists and pin them on either side of your head, forehead against yours, moaning in unison with you while he drags in and out so slow its agonizingly pleasurable. who draws out your orgasms for as long as possible, rubbing circles on your clit, kissing your tits, licking your body until you're on fire.

bodyguard! chuuya, who can just as easily be an asshole in bed. who flips you around and tosses you into positions until you find one you like. who is always open to experimentation- seeing what pet names you like, how long you can go, if you like getting worshipped or punished. who doesn't stop until your gushing, melting in pleasure or getting pounded into the sheets.

bodyguard! who grits his teeth in pleasure when he takes you from the back, feeling you wrapped around his cock like a warm, wet, vice. who lets you adjust for however long you need to, sensing your impatience and desperation to feel him deep. who holds your hands behind your back, leaning down, telling you how good you're doing before fucking you into oblivion.

bodyguard! chuuya, whose idea of a date is seeing how many times he can creampie you until you're thoroughly wrecked. who takes it like a challenge, pushing your thighs up to your chest, burying himself deep, finding the right angle before stuffing you full of his seed. who sees your teary eyes, mouth stuck in an O shape and hoarse throat, he knows he's doing something right. who, after about the 3rd or 4th time he's gotten you cumming (he's lost tracked) finally stops bullying orgasms out of you and lays you down on the bed.

bodyguard! chuuya, who has found something worth protecting, laying next to you, pulling your body close to his. whispers that he'll pick up where he left off in the morning, before kissing you goodnight. <3