#/ wanted to speedrun some things before

[the-witchhunter]

DP x DC 50's High School AU... Or is it?

Just imagine if you will, a very aesthetic 1950's high school setting. The Waynes live in the idyllic little town of Amity Park, going to Casper High, and living their lives.

Dick is the oldest son, off to college but still stopping by to visit, all letterman jacket and smiles. Jason, the bad boy greaser is trying to finish up his senior year of high school, a little late, but spending time in Juvie put his life on hold. He's trying his best, spending time working on his motorcycle and hanging with his study buddy, Jazz Fenton. Tim enjoying high school life with his family, studying hard and enjoying photography club. Gee, Tim's life sure is perfect

or is it?

Tim can't shake the feeling that something is wrong. Sometimes, he remembers something else. He has memories of his life here, and they must be real, his family is here, Jason, Bruce, Alfred, and even Dick when he's back from the Teen Titans college. Wait... Dick wasn't in college, was he? Wasn't he a cop in Blood Haven? Was he the local cop? That's right, Dick is the local cop, all sunshine and feeding his eternal sweet tooth with donuts. How could he forget that? He loved his family! Sure, there had been some rough spots, like when Jason died went to juvie, but they were together now, a real family.

But sometimes Tim has dreams, of another time, of another place. But they can't be true, can they? YES! No, That made no sense. Thinking about it made his head hurt.

Then there was the matter of the boy in his class, Danny Fenton. He kept catching him staring. Danny would just look at him funny. Sometimes he would say weird things. Tim would write him off as just an oddball, but sometimes what he said reminded him of his dreams.

Tim wasn't sure what it was, but something was up. He was going to find out what it was, and maybe, just maybe, Danny Fenton was the first step to solving this mystery

or

Tim wished for a more idyllic life and to get along with his brothers while on a mission in Amity Park. One reality warping genie ghost later and now they're stuck in something like a 1950's sitcom with altered memories.

[ask-the-shiny-pokemons]

Rimi and Noelle went to a place where no one can see them. They decide to wear some formalities, where Rimi ties her hair and put a shirt with tie, and Noelle puts her outfit from Gala. However, she still has her sleeping pants on.

Once they done it, they back to the summit.

Y'know, Noey? This event is not so big as a previous one, but… I think we have so much fun regardless, yeah?

So true. So many friends to make. I'm not gonna count some troubles we've got.

They both make some deep breathes to forget what happened to them. For Rimi, it was a "small" talk with a strange hybrid Eeveelution and of course the trouble communicating with a "Purrloin". Noelle had trouble with a sassy Absol which almost caused her to forcefully mega evolve.

Soon after, Rimi is putting her paws behind her back. Noelle is very nervous what's Rimi is planning.

Noey… I'm gonna be honest with ya. I didn't expect to be in this place at all. I know it gives us terrible memories, but that's not very important. So sorry if I picked a place for this special day.

Ya don't need to apologize, Rim. This place is also gonna give us some good memories because at least it's not our Dragonspiral Tower.

Rimi stays silent even after Noelle's words. She sees through her eyes and blushes.

W-w-w…

Go on, Rim! I'm rootin' for you!

Y-YES!! sob

Noelle cries because her beloved made a proposal. If it's not their time together at the school, she might simply say "no". Rimi put the engagement ring to middle finger on Noelle's paw.

As they engaged, everyone come and see the event. Noelle decides to show it to everyone.

Rimi and Noelle are now engaged.

[ background by @/lightofunova; cameos including @idolmelodies, @luckykatsranch, @the-feral-one, @mezuni-and-willow, @sphaeramjourney. I hope I did them justice. ]

[chaotic-minds-think-alike]

This is what Moon’s ost feels like and it still makes me so unbelievably emotional

(Wow the quality was butchered- click for full quality)

[nexus-nebulae]

i wish duolingo would prioritise teaching me the alphabet of a language with a different script that I'm not familiar with bc every time it tries to automatically take me to a new lesson it goes straight to the units that make you make sentences when i don't even know how to read yet

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: Speedrunning Marriage Fraud || Ace Trappola

You get isekai’d as the heroine in a romance novel, but instead of dreamy suitors, you’re stuck with a yandere cryptid, a billionaire with no impulse control, and a knight who thinks he's in a Shakespearean tragedy (and more).

Your solution? Commit marriage fraud with your best friend, Ace Trappola, and hope no one asks for a marriage certificate.

Series Masterlist

You should have known better than to leave your apartment. You should have listened to your instincts, that deep, primal voice that told you the outside world was a dangerous and unforgiving place. But no. You just had to touch grass.

It had all started with an innocent desire for fresh air. You had gone to the park, found a nice spot, and opened the novel that a colleague had given you—probably as a form of psychological torture disguised as a gift. From the summary alone, you knew it was going to be a lot, but you had no idea just how much your soul would suffer.

The heroine was a noble who clearly did not want to be in this story. Every single page was filled with her staring off into the void, giving half-hearted responses to the five men vying for her attention, like she was a protagonist who hadn’t realized she was in a romance novel yet.

And the love interests. Oh, the love interests.

The (Discount) Yandere Viscount (who had never heard of stealth)

His idea of "obsessively watching over the heroine" was lurking in the shadows like a particularly uncoordinated cryptid. Every single time he tried to “stalk” her, he tripped over his own sword. At one point, he dramatically whispered, “I will protect you… wait, don’t run!” before faceplanting into a bush.

2. The Childhood Acquaintance (who was delusional)

This man had spoken to the heroine exactly once when they were both six years old, but somehow convinced himself they were soulmates. He carried around the same handkerchief she had given him more than 15 years ago like it was a sacred relic and refused to take no for an answer.

3. The "Genius Strategist" Prince (who had the IQ of a raisin)

The man had already planned their wedding, their honeymoon, and the names of their three children within four minutes of meeting her. When she told him she wasn’t interested, his brain blue-screened and he simply repeated, “Ah, you’re just shy.” No, sir. She is not shy. She just isn't interested.

4. The Brooding Duke of the North (who was a caricature of a chaebol heir from a K-Drama)

He believed love could be bought. He once gifted her a solid gold chair because “only the finest furniture is worthy of your presence.” He bought an entire carnival just so she wouldn’t have to wait in line. At one point, he threw money at a random tree, and you weren’t even sure why.

5. The Drama King Knight (who needed to calm down)

He was so powerful but refused to use his strength unless it was for dramatic effect. He got scratched by a cat once and collapsed into the heroine’s arms like he had been mortally wounded. His sword had the power to split mountains, but the only time he ever drew it was to dramatically point at the moon while monologuing about destiny.

And the villainess? She wasn’t even that bad. Compared to these five disasters, she looked like a sensible person.

Somehow, despite all odds, the heroine chose Ace Trappola, her childhood friend, which you had to respect. That was the one good decision this novel made. But just when you thought there might be some semblance of satisfaction—an assassin appeared out of nowhere (sent by the villainess of course) and killed her.

That was it. That was the ending.

You felt your soul leave your body.

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you weren’t sure if it was grief for the heroine, sheer frustration, or physical pain from how hard you had been laughing at this disaster of a novel. It was the most ridiculous, nonsensical, brain-cell-destroying thing you had ever read. You could feel your neurons committing arson inside your skull.

You snapped the book shut and decided that was enough stupidity for one day.

It was time to go home.

As you trudged back, your brain still processing the absolute war crime of a plot you had just read, you heard it.

A faint rumbling.

A presence.

And then—

“OUT OF THE WAY, SONNY!”

A blur of gray hair and unholy speed tore through the park, the sound of wheels screeching against pavement like a demonic banshee’s cry. You turned your head just in time to see a grandma on rollerblades, moving at a velocity no elderly person should legally be able to achieve.

For a split second, you locked eyes.

And in that moment, you knew.

You were not surviving this.

Before you could even process what was happening, she collided into you full force, sending you into a full aerial somersault before you crashed into the bushes like a ragdoll. You barely registered the thundering roar of her departure as she continued skating into the sunset, leaving you for dead.

Now, as you lay crumpled in a bush, your body feeling like it had been hit by a sentient freight train in orthopedic shoes, you had to accept the consequences of your actions. The world had punished you for your hubris.

She. Didn’t. Even. Stumble.

Your body ached, your limbs refused to move, and as darkness crept into your vision, your last conscious thought was, How is a senior citizen more sturdy than me…?

And then, everything went black.

The first thing you noticed upon waking up was the suspiciously pleasant smell. It was fresh, like lavender and high society, with a hint of expensive tea and wealth you’d never personally known.

Your groggy brain latched onto the first thought it could process:

Damn. Hospitals really upgraded their budget.

Then, half a second later, a much more terrifying realization hit you.

Oh God. The ambulance bill.

Your eyes snapped open in unfiltered financial terror, hands clutching at the sheets as you prepared to calculate your medical debt down to the last miserable cent. You were already accepting your fate as a lifelong indentured servant to the healthcare system when—

The ceiling was too ornate. The bed was too soft.

And there was a man sitting beside you, holding your hand.

Your breath caught in your throat as your vision sharpened. Red hair. Heart earring. A cocky smirk, even in his sleep.

You knew that face.

You knew that godforsaken face.

This wasn’t a hospital. This wasn’t even your world.

Somewhere in the heavens, a cosmic entity was laughing as you stared at Ace Trappola, the very same Ace Trappola from the cover of the book you were reading before you got absolutely trucked by a grandma on rollerblades.

Your will to live immediately evaporated.

This couldn’t be happening. This was not real. There was no way that the trashy dumpster fire of a novel you barely got halfway through had decided to swallow you whole and spit you out as its heroine. You were a victim of circumstance. You hadn’t even wanted to read the book. Your colleague had shoved it into your hands with a laugh, saying, “It’s so bad, you’ll love it.”

And now? Now you were going to die in it.

While you were still reeling from this existential horror, Ace stirred beside you, stretching like he’d just taken a refreshing nap instead of being complicit in your suffering.

“Oh, you’re finally awake,” he said.

You almost threw up in real time.

NO. NO, HE DID NOT JUST SKYRIM YOU.

Before you could even begin to unpack that offensive introduction, Ace leaned back in his chair, regarding you with an amused grin.

“Man, you were out for so long,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself at your expense. “We were starting to get worried.”

He paused, then snickered. “Not that I can blame you, though. You got knocked out real bad after Sir Drama decided to pick you up and carry you across a puddle—y’know, because chivalry—and then you started struggling and he, uh…” Ace coughed, failing to smother his laughter. “He might’ve… dropped you on your head.”

Your soul left your body.

The sheer force of your disgust, fury, and resignation compressed into a singularity of unparalleled despair.

You had already suffered a head injury in this world and it hadn’t even been five minutes.

Meanwhile, Ace—clearly unbothered by your silent mental breakdown—casually reached out and ruffled your hair like you were some kind of small animal.

“Try not to scare everyone like that next time, yeah?” he said, standing up with a stretch. “Anyway, I’ll let you rest. See ya, drama queen.”

And just like that, he walked out.

The door clicked shut.

And you were left alone.

You sat there for a full minute, staring at the ceiling, dead inside.

Then at the overly luxurious furniture.

Then at the mirror across the room.

You knew what you would see before you even looked.

White nightgown. Perfect noble lady bedhead. The very same reflection that haunted you from the novel’s terrible cover.

You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaled, and let out the most guttural, primal scream into your pillow.

This was real. This was happening.

And worst of all—

You were about to be pursued by five of the worst men to ever disgrace the literary world.

Tears pricked at your eyes.

You needed a plan.

You needed a way out.

You needed to reject them.

You needed to survive.

With renewed determination, you wiped your tears, hardened your heart, and began plotting your escape.

The moment you accepted that you were, in fact, trapped in this flaming disaster of a novel, you immediately went into damage control mode.

Step One: Gather Allies.

Your first course of action was to round up every single sane person in your immediate social circle—which, in this case, meant the heroine’s original friend group. You weren’t sure how well they’d take this, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

So, within the hour, you managed to corral Ace, Deuce, Riddle, Cater, and Trey into a private room like some kind of organized intervention.

They were all staring at you expectantly.

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself for the sheer stupidity of what you were about to say.

“Listen,” you began, voice firm. “I need help. Serious help. I am being actively hunted by five of the worst men to ever exist, and I need to figure out how to reject them before I end up dead in an alley.”

There was a pause.

Riddle, bless his soul, was the first to react.

He patted you on the back, nodding solemnly. “Finally,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you to grow a spine. It’s about time.”

You blinked. That was the most support you had ever received in your life.

Meanwhile, Trey and Cater exchanged amused glances, Ace looked way too smug for comfort, and Deuce was already looking at Ace like he was onto something.

“You need to get rid of them?” Trey asked, as if he were merely discussing pastry ingredients.

“Yes,” you stressed. “Immediately.”

Riddle hummed in approval. “Good. Then let’s strategize.”

You, Riddle, Trey, and Cater huddled together like you were planning a war campaign.

Ace and Deuce, on the other hand, were having a separate conversation entirely.

A conversation that consisted of Deuce elbowing Ace repeatedly while Ace sat there, looking like the cat that ate the canary.

Then, with the casual arrogance of someone who absolutely had an ulterior motive, Ace stretched his arms and leaned back.

“Y’know,” he drawled, cutting into your very serious rejection plan, “we could make things way easier if you just tell ‘em you’re already taken.”

You stared at him. “Excuse me?”

Ace smirked. “You'd just need a fake lover, right?”

“…Yes?”

He shrugged. “I could do it.”

The room went silent.

Deuce’s face twisted into an undisguised scowl of "That's not what i meant." Riddle raised an eyebrow. Trey hid a knowing smile behind his hand. Cater was visibly entertained.

You, on the other hand, were experiencing about five different emotions at once.

On one hand, Ace clearly had a crush on the heroine—for you. Which meant using him for this felt slightly scummy.

On the other hand, game was game, and survival was survival.

And you were not above exploiting every advantage you could get.

“…Alright,” you agreed, shoving your morals into a dark abyss.

Ace grinned like he’d just won a bet.

Deuce looked one second away from committing homicide.

And just like that, Operation “Escape Horrible Men” was officially underway.

The first lunatic to cross your path was, tragically, the childhood acquaintance—if you could even call him that. This was a man whose entire personality was built on a single act of kindness you had allegedly performed when you were six, like some kind of feral pigeon imprinting on the first human to throw it bread.

He had the look of a man who had been living exclusively off delusions and a diet of unattainable dreams, and you could already feel your soul attempting to evacuate your body at the sight of him.

It all started when you, Ace, and Deuce were having a perfectly nice day at the market. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, and you were engaged in the kind of casual battery that only true friends participated in—swatting at each other, shoving, stealing food mid-bite, and slinging arms over shoulders like a group of rowdy idiots. It was peace. It was joy. And then he appeared.

Like a cockroach that had survived a nuclear apocalypse, he inserted himself into the conversation with an ease that defied all reason, his hand creeping onto your waist as if that was something people just did.

The audacity. The sheer gall. The unmitigated temerity.

On instinct, you physically rejected his existence. You shoved him off with enough force to make a statement, then slammed your heel down on his foot. You were not the original heroine. You did not believe in suffering in silence. You believed in equal opportunity violence.

But this man—this absolute buffoon—had the mental resilience of a particularly dense brick. He simply did not process rejection.

You walked away. He followed. Like a stray cat you accidentally fed once, he clung to your side, ignoring all signs that he was unwelcome.

You showed Deuce a cool charm for his sword; he inserted his completely unsolicited opinion.

You cracked a joke to Ace; he forced out a laugh like you had told it for his benefit.

At one point, you were fairly certain he was just mimicking your breathing patterns to convince himself you were soulmates.

Alright. You had tried being civil. Time to be petty.

You turned to Ace with the kind of dramatic flourish that only came with years of consuming terrible romance novels, throwing yourself into his arms like some damsel in distress. Ace, to his credit, took exactly one second to process before he immediately understood the assignment.

He leaned in close, breath brushing against your ear like he was whispering something scandalous, and you, in turn, made a show of gasping, clutching his shirt like he had just recited the most romantic poetry in existence.

Then he hand-fed you a pastry.

It was too much. Too intimate. Too stupidly effective. You let out a little dreamy sigh, delicately biting into the pastry like it was a love declaration and not just your breakfast. Ace, ever the performer, brushed a crumb off your lips with his thumb.

Deuce, at this point, was convulsing with laughter in the background, nearly choking on his own spit.

But the acquaintance? The parasite? The man who had lived the past decade of his life under the assumption that you were his? He was seething. His face was twisted like he had just swallowed a whole lemon rind and all.

Time to twist the knife.

You turned to Ace with the most lovestruck expression you could muster and, in a voice dripping with sugar and malice, cooed, “Darling, when are you going to propose? I simply cannot wait to be engaged to you”

Ace visibly blue-screened for a moment. You could hear the Windows error noise in real-time. But he was nothing if not quick on his feet.

In a devastating move, he took your hand in both of his, looked into your eyes like you personally invented the concept of love, and murmured, “My love, I’ve searched the entire kingdom for a ring that shines as brightly as your eyes, but nothing has been worthy of you yet.”

That was it. That was the final blow. The childhood acquaintance physically recoiled, his reality shattering like fragile glass, his world crumbling like an over-soaked sponge cake.

“You’re… dating?” he whispered, trembling, as if he was the protagonist in a tragic opera.

You and Ace turned to him in perfect synchrony, all wide eyes and lovesick smiles, and in the most disgustingly sweet voices you could manage, declared, “We’re soooo in love~”

He ran away crying.

It was magnificent. It was euphoric. You turned to watch him flee, skidding into the distance like a wounded deer, while Deuce collapsed against a stand, wheezing.

And then, just for a moment—barely a second—you caught Ace watching you, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Then he smirked, slinging an arm around your shoulder like nothing had happened.

One down. Four to go.

The invitation to the ball had arrived with the pomp and circumstance of an execution notice.

You had already survived assassination attempts (by fate and by your own refusal to engage with the five unhinged men vying for your hand), but now you were being asked to waltz? Like some graceful noble lady who had spent her entire life twirling through candlelit halls and not someone whose idea of “dancing” was flailing in the kitchen at 2 AM while waiting for instant noodles to cook?

You tried to tell yourself, maybe the original heroine’s muscle memory will kick in.

It did not.

You attempted a single spin in your room and promptly tripped over the hem of your dress, landing face-first into the carpet with all the elegance of a sedated goose. The reality was undeniable—you needed help.

Unfortunately, Deuce and Riddle, your two best hopes for structured, competent lessons, were drowning in their official duties. That left you with Trey(thankfully), Cater, and Ace.

Ace. The man who claimed he could “totally waltz” but then proceeded to move like he was dodging invisible potholes. He swore he was just "freestyling," which, sure, was a thing people did—just not in 18th-century ballroom dancing.

Trey, ever the responsible elder brother figure, took pity on your plight and offered to teach you. You gratefully accepted, placing your hand in his, and the two of you began to move across the floor. Or, rather, Trey moved and you decimated his toes with every step.

Ace, watching from the sidelines, looked like he had been personally wronged by the universe.

His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. His grip on his drink? White-knuckled. If he had been any tenser, his soul might have ascended on the spot.

Cater, in contrast, was having the time of his life.

Sipping tea like a smug little gremlin, he watched the spectacle unfold with the kind of amusement normally reserved for reality TV drama. He did not care that Ace was clearly dying inside. In fact, it was making the tea taste better.

Meanwhile, Trey suffered.

He suffered so much.

You stepped on his foot. Again. You stepped on it without intent. Without malice. But with the weight of a hundred failed dance lessons.

“Ah, you’re getting there,” Trey said with the patience of a saint, even as he subtly tried to guide you away from his crushed toes.

Ace twitched.

The evening ended with you being marginally better at dancing and Ace looking like he had been force-fed an entire lemon tree.

The next day, you arrived at Ace’s estate with the singular goal of dragging him into town for shenanigans.

Instead, you were met at the entrance by his butler, who, with a knowing wink that immediately put you on edge, informed you that Ace was “currently practicing” and that you were "free to go in and see for yourself."

This, of course, set off all your mental alarms.

You pushed open the door just a crack, peeking inside, and what you saw nearly short-circuited your brain.

There, in the middle of the room, was Ace Trappola.

Dancing.

With a coat hanger.

He held it like a real partner, moving across the floor with surprising grace, his brows furrowed in concentration, his lips pressing into a frustrated pout whenever he missed a step.

You felt something unfamiliar rise in your chest. A warmth. A flutter. A sense of being deeply, irreversibly touched.

You immediately squashed the feeling. Crushed it under your heel like a bug. Incinerated it. You refused to let sentimentality win.

So, naturally, you cleared your throat and went straight for the teasing.

“Wow, Ace. I didn’t know you and the coat hanger were so close.”

Ace startled so hard he nearly dropped the poor inanimate object.

He turned to you, face flushing an almost adorable shade of pink, before scowling and attempting to play it cool.

“I—this—I wasn’t practicing for you or anything!” he scoffed, crossing his arms as if that would somehow erase the memory from your brain.

“Oh, of course not,” you said, nodding sagely. “You were obviously training to impress the coat hanger.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed the back of his neck. Refused to meet your eyes.

“…You wanna practice together?”

And that was how you found yourself dancing with Ace in the dim glow of the evening light, his hands warm against yours, the two of you laughing every time you stumbled.

It was awkward. It was messy. It was weirdly fun.

And somewhere in the background, Ace’s butler was already reallocating the estate’s budget for your wedding.

You had successfully survived the dance.

This was, by all accounts, a miracle.

There had been no toe-crushing disasters, no tragic falls, no wardrobe malfunctions that would have made the noble ladies clutch their pearls and whisper about you for decades. Not even a single case of you flinging your arms out too enthusiastically and smacking a duke’s son in the face.

You had defied fate.

And it definitely helped that your partner had been Ace—as much as that bruised your pride to admit. He was annoyingly decent at making sure you didn’t trip over your own feet, even though he kept smirking the entire time like he was waiting for you to say something ridiculous like "Wow, Ace, you're so talented and charming and handsome, what would I ever do without you?"

You would rather perish.

So, once the dance ended, you immediately excused yourself and found a nice, solid chair to collapse into. Ace, good little fake boyfriend that he was, offered to get you both drinks, which was a very convenient excuse for you to not be near him for five minutes.

And that was when the Genius Strategist Prince swooped in.

You did not see him approach. You did not sense his presence. It was as if he had teleported into existence like some eldritch being fueled purely by narcissism and misplaced confidence.

One moment, you were sitting peacefully, and the next—

He was there.

The cursed arm wrapped around your shoulders. The infuriating smirk. The unbearable arrogance wafting off him like overpriced cologne.

Oh, this was bad.

"You looked quite beautiful on the dance floor tonight," he murmured, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction. "Almost like a queen-to-be."

This man had the audacity—the sheer, unholy nerve—to look at you like you were supposed to giggle and blush at that line instead of chewing through your own tongue in an effort not to commit a crime.

You had one option.

You fled.

You simply stood up and walked away, directly towards the only person in this cursed ballroom who could save you from this richly perfumed disaster of a man.

Ace.

Ace, who had perfectly timed his return with two glasses of something that was hopefully strong enough to erase the last ten seconds from your memory. Ace, who took one look at your expression, saw the absolute horror trailing behind you, and immediately understood the assignment.

Without missing a beat, he wrapped an arm around you.

Possessive. Protective. The very image of a devoted fake lover.

You had never been so grateful for his dramatic streak.

The prince, who had followed you like a particularly persistent case of food poisoning, bristled.

"Remove your arm," he commanded, his voice low and sharp.

Ace did not remove his arm.

In fact, he pulled you closer, tilting his head just slightly in a way that perfectly balanced smugness and challenge.

"Why should I take my hand off my partner?" he asked.

You, who had spent your entire life developing a survival instinct specifically for escaping situations like this, felt the distant whisper of a self-preservation alarm. That was still the crown prince, after all. Ace was many things—irritating, reckless, an absolute menace—but he was not immortal.

Fortunately, before you had to say anything, help arrived.

Across the ballroom, Riddle nodded.

To your left, Deuce gave a subtle thumbs-up.

The plan was in motion.

Phase One

From the far end of the ballroom, Trey, the royal chef, emerged, balancing an enormous cake on a silver tray. It was a towering, masterful creation—a true work of art, layers stacked high, delicately sculpted sugar decorations shimmering under the chandelier light.

A cake that, in mere moments, would be used as a weapon of mass destruction.

Trey took one fateful step.

Tripped (As planned)

And the entire cake, in all its elaborate, multi-tiered glory, toppled over.

Straight. Onto. The. Prince.

Ace immediately shielded you from the debris. His hand was firm on your back as he turned you slightly away from the chaos, and when you glanced up at him, he was grinning.

Smug. Smug. Smug.

Something in your stomach did something.

You ignored it.

The prince, meanwhile, stood there in horrified silence, cake and frosting dripping down his very expensive, very now-ruined clothes.

And then came Phase Two

Deuce, moving with the "concern" of a man who absolutely knew he was about to ruin someone’s life, rushed forward.

"Your Highness," he said earnestly, holding out his own coat, "you should remove your clothes."

The entire ballroom went silent.

The prince, still picking fondant out of his hair, turned slowly.

"What?"

"You’re covered in cake," Deuce explained, voice so painfully genuine that you nearly choked.

The prince, who absolutely would rather die than undress in public, refused.

Which was unfortunate. Because Deuce, bless his heart, did not take no for an answer.

He grabbed the prince’s jacket.

And pulled.

The ballroom collectively inhaled.

Because underneath—where there should have been the broad, powerful shoulders of a “warrior prince,” where there should have been toned muscle sculpted by years of battle and strategy—

Was nothing.

Not just nothing—an outright betrayal of physics and expectation.

The prince was built like a malnourished Victorian ghost.

His coat—once the source of his so-called “strong, masculine presence”—had been heavily padded. Not just lightly stuffed, but outright engineered to create the illusion of bulging biceps and warrior-like stature.

Biceps, it was now evident, larger than his actual head.

The ballroom gasped.

The prince, red-faced and humiliated, did what any reasonable man would do when faced with public disgrace.

He ran.

You, Ace, Deuce, and your co-conspirators high-fived.

And the next morning, Cater, journalist extraordinaire, published an excruciatingly detailed article titled:

"From Brawn to Busted: The Prince’s Muscle Mirage!"

2 down. 3 to go.

It had been a regular morning. A peaceful morning. A morning where you had intended to do nothing more than descend the stairs like a normal, functioning member of society, have breakfast, and not make a complete spectacle of yourself before noon.

The universe had other plans.

One moment, you had been confidently stepping forward, and the next—

Betrayal.

Your foot had missed the step. Gravity, that treacherous, fickle force, had seized its chance. You had plummeted like a sack of potatoes launched off a moving carriage, limbs flailing, dignity abandoning ship before you even hit the floor.

And then you hit the floor.

Hard.

Ace, your beloved thorn in the side, had stood over you, blinking, until you groaned and weakly waved a hand to signal that you were probably not dead.

And that was when he had completely lost it.

He had laughed for ten minutes straight. A full, wheezing, tears-in-his-eyes, struggling-to-breathe kind of laugh, slapping his knee like an old man who just heard the funniest joke of his life. The servants had peered around corners in confusion. One poor maid had whispered, "Should we call a doctor?" Not for you. For Ace, because he was about to rupture a lung.

"You're fine," he gasped out eventually, still giggling like a goblin. "It's just a sprain, right? But your ego— oh, your ego is never coming back from this one."

And that was how you had ended up here.

Ace had decided—without your input, without even a semblance of human decency— that you were now a particularly large handbag.

He carried you everywhere.

There was no logical reason for this. You could still walk. You had one (1) slightly messed-up ankle, you were fine. But Ace, seeing the opportunity to be the worst person alive, had simply hoisted you up like a particularly unruly sack of flour and declared, "Guess you're stuck with me, huh?"

And he had not put you down since.

Which led to your current predicament.

You had planned to meet Riddle, Trey, and Cater for tea in the gardens, because you were a person of class and refinement, not some gremlin carried around like stolen treasure. But did that stop Ace? No. Of course not.

The three of them had been waiting peacefully in the garden, cups of tea in hand, enjoying their serene afternoon—

And then Ace had strolled in, with you draped over his shoulder like a particularly expensive piece of luggage.

Silence.

The kind of silence that one might expect after watching a clown cartwheel directly into the king’s court.

Trey looked concerned. Riddle looked like he was going to spontaneously combust. Cater, to absolutely no one’s surprise, looked entertained.

And you? You had given up.

"You could just let me down, you know," you muttered, swatting at Ace’s shoulder in what you hoped was a dignified manner, though it probably looked more like a dying fish flopping around.

Ace grinned, because of course he did. "Nah. Too late. You’re furniture now."

You scowled. "Then put me near the table so I can actually reach my tea, you absolute menace—"

Ace ignored you completely.

He dropped into a chair, still holding you.

This was your life now.

Trey, who had likely woken up hoping for a quiet afternoon, cleared his throat and asked, very diplomatically, "So… sprained ankle?"

"Tragic accident," Ace said, like he was recounting the tale of a fallen soldier. "There I was, just minding my own business, when—boom. Disaster. Absolute catastrophe. They will sing songs about this one for years."

"You were laughing," you deadpanned.

"And now I'm grieving," Ace shot back.

Riddle, who had quite frankly had enough of both of you, massaged his temples.

Meanwhile, Cater, who had pulled out his camera at some point, was taking photos.

"This is gold," he muttered, already plotting his gossip column.

And then, just as you were mid-swat, trying to smack the smirk off Ace’s face while he cackled like a heathen, Riddle sighed under his breath, voice heavy with exhaustion and despair.

"They're so obvious," he muttered. "Sevens save us all."

Trey nodded solemnly. Cater just grinned.

It had been a perfectly normal day.

Which, of course, meant disaster was imminent.

You were standing in the grand hall, sipping a totally normal, non-poisoned cup of tea (probably), when you felt it. That eerie, spine-chilling sensation. The distinct, unsettling awareness that you were being watched.

Slowly, you turned your head.

A pair of glowing eyes peered at you from behind an indoor potted plant.

You sighed. Loudly. "Viscount, I can see you."

"Tch," the Viscount hissed, stepping out of his entirely inadequate hiding spot. "So perceptive… as expected of my fated beloved."

As if to ruin the illusion entirely, he tripped on his own cape and had to grab onto the plant for support. The entire thing tipped over with a thunderous CRASH.

Silence.

A servant slowly turned to look at him, unblinking.

The Viscount, sprawled across the floor, cleared his throat. "Pretend you did not see that."

You rubbed your temples. "What do you want?"

He rose to his feet dramatically—or at least, he tried. His foot got tangled in his cape again, and he had to do an awkward little hop to untangle himself before he could finally regain his dignity (what little he had left).

"I have come to confess," he intoned, "the depths of my undying love for you."

A dramatic wind blew through the hall. (Despite the fact that all the windows were closed.)

You braced yourself. This was going to be painful.

"From the moment I first laid eyes upon you," the Viscount continued, stepping forward (but nearly tripping over a rug). "I knew that you and I were bound by fate."

He gripped his chest. "Your beauty, your grace, your ability to evade me every time I attempt to watch over you from the shadows… truly, you are like a rare and precious bird, always just out of reach!"

"You mean because I run away every time you try to talk to me?" you deadpanned.

"Exactly!" he said, passionately. "Such a clever game of cat and mouse we play!"

You stared at him. He stared back, completely serious.

Cater was, once again, taking pictures of this entire trainwreck. Deuce had just pulled out a chair, grabbed a snack, and was watching like it was a soap opera.

"But no more!" the Viscount declared. "Today, I shall break this cycle and claim my rightful place at your side!"

He took a bold step forward—

—and promptly slipped on the fallen leaves from the potted plant.

There was a moment of absolute silence.

Then—THUMP.

He faceplanted straight into the marble floor.

Cater wheezed. Deuce actually fell out of his chair. Riddle was muttering something about public executions. Trey looked like he was reconsidering his entire life.

But the Viscount?

He slowly pushed himself up, nose bleeding, expression unfazed.

"A minor setback," he rasped, wiping the blood off his face with his own cape like some kind of tragic war hero. "Love… is pain."

You exhaled deeply. "Alright, you know what?" You straightened your posture, voice heavy with overwhelming sorrow. "My dear Viscount… if only you had come to me sooner."

His breath hitched. "You mean—?"

"If only fate were kinder," you continued, placing a hand on your chest. "If only my heart were not already…taken."

Fake gasps echoed through the hall.

The Viscount staggered. "No… it cannot be!"

"I am afraid so," you whispered. "For I… I have already pledged my love to…"

You spun dramatically—and pointed straight at Ace.

Ace, who immediately choked on his drink.

Ace, who had agreed to fake date you but was now staring at you like you had just struck him with a bolt of divine judgment.

Cater’s camera zoomed in on his expression.

You turned dramatically, seizing Ace’s arm with a grip that could bend steel. "My darling fiancé, my heart, my sun and stars!" you declared, throwing yourself against him like a maiden in distress. "Forgive me for not introducing you sooner—this is my betrothed, Ace Trappola!"

Ace made a sound like a cat getting drop-kicked across a room.

"WHAT."

The Viscount looked like someone had just run him through with a broadsword.

"I know," you said, voice trembling with unspeakable woe. "It seems impossible. Unthinkable. But love, my dear Viscount, is a force beyond comprehension. Who are we to fight against fate?"

Ace was still making distressed noises. Riddle looked like he was five seconds away from committing homicide.

"No—no, this cannot be!" The Viscount staggered back, clutching his chest like he had just been mortally wounded. "You would choose him over me?"

You gripped Ace’s collar, pulling him until your foreheads nearly touched. "How could I not?" you whispered. "Look at him. Look at his—his, um. His face!"

Ace mouthed: WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?

"His personality!" you continued, wildly grasping for reasons. "His—his unparalleled ability to be so Ace-like at all times!"

"I hate every single word coming out of your mouth," Ace muttered.

"And most of all," you gasped, voice hushed. "The way he carries me when I sprain my ankle. A true gentleman. A man among men."

The grand hall erupted into chaos.

Ace visibly short-circuited. "I— WHAT??"

Cater's hands visibly shook as he tried to keep taking pictures. Deuce had fully dropped his snack. The Viscount let out a dramatic, heartbroken wail.

"Engaged?!" the Viscount gasped. "But how? When?!"

You clutched Ace’s hand tighter. "Last night."

"LAST NIGHT??" Ace screeched.

You shot him a look. Ace, whose entire face was on fire, gulped and quickly switched tactics.

"Aha… aha… yeah, totally!" He threw an arm around your shoulders, grinning through his existential crisis. "We got engaged last night! Super romantic and all that! Just me and my beloved—" his voice cracked, "—who I love so much!"

You patted his chest reassuringly. "See? True love."

The Viscount staggered back. His entire world was shattering. The intensity of his emotional turmoil was so strong that he tripped over his own cape again and went tumbling down the nearby staircase.

It took twenty entire seconds for him to hit the bottom.

More silence.

Then, from below: "Love… is pain…"

Ace, still holding you, whispered, "What did you just do to me?"

You turned, smiling sweetly. "I just made you my fiancé, Ace."

Ace felt faint. His heart had been going a normal amount of fast when he agreed to fake date you, but this? This was illegal.

Meanwhile, Cater was already writing the next article.

The night had started so normally. Just you, your expensive, holy-grail skincare routine, and the unwavering determination to emerge from this ritual looking like a Renaissance painting come to life. You had your headband on, your fluffy robe wrapped around you, and the greenish-white sludge of your face mask setting into a crusty layer of beauty and self-care.

Then Ace Trappola happened.

He kicked the door open like he was the protagonist of a spaghetti western, took one look at you, and lost his entire mind.

"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?" he gasped, immediately doubling over in laughter. "Oh my god, you look like a haunted doll."

You did not hesitate. You lunged at him like an apex predator.

And despite all his athleticism and street-rat reflexes, Ace had not been prepared for an attack from a fully masked-up, vengeance-driven individual armed with a whole tub of premium skincare.

"WAIT—NO—"

It was too late.

You straddled his lap, pressed his shoulders down onto your bed, and slathered the mask onto his stupid, laughing face with all the delicacy of an artist painting their magnum opus.

"See?" you said sweetly, coating his nose with a dramatic flourish. "Now we’re both glowing."

Ace wanted to talk back— wanted to make a joke, to tell you off, to do anything but sit here like a dumb, frozen idiot while you cupped his face, held his chin so gently, and smoothed the mask over his cheekbones like he was something precious and breakable.

And he was losing it.

Your legs were slung over his lap. His back was against your bed. Your hand was on his jaw, tilting his face however you wanted. And Ace, the very same Ace who laughed at every romantic in the kingdom for being cringe and stupid, was about two seconds away from throwing his dignity out the window and leaning into your touch.

Because all he could see, smell, and feel was you.

Your voice kept going, rambling about something stupid and inconsequential—some royal drama, a new gossip column, your thoughts on different brands of facial cleanser—but Ace couldn’t process a single word because his entire stupid, traitorous heart was screaming at him to just—just—

The revelation slammed into him like a meteor. A deadly, world-ending, history-changing impact that reduced his brain cells to rubble and left behind only the smoking wreckage of a man who was well and truly screwed.

This was not a platonic feeling.

This was the opposite of a platonic feeling.

And yet, instead of saying anything, instead of introspecting like a sane person, he just let you keep talking, let himself bask in the feeling of your fingers on his face, let himself sink into the sheer stupidity of his predicament.

By the time he could regain enough motor function to think about moving, it was too late.

You had both somehow, inexplicably, fallen asleep.

The morning arrived with the unmistakable sound of high-pitched giggles.

You cracked open a single bleary eye, your body heavy with sleep, and—oh.

Oh no.

Ace was snuggled up against your arm, his face relaxed in a way you had never seen before. His usual cocky smirk was nowhere to be found, replaced by something painfully soft and vulnerable.

His hair was a mess, sticking up in ridiculous angles, but somehow, it made him look even cuter. His cheek was squished against your shoulder, his arms curled slightly around yours, one leg lazily slung over yours like he had every right to use you as a makeshift pillow.

And the worst part?

It wasn’t even weird.

It felt… right.

And that was when it hit you.

Like a meteor. Like an act of god. Like the universe itself had conspired to wait until you were at your most defenseless before smacking you in the face with one singular, undeniable truth.

You were in love with Ace Trappola.

You. Loved. Ace.

How unfortunate.

You had half a mind to violently shake him awake, make him take responsibility for making you feel this way—but then he muttered something in his sleep, something unintelligible, and shifted closer, pressing his nose against your arm.

You stopped breathing.

The maids were still standing at the door, watching, waiting for you to react.

You slowly raised a hand.

And, with the elegance of a queen issuing a decree, you waved them away.

Five more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

The Duke of the North was an annual disaster. Like a migrating bird that exclusively flew south to be annoying, he only visited the capital once a year—and every single time, it was to do one thing: propose to you.

This would have been flattering, except for the fact that you had been rejecting him since the dawn of time. Yet, for some reason, he was deeply convinced that, one day, you would simply change your mind upon seeing him standing there, brooding dramatically in his tailored, imported-from-a-country-that-doesn’t-even-exist coats.

He did not take rejection well.

Of course, you never answered his letters. Why would you? His correspondence was a tragic novel in real-time, each letter trying and failing to sound aloof, with absolutely zero success.

"I suppose you are busy, as I am also very busy, thinking about extremely important things, such as war and finance and not at all about why you have not replied to me in the last six months." "Should you choose to acknowledge my existence, I will, of course, consider taking time out of my incredibly packed schedule to respond (though I have already cleared next Tuesday for you, just in case)." "It is of no consequence to me whether you reply. However, I have sent my fastest courier, so you may want to respond before he breaks his legs trying to reach me before nightfall."

Pathetic.

And now, as expected, here he was again.

And as always, he came prepared.

This time, he had doubled down on his "love can be bought" philosophy.

A solid gold chair—because “only the finest furniture is worthy of your presence.”

An entirely new breed of horse, bred specifically for you, because "standard horses are beneath you."

A fleet of ships. Why? No one knew. You were not a sailor. You had never even been on a boat.

Riddle, who had been an unfortunate witness to this entire spectacle, had been slowly turning redder and redder, not out of anger, but out of sheer secondhand embarrassment. He looked like he was debating whether to intervene or let natural selection take its course.

Meanwhile, the villainess, who had been throwing you dirty looks since the Duke’s arrival, stood nearby. It didn’t take long for you to realize why—she liked him. She wanted him.

You turned to face her. Slowly. Deliberately.

Your expression said: “Lady, I don’t even want him.”

Her expression said: “You lying harlot.”

And before you could even think of clarifying that you had no interest in this walking gold reserve, the situation somehow got worse.

Ace appeared out of nowhere, grabbed your hand, and, with the audacity of a man who had never once in his life considered the consequences of his actions, declared with full confidence:

"Oh, sorry, we already got married."

Riddle choked on air.

The Duke froze, mid-proposal, like a glitching NPC in a poorly coded game. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if he were about to say something but his brain was actively refusing to process the information.

"You," he said hoarsely, like someone had just stabbed him in the chest. "What?"

You nodded solemnly, forcing yourself to look as heartbreakingly sincere as possible. "We even have a dog," you said.

Ace, who had waited his entire life for a bit like this, effortlessly raised the stakes.

"Two dogs," he added, gripping your hand even tighter.

You smiled sweetly, as if recounting precious memories of a long and happy marriage. "Three, actually."

The Duke’s breathing audibly shortened.

Riddle buried his face in his hands and muttered, “Oh my god, make it stop.”

"WHAT?!"

Ace sighed, the weariness of a devoted husband weighing down on him. "We also have six kids."

The Duke, who had already been dangerously close to a stroke, seemed to visibly glitch.

"SIX?! BUT IT HASN’T EVEN BEEN A YEAR!"

Ace, seeing an opportunity and deciding to go all in, dramatically gestured at a group of stray cats on the street.

"There they are," he said, with the utmost conviction.

The Duke followed his gaze, slowly, hesitantly, as if he already knew he was about to regret it.

There, on the sidewalk, were six very dirty, very chaotic stray cats.

One of them, making full eye contact with him, immediately started hacking up a hairball. Another was biting its own tail, because it had seemingly forgotten that it was attached to its body. A third was somehow climbing a wall upside down, defying both gravity and logic.

The Duke completely lost his mind.

"YOU—YOU HAVE—YOU’VE BIRTHED FELINE OFFSPRING?!"

Riddle made a strangled noise. His entire body convulsed with the effort of holding back laughter.

Ace did not hesitate. "Yeah, we just love them so much," he said, as if this were a completely normal and factual statement. "Fatherhood changes a man, y’know?"

"Don't forget our youngest," you added helpfully, pointing at a cat stuck in a flower pot.

Ace wiped an imaginary tear. "That's little Gregory. He's the smart one."

At this point, Riddle was not even trying to stop laughing anymore. He had completely given up, his usual decorum shattered beyond repair.

The Duke, however, looked like he was experiencing all five stages of grief simultaneously. His face twisted into pure devastation. He opened his mouth to say something, then immediately closed it, shaking his head in silent agony.

And then, without another word—he left.

Ace, smug beyond words, turned to you, grinning. "That went well."

Riddle, who had just witnessed a full-scale psychological takedown using nothing but sheer absurdity, wiped a tear from his eye. "You two are insane," he muttered, shaking his head.

Ace didn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the evening.

Ace doesn’t know what the hell is going on.

He’s always liked you. A little.

A manageable amount. A totally ignorable amount. The kind of dumb little crush that normal people have. The kind you lock in a box, throw into the ocean, and then blow up the ocean for good measure.

But then you woke up from your fainting accident and became his worst nightmare.

Because somehow, in that brief unconscious state, you became ten times more interesting. More chaotic. More fun.

You met his sarcasm with even faster comebacks. You encouraged his bad ideas. You had absolutely no self-preservation. You went from exasperatedly tolerating his nonsense to actively participating in it, and it was the worst thing you could have possibly done to him.

Because now?

Now he’s the one barely keeping up.

You match him perfectly—step for step, disaster for disaster. If he’s instigating, you’re escalating. If he cracks a joke, you one-up him. When he nudges you in the ribs, you shove him into a bush.

And when you grab his arm, lean in close, and whisper, "Hey, let’s cause some problems," his brain just shuts the hell down.

He’s so ruined.

And the thing is?

Ace has done this to himself.

Because when he suggested pretending to be your lover, he genuinely thought it was a great idea. A genius plan, even.

He’d fake it, get it out of his system, and then tragically move on once you found someone else.

Except now he’s holding your hand in public.

Now he’s whispering in your ear just to make you laugh.

Now he’s calling you ‘sweetheart’ and ‘darling’ and ‘my love’—and you play along like it’s a game, and every time, his heart detonates like an unstable potion.

At this point, if you actually fell for someone else?

Ace thinks he might literally die.

No, really. He would simply perish. Collapse. Expire. He would crumple to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been violently severed and haunt the castle as the world’s most bitter, lovesick ghost.

Cupid was somewhere, rolling on the floor, wheezing.

The other day, you smiled at him for too long, and he forgot how to walk and almost tripped.

You called him ‘Acey’ once, and he almost bit through his own tongue.

One time, you said, "I feel safest when I’m with you," and he blacked out for a full thirty seconds.

You took a sip from his drink the other day, and he had to go lie down.

And now you’re standing beside him at some stupid jewelry stall, pointing at a necklace with that gleam in your eyes, and Ace is staring at you like an absolute idiot.

He can’t stop thinking about how pretty you look under the market lights.

How he’d buy you every single piece of jewelry in the damn kingdom if you asked.

How his entire soul is in shambles because he’s standing next to you thinking, "Oh no. I actually, genuinely, idiotically am in love."

Ace Trappola, Ace ‘Fake-Dating-Was-A-Good-Idea’ Trappola, is staring at you thinking:

"Oh, Trappola. You absolute dumbass. You’re in love."

And then you turn to him, all bright-eyed and smiling, and ask, "Ace, do you think this would suit me?"

And he almost chokes on his own tongue.

Because yes.

Yes, it would suit you.

So would every other necklace in existence. So would a crown. So would the title of Supreme Ruler of the Universe, if he could somehow get that for you.

But instead of saying that, he just shoves his hands in his pockets, tries to look normal, and mutters, "Yeah, yeah, whatever. If you like it, just get it already."

And you laugh.

And Ace Trappola is never going to recover from this.

The worst of the lot finally appears.

You had dealt with the Brooding Duke who thought love could be purchased, endured the Prince who wept into his lace handkerchief at every rejection, and even managed to shake off the Yandere who believed true love was an elaborate chess game. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for the Drama King Knight.

He stood before you in the garden, his impractically long cape billowing in the completely windless afternoon, because he had, no doubt, hired a peasant to stand just off-camera fanning him.

His sword—which was capable of splitting mountains but had only ever been used to dramatically point at celestial bodies—glinted in the sun. He looked at you with eyes that had definitely rehearsed this exact expression in the mirror for three hours.

"Fairest of all," he said, already halfway through a monologue you did not want to hear. "I have braved the perils of—"

You sighed dramatically, cutting him off. "A single brush of your hand might shatter my frail mortal bones."

The Knight visibly trembled. His gauntleted hand hovered in the air like he was about to faint. "You’re right… I must protect you. From myself."

Riddle, standing beside you, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes. Do that. From very, very far away."

And for a moment, it seemed like that would be enough. The Knight turned away, his cape swishing dramatically. You could practically hear the imaginary background music swelling, the curtains closing, the credits rolling.

Then he whirled back around. God, why do they always whirl back around?

"But if I cannot be with you in body," he declared, voice shaking with raw emotion, "then I shall remain by your side in spirit. Our souls, forever entwined. Our hearts, eternally wed!"

You blinked. "What."

"Yes!" He threw an arm toward the heavens, pointing at the sun like he was about to challenge it to a duel. "We shall be together in spirit! No matter where you go, I shall always be watching! Always waiting! Like the moon follows the tide, I shall—"

Alright. You had tried to reject him normally. You had been reasonable. But clearly, reason had no place here.

Riddle sighed. "Do whatever you're about to do. Just… make it quick."

You nodded grimly. If this was how it had to be, then so be it.

You squared your shoulders, took a deep breath, and clutched your chest like a woman stricken with a terrible, unknowable curse.

"No," you whispered. "You don’t understand."

The Knight faltered. "Understand… what?"

You threw an arm over your eyes. "I am cursed! Any man who loves me shall be turned into a… a… a goose."

Silence.

The Knight blinked at you. He opened his mouth. Closed it. His sword, which had been dramatically trembling in his grip, clattered to the ground.

"A… a goose?" he repeated.

You solemnly nodded.

And then, as prearranged, Deuce rushed off to fetch the goose.

The Knight looked between you and Deuce’s retreating figure, his expression one of dawning horror, like a man realizing he had proposed to a person who was actually an eldritch horror in disguise.

Deuce returned, struggling slightly because the goose had absolutely no interest in being part of this nonsense.

But this was not just any goose. This was the Emergency Goose.

Ace, hiding behind a tree like the gremlin he was, gave you a solemn nod.

Deuce carefully lifted the goose, revealing the final touch—the little red heart painted onto its cheek.

Riddle rubbed his temples. "I hate that you were prepared for this."

"This," you declared gravely, "is Ace."

The Knight reeled. "No. That… That cannot be!"

The goose honked.

"Yes," you continued, "he loved me once. And this was his fate."

A perfect beat of silence.

And then, from behind the tree, Ace whimpered, "Save me."

The Knight—a man who had once stood before a charging wyvern and laughed in the face of death—let out a shriek so bloodcurdling it startled every bird within a five-mile radius.

And then, cape billowing, he turned and ran.

Not a noble retreat. Not a dignified exit. No. Full-speed sprint. He shoved a confused maid out of the way. He leapt over a market stall. A small child pointed and laughed as he fled, but the Knight did not slow down, because his heart—once so full of love and poetry—was now full of terror.

Terror of you.

Terror of your goose.

Terror of the idea that at any moment, he too might sprout feathers and begin honking at the moon.

You, Ace, Deuce, Riddle, and the goose watched him vanish into the horizon.

A long silence followed.

Deuce set the goose down. The goose, finally free from its obligations, pecked him on the shin and waddled off.

Ace emerged from behind the tree, cackling. "Did you see his face?! Bro really thought I turned into a goose!"

Riddle sighed the sigh of a man who was simply too tired for this nonsense. "You two are the worst people I have ever met."

"You love us," you said.

"I do not."

Ace slung an arm over your shoulder. "You totally do."

Riddle turned on his heel and stormed off in the opposite direction.

But you saw it. You absolutely saw it.

A single, fleeting twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

Freedom. Sweet, unshackled, unburdened freedom.

No more men in capes dramatically reciting poetry at you. No more gold furniture being delivered to your doorstep. No more wild-eyed knights trying to prove their devotion by fighting literal bears in your honor. No more deranged suitors appearing at your window like particularly uncoordinated bats.

You were free.

And yet—

As you stood in the gardens, bathed in the golden glow of your well-earned peace, you felt… unsettled. Uneasy. Almost—upset.

Which made no sense. You had spent months rejecting these lunatics. You had faked engagements, lied through your teeth, orchestrated elaborate hoaxes, and weaponized a goose. You had done everything in your power to be rid of them, and it worked.

So why, in the face of your glorious victory, did you feel like you'd lost something?

And then, like a lightning bolt to the brain, it hit you.

Ace.

This meant no more holding hands in public to “convince” people. No more cheek kisses for the sake of believability. No more stupid, infuriating, wonderful Ace, grinning at you like you hung the damn moon.

It was over. Your fake dating/marriage/engagement (depending on the day and the level of your theatrics) had served its purpose.

And now it was gone.

The realization hit like a carriage crash.

You were an idiot. A complete, utter idiot.

Because somewhere between the first fake kiss in front of a suitor, the first time he laced his fingers through yours, the first time he winked at you like you were his favorite person in the entire world, you had fallen for him.

And now, standing in the wreckage of your successful campaign of repelling suitors, you realized that it was either confess right now… or take this to your grave.

Your horribly embarrassing, entirely unavoidable, painfully obvious feelings for Ace Trappola.

Ace is happy for you. He really, really is.

You’re finally free. No more unhinged declarations of love from men who have the self-preservation instincts of a lemming. No more dodging elaborate marriage proposals like a rogue in a dungeon raid. No more looking over your shoulder, expecting some cape-wearing lunatic to be reciting poetry in your honor.

Most of them think you’re taken. One thinks you’re cursed.

It worked. You’re safe. You’re free.

So why does Ace feel like he’s the one who lost?

He was kind of hoping it would take longer. Just a little bit. A few more weeks, maybe. Another month, if he was lucky. Because every day you had to pretend to be his meant another day you were in his arms. Another day he got to hold your hand in public and call it necessity. Another day he could press a kiss to your cheek without consequences. Another day of you being his.

And now? Now it was over.

And he doesn’t know how to go back.

How is he supposed to just… be your best friend Ace again? How is he supposed to look at you and not wonder what it could’ve been? How is he supposed to stand beside you like nothing has changed when everything has changed for him?

Because now, every time he looks at you, he just wants to grab you and kiss you until you’re the only thing he can taste. He wants to pull you close, whisper all the things he never let himself say. He wants everything.

But most of all, he knows—knows deep in his bones—that if you ever fall for someone else, it will destroy him.

He has to confess right now or take it to his grave.

You’re running like a madman. Like some kind of deranged romantic heroine who’s just realized she’s been in love with her childhood friend all along. Your dress is catching on every stray branch, your hair’s a mess, and you probably look like you’ve barely survived a war. But none of that matters.

Because Ace is running too.

You see him, just as wrecked as you, his coat unevenly buttoned, his hair windswept, his face flushed and frantic like he’s been sprinting for miles. And maybe he has. Maybe you both have—metaphorically and literally.

You skid to a stop, panting, staring at each other like two idiots who have finally realized the answer to a question they should’ve known all along. Ace looks at you, his breath shuddering, his eyes wide and teary like he can’t believe you’re actually here. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the fact that you’re both half out of your minds with feelings, but you throw caution to the wind.

You’ve survived up till now on sheer audacity. Maybe it can take you further.

So you kiss him.

And for a second, there’s nothing. Just the stunned stillness of the world as you close the distance, pressing your lips to his.

And then he’s grabbing you, pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His hands are tangled in your clothes, your hair, desperate, shaking, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through touch alone. He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this moment forever, like he’s terrified it’s all a dream and any second now, he’ll wake up.

You pull away for air—and he chases after your lips, stealing another kiss before you can even take a full breath.

This one is deeper, slower, but just as desperate. It’s like he’s pouring everything he’s ever felt into you, like he’s afraid to stop, like he’s trying to tell you everything he never could with words. And you get it—because you feel the same way.

When he finally pulls back, breathless and shaking with emotion, you press one more soft kiss against his lips, and then you say it.

“I love you.”

Ace lets out a watery laugh, his forehead dropping against yours as he grins like a fool. His eyes are shining, and he cups your face like he can’t believe you’re real.

“What took you so long?”

And then he kisses you again.

The morning after your dramatic, borderline cinematic love confession, you and Ace walk into the usual meeting spot grinning like absolute fools.

You’re both trying to act normal, like the world hasn’t completely shifted on its axis, like Ace hadn’t kissed you breathless under the stars, like you hadn’t confessed to each other in a moment so romantic it could’ve been a grand finale scene in a novel. But normalcy is impossible because the second you walk in, hand-in-hand, everyone immediately knows.

Riddle, the most composed of the group, simply pinches the bridge of his nose, exhales sharply, and mutters, “Great Sevens, finally.” His tone is not congratulatory—it is the tone of a man who has suffered for far too long, who has borne witness to the sheer idiocy of your mutual pining and is just relieved that he no longer has to endure it.

Trey, ever the calm and collected one, gives you a small, knowing smile and nods. “Congrats,” he says simply, because Trey has probably seen this coming since the very beginning. He is the type of man who could predict the weather based on the way the wind blows and has likely bet money on this exact outcome.

Cater, on the other hand, reacts as expected.

“LET’S GO, MY MAN!” he hoots, high-fiving Ace so hard that Ace actually staggers backward. “Finally out of the friendzone, huh? This is a historic moment. A certified win.” He’s already pulling out his camera, preparing to document this for the masses, and you barely manage to swat it away in time.

And then there’s Deuce. Sweet, exhausted Deuce.

He doesn’t cheer, or exclaim, or even try to congratulate you. No, Deuce just sits there, staring at the both of you like he’s just been freed from an unspeakable burden. Like he’s been carrying the weight of Ace’s obliviousness and denial on his shoulders for so long that he no longer knows what to do with himself now that it’s over.

“I don’t have to hear him deny his feelings anymore,” Deuce whispers, voice thick with emotion. “I’m free.”

Ace shoves him.

And as your friends start heckling you, teasing you, yelling at you to get a room, you turn to Ace, grinning at him as he grins right back.

And in that moment, you can’t help but think back to the mysterious, rollerblading grandma who is the reason you even ended up here. The woman who defied all logic and physics, who sent you hurtling into this world with nothing but sheer willpower and questionable urban transportation.

You close your eyes, sending a silent thanks to her.

She was a real one.

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

[fuckyeahisawthat]

Controversial opinion among Dune book fans maybe, but I loved the changes they made to Chani's character. Making her a fedaykin who is already an experienced fighter before Paul arrives was a brilliant choice. Dune Part Two is a war movie, and this puts her at the center of the action, side by side with Paul, and gives her a much more active role than she has in the book.

We got a hint of where things were going in the beginning of Dune Part One. The first thing we ever know about movie Chani is that she's a fighter. She serves as a voice for the Fremen, telling us the story of their struggle from her point of view. I wrote here about the difference this change makes compared to other adaptations of Dune, what a perspective shift it is to have the world of Arrakis introduced not by an outsider, describing it as a dangerous but valuable colonial prize, but by one of its native inhabitants, who tells us before all else that it's beautiful, her home that she's fighting to liberate. I am so, so glad that the second movie followed up on this characterization.

I never found Chani and Paul's love story in the book particularly convincing, because why would this woman, who already has a prominent and respected place in Fremen society, even give the time of day to her deposed would-be colonizer, let alone fall in love and have children with him? Without a compelling reason for Chani to love Paul, she ends up feeling like a prize to be won, and "indigenous culture personified as a woman to be wooed (or conquered) by the colonizing man" is a trope we've seen and don't need to repeat.

But as soon as you tell me it's a barricade romance I get it. Cool cool cool, I know exactly what this relationship is now and it makes sense. Movie Chani doesn't respect or even particularly like Paul when she first meets him, and she doesn't think he's the fulfillment of any prophecy. She comes to respect him, and eventually love him, through his actions. He's brave--sometimes recklessly so. He fights well. He's willing to stick his neck out on the front lines with the other Fremen fighters. He can (after a little help) hack surviving in the harsh desert environment. He's not too proud to learn from others. He seems to genuinely want to be her equal in a common political struggle. All these qualities make sense as things she values.

Fighting side by side as equals is just about the only way I can see movie Chani falling for Paul. And it fits perfectly with the film's pattern of reversals that Paul's capacity for violence would initially be one of the things Chani likes about him, only for her to be repelled later when she sees what he becomes.

And as for Paul, well, he's had people deferring to him his entire life. Someone who doesn't take any shit from him is probably refreshing. He seems to like people (Duncan, Gurney) who challenge him and engage in a little friendly teasing--and aren't afraid to go a few rounds in the sparring ring.

It's easy to speedrun a romance when you're spending all your time together in mortal danger fighting for a shared political cause. Especially if you then start winning in a war your people have been fighting for decades. Are you kidding me? That is the perfect environment for intense battle camaraderie to turn into romantic love, and lust.

It makes sense that this version of Chani never believes Paul is any kind of messiah. Of course a character like movie Chani wouldn't believe in or trust some outside savior to liberate them. She's been working to liberate her own people for years. The more Paul invokes the messianic myth, the more he starts sounding once again like someone who plans to rule over them, and the more uncomfortable Chani becomes. In this way she becomes a foil to Jessica, the two of them representing the choices Paul is pulled between. It's a great way of externalizing the political and philosophical debates that often happen within characters' heads in the book.

And of course this version of Chani would leave Paul at the end of the film. It's not just the personal, emotional betrayal--although that stings. What common cause does she have with someone who just declared himself emperor and is sending her own people off in a war of conquest against others? Given the important role she plays in Dune Messiah, I am super curious to see how they get her back into the story, but girl was so valid for being willing to just gtfo. Given that she has the last shot of the whole movie, I'm sure she'll be back somehow, and I can't wait to see what they do with her character in any future installments.

[theminecraftbee]

Pearl stops and stares once she gets to the front of the line at the Hermitopia Permit Office. She’s here to renew her ID, since she’s required to have a valid driver’s license for her mail carrier job she’s only recently moved here. Normal stuff, really. If it weren’t for the secret of why she’d actually moved to town, she’d have probably taken the license photo, filled out the paperwork, and left.

She is not here for a mail carrier job, and she can see things no one else in line can.

“I know, I know, I have a very beautiful face,” says the demon at the counter in the flattest affect Pearl has heard in her life. “Look, lady, there’s a line and I want to be on break, so if you’re going to sexually harass me or something can you hurry up and speedrun through doing it?“

She also doesn’t know how to respond to that.

“What?” she says.

“I mean, you’re staring at me awfully closely,” the demon says. “What am I supposed to assume? Surely you know that’s rude.”

“I’m not into men,” Pearl instantly lies for absolutely no reason.

“Okay? I don’t need to know that for your driver’s license?” the demon says.

“Right. Um,” Pearl says. She’s a little reluctant to hand the plastic sandwich bag she’d put her proof of address in over to a demon. If she’d just been a mail carrier and couldn’t See, it would be one thing, but she simply hadn’t been expected to come across the consequences of Hermitopia’s rumored hellmouth so immediately.

Or so…

The demon sighs again with an impressive amount of passive-aggression.

Pearl slides the documents to him. She watches as the demon gives everything several once-overs. He’s neither seemed to have noticed that she’s a psychic or that she’s a hunter. If anything, he seems to be trying his level best to avoid doing anything other than playing with several small desk nicknacks he has. One appears to be a magic eight ball shaped like a robot. Another appears to be a miniature game of Hungry Hungry Hippos. Yet another appears to be some kind of controller for the painfully inoffensive music the permit office plays.

Frankly, they’re all almost as distracting as the eyes that cover every inch of the demon’s body that isn’t wearing the permit office uniform. The eyes glow, faint and unsettling. They move as though on a higher framerate than the universe, giving a strange, out-of-sync effect with the way the demon otherwise moves. They make Pearl’s heart pound.

Hermitopia Hellmouth. It’s real. It’s real.

The demon gives her paperwork back. “You’ll be mailed a new license at some point. Here’s the temp. Have a day or whatever.”

“Thanks, er…” She squints at his name tag. It’s in deliberately small font. “Grian?”

Grian waves her off. “If my boss gets mad I’ll tell him it’s your fault I’m not meeting KPIs. Go away.”

“Your boss must be tough,” Pearl says.

There is a long, eerie silence.

“Cub would have Stared back. I’m not paid to bother. Learn to shield better. Next.”

Pearl stands still for a beat too long before stepping out of line, clutching her temporary license in hand. The worst part is that she has to wait for the permanent one, and they’ll only mail it to the physical address she gave them. That’s the thing about government-issued IDs; they care where you physically are.

She breathes. The world’s been overwhelming since she’s learned to See, but her new organization has helped a lot. Now, she has an opportunity to help back, here in Hermitopia.

Pearl owes nothing less than her best, presuming the demons don’t come to the address they apparently have in the night, now that they know she’s here, and she knows they are. She shudders, deeply unsettled. She knows she will not sleep tonight.

(After all, for a moment—a single, horrifying, terrible moment—those hundreds of demonic eyes had seemed kind.)

[asterafroditis]

𐔌 . ⋮ not enough for you .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☓┆Idia Shroud x gn! reader

𓏵 857 words

ᝰ.ᐟ 3rd person POV, no pronouns used, established relationship with reader, angst, hurt/comfort

feel free to like, reblog, or leave a comment!

ᝰ.ᐟ masterlist

Idia didn’t feel like he was worth your time—your love, your affection—any of it. He was just some pathetic, introverted otaku, a guy who barely scraped by in real-life interactions and spent more time talking to NPCs than actual people. Why would someone like you, someone with so much potential, choose to get close to someone like him?

It ate at him, this gnawing doubt. He could brush it off with self-deprecating humor in the moment, but when he was alone with his thoughts, the weight of it settled in his chest like a heavy stone. Maybe it was shame, or maybe it was fear— fear of admitting that you were the only thing, besides Ortho, keeping him tethered to the outside world. The only reason he’d even consider speaking to others beyond his hyperfixations on games, anime, and the endless sea of glowing screens.

And yet, here you were. You had so many other options, so many other things you could be doing with your time. But instead, you were sitting cross-legged on the floor of his room, surrounded by controllers and snack wrappers, laughing softly as you beat him for the third time in a row.

He didn’t get it. He didn’t understand why you stayed.

“You okay?” you asked, snapping him out of his thoughts. You paused the game, tilting your head to look at him, concern flickering across your face. “You’ve been kind of quiet. Did I go too hard on you this time?”

He shook his head quickly, pulling up his hood like it could somehow hide the flush creeping up his neck. “N-No, it’s not that,” he mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

“Then what’s wrong?” you pressed gently, setting the controller aside. You scooted closer to him, your expression softening in a way that made his chest ache.

Idia hesitated, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie. He didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to ruin this, whatever this was. But the words slipped out anyway, quiet and trembling. “I just… I don’t get why you’re here. With me. I mean, you could be anywhere else, with anyone else, doing something actually… I dunno, meaningful.”

Your heart sank at his words. You reached out, placing a hand on his knee, grounding him before he could spiral further. “Idia, why would you think this isn’t meaningful?”

He let out a bitter laugh, avoiding your gaze. “Because it’s not. Look at me! I’m R-rank material at best, and you… you’re SSR. Top-tier. S-tier, even. You could speedrun life and still 100% it without breaking a sweat, and I’m just here struggling through the tutorial. Why would you waste your time on a noob like me?”

You blinked at his outburst, startled by how much he seemed to believe his own words. He laughed again, bitter and self-deprecating, pulling his hood further over his face like he wanted to disappear. “I mean, seriously. You could be out there living your best life, but instead, you’re in a shut-in’s room, playing games with someone who can’t even grind for basic social skills. It doesn’t make sense. I’m not—” He stopped himself, biting his lip. “I’m not enough for you.”

His voice cracked on the last part, and it broke your heart. You squeezed his knee gently, leaning in closer. “Idia,” you said softly, “you’re not a noob, and you’re definitely not R-rank. You’re so much more than that.”

He didn’t respond, his shoulders hunching as he tried to make himself smaller, but you weren’t about to let him retreat into his shell. “I’m here because I want to be here. I could be anywhere else, sure, but none of those places would make me as happy as this. As you do.”

His eyes widened slightly, finally flickering up to meet yours. You smiled, brushing a strand of blue flame-like hair out of his face. “I don’t care if you think you’re ‘just some otaku.’ You’re thoughtful, smart, and funny— yeah, you are,” you added quickly when he opened his mouth to argue. “You make me laugh. You make me feel safe. And honestly, I love spending time with you, whether it’s gaming until dawn or just sitting here, talking.”

Idia’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. He looked stunned, like he didn’t quite believe you but wanted to so badly.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Idia,” you continued, your voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to be anyone but yourself. That’s enough for me. You’re enough for me.”

For a moment, the room was silent, save for the faint hum of his computer monitors. Then, Idia let out a shaky breath, his eyes glistening as he quickly wiped at them with his sleeve. “…You’re like, ridiculously OP, you know that?” he muttered, his voice thick with emotion.

You grinned, reaching for the controller again. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep you in check when you’re feeling down, right? Now, come on, rematch. I’m not going easy on you this time.”

For the first time that night, he smiled—a small, timid thing, but a smile nonetheless. “You’re on.”

[rewiringtoheal]

The Rain Came Pouring In

Natasha Romanoff x She-Hulk!Reader

Summary: A different take on that bedroom scene in Avengers age of Ultron. Natasha receives the love and comfort she deserves from an emotionally available She-Hulk!Reader.

Words: 1,500

Warnings: Talks of sterilization and one's choices being taken away regarding their own body. The red room phenomenon. general angst, hurt/comfort, vulnerable Natasha, first kiss, love confession.

A/N: I may make a part 2 with their first time making love. This just didn't seem like the right moment. And a few lines are from the movie so I don't own those.

Your forehead rests against cold shower tiles. Your palms are clenched at your sides. And your muscles are tense as the hot water beats down on you. The steam fills up the room, almost suffocating in nature. It's a welcome sensation. Anything to distract you from the images of what you did to the people of Johannesburg. Flashes of demolished buildings, Tony’s pleas for you to stop, and people fleeing in the streets run through your mind. 

Inciting such fear in innocent people has you overflowing with guilt but what really has you on edge is how easily the Maximoff girl could control you. You normally have very little control over She-Hulk. And you have grown to accept that over time for the most part. This was something completely different. An unlawful take over of not only your mind but your teammates minds as well. What that girl did to you and the rest of the avengers has everyone shaken to their core.

Your mind drifts to Natasha. Amongst the traumatized faces of your teammates, you couldn’t help but notice even in your own despair how pained she looked.  She looked more out of it than you. Almost as if she was somewhere else entirely. You can only imagine the horrors she had to endure. And your heart fills with sorrow at the thought of her being trapped in her worst nightmare. The urge to protect her rises to the surface. You would protect her from anything, even if it meant fighting against her inner demons. Just so she could relieve herself of them for even a minute.

You wish you were brave enough to tell her how you feel but you’ve never been the one to make the first move. Even before you had She-Hulk to contend with, you were too shy.  There is something about Natasha that makes you want to try though. The two of you are so similarly broken you think maybe you could help heal each other. If not soothe some internal wounds by loving one another.

You know she’s been flirting with you. She hasn’t been subtle in the slightest but you’re not sure if her feelings for you run as deep as yours do for her. 

You are brought out of your inner musings rather suddenly. The hot water has grown cold causing the tension in your body to worsen. You take a few deep breaths trying to pull yourself together as you speedrun cleaning yourself and washing your hair. 

You fiddle with the faucet for a second before turning it off. You grab the shower curtain, pulling it open, as you step onto the rug in front of the bathtub. Reaching for a towel to dry yourself off. When you're satisfied you wrap the towel around your body. Long damp hair trailing down your back and the feel of cold flooring under your bare feet as you walk towards the door. 

Upon opening it, you are met with the woman who continues to occupy your thoughts. She’s bundled up in a cozy grey bathrobe lounging on the bed. She looks so soft and delicate just laying there. Shy green eyes trail over your body causing a faint red blush to appear on her cheeks. You have the sudden realization that the only thing you're wearing right now is a towel. 

You run your hands through your hair awkwardly. “Oh god, I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized you were waiting…”

Natasha stands making her way towards you. She gives you another once over. Her shyness shifts into flirtation. “I would have joined you but now didn’t seem like the right time.” She smirked.

Shifting anxiously on your feet. “I used up all the hot water.” You chuckle nervously. 

Natasha cocks her head in a playful manner. “I should’ve joined you.”

You can see the longing for you in her eyes mixed with uncertainty. It comes as a shock to you. Her playful demeanor isn’t masking her true emotions as well as it normally does. This gives you an opening to discuss your feelings without her even realizing it. It gives you just enough confidence to be brave for the first time in your life. You close the distance between you with caution. One arm slinking around her waist drawing her body flush against yours while your free hand tenderly caresses her cheek.  

“I really think you should have.” You whisper. 

A look of surprise is painted across Natasha’s face. A tentative smile blooms.  “Yeah? You would have wanted me too?” 

You don’t like the doubt in her voice. You know you have to lay yourself bare before her. Your eyes lock onto hers with conviction, “The world just saw She-Hulk for the first time. Not the superhero but the mindless beast who destroys cities for fun. It’s not easy to deal with by any means. I don’t know what to do with myself. I do know that you are the only person who can bring me comfort right now.” 

Natasha looks up at you with wonder; her eyes glistening with tears. “You feel that safe with me?”

 You allow your eyes to fill with every ounce of love you feel for her. “Tasha, I haven’t felt this safe with someone in a very long time. Do you think that She-Hulk likes just anyone? Or that she would let just anyone perform the lullaby? You are the only person that we both agree has our best interests at heart.”  

She turns her face into the hand resting upon her cheek giving it a brief kiss. “I feel the same way, Detka and I want to explore this thing between us more than anything. I just...I think you should know who I truly am before we do. That way you can back out if it’s too much.” 

“Nat, I turn into a giant rage filled monster that wreaks havoc. And yet here you are. I wasn't sure if your feelings ran as deep as mine but I think I may have just been oblivious.  There is nothing you could say that would make me change my mind about you.” You whisper. 

Natasha’s body goes rigid, her eyes dart around the room looking anywhere but at you. You realize she’s bracing herself for rejection despite your words. You try to exude a sense of calm you don’t normally possess while you wait for her to speak. 

“You think you’re the only monster on this team? The things I saw..they were memories. Of the red room, the place where I was trained…the place where I was raised was all I saw. Flashes of the tragedies I’ve caused and the tragedies done to me.” Natasha inhaled a shaky breath. Pulling her arms tighter around you. A clear indication she thought you were going to run from her. “They have a graduation ceremony where they sterilize you. It’s efficient. One less thing to worry about and it makes everything easier. Even killing.” 

Your heart shatters in your chest at her confession. You feel tears starting to well up in your eyes. “Baby…I am never going to tell you how to feel but none of that makes you a monster. They took your choices away from you. They forced you into becoming an assassin. They took your chance of having children away from you. You had no autonomy. I am so sorry that happened to you. No woman should ever have to endure that. It’s not your fault. Fuck, those sociopathic bastards.”

Natasha’s anguished sobs fill the room. She’s looking at you like you’re her whole world.“I’ve waited so long for someone to tell me it's not my fault. I don’t know how to feel now that it’s happened. There is still so much red in my ledger. From my time in the red room and from a time when I could have made a different choice. I’ve done unspeakable things. You need to know that.” Natasha whimpered.

“I will tell you that this isn’t your fault as many times as you need to hear it. You did what you needed to do in order to survive. When it really mattered you made a different choice. You went with Clint and started working for shield. That matters Natasha.” Your thumbs wipe away tears falling down delicate cheekbones. “I’ve done unspeakable things too. Not just as She-Hulk but as me. Or have you forgotten how exactly I got my green counterpart. None of this has stopped me from wanting you. Natasha, I…I love you.” You confess.

“You are the most understanding person. I’ve ever met. And so incredibly kind despite everything you’ve been through. I love you too, so much.” She lifts up onto her tiptoes, small hands moving to gently rest on your towel covered chest, soft lips tentatively press against yours. 

Twin sighs of relief echo into the bedroom. As you both sink into each other. Just enjoying the physical and mental connection shared with one another. 

[hrrtshape]

so now that you've mastered shifting, how do you plan your multiple lives?? like how often do you shift/are planning to and how do you keep up with having many realities. like does it ever happen to you to get mixed up btween realities and say things as you dr/cr self?? like someone asks you your date of birth and you say 500 bc. and also after shifting and coming back expecially for long periods of time, have people close to you in your cr noticed something different in you? after all living a different life and staying there for a lot of time gives you experience and knowledge that you wouldn't have otherwise and it's probably going to change you.

mmmm. i don't want to sound cringe, but i shift based on dot dot dot vibes. some realities are on a weekly rotation, others are seasonal specials. sometimes i speedrun a dr just to check in, other times i stay long enough to feel like a native.

mix-ups.... of course. i’ve almost given the wrong birthday before. i've slipped up on references no one in this reality should get. my friend asked me what i did this weekend, i almost said "stayed in babylon". it's a hazard of the job.

as for people noticing. yes and no. if you're subtle about it, most won’t clock the what, just the vibe shift. they’ll say things like, "you seem different" or "you’ve been acting weird." and they’d be right.

[cerastes]

Monster Hunter World - Drimo Edition

I am going to sum up my thoughts of the pre-post game, base game experience of Monster Hunter World as someone who used to actively dislike Monster Hunter and who, in the last 2 weeks, has had a veritable blast with Monster Hunter World, and who defeated Xeno'jiiva last night. Most of the intended readers for this are familiar with my background, but in case an unrelated reader finds this to be something they'd like to read, a fast and dirty breakdown of my background is that I am in love with fast action games and in true love with FromSoft games, by which I mean not just Soulsborne, but also Armored Core, Shadow Tower and King's Field (and The Adventures Of Cookie & Cream, but that one's not important here), having grown up with FromSoft well before Demon's came out: The first Armored Core for the PS1 is a childhood favorite of mine and my first FromSoft title. I have done speedruns of Dark Souls 1, have cleared DS1, Bloodborne and DS3 in no level up challenges, and DS2 in a no death challenge. This intro is not to stroke my epic gamer penis, rather, it is to contrast this experience with my Monster Hunter experience prior to World: I gave Tri a go, and I did not like it, dropped it fast, then many years later, I gave Rise's demo a try and did Not Jive With It. I am a Complete Noob when it comes to MH. I want to credit @kc5rings for selling me an extremely compelling look into this game franchise I had basically written into my No Flight List and made me want to give it one last, third try. I want to thank @lc87 and @fractalanimus for playing the game with me when the time came to do sidequests, grind out some rare drops, and in general teach me the finer minutia of MH that you only learn through word of mouth, experience, or looking up guides, the last of which I'm allergic to. Three Wonderful People! And I want to thank a lot of different people in my notes through the Posting Of MH World that gave me different useful tips.

Very long post to it'll be under a cut.

The first thing I want to say, after this foreplay, is that to everyone that, through more than a decade, told me "dude you like Dark Souls, play Monster Hunter, you also dodge attacks, you'll like it!", you do not know how to sell your game. These games have a few overlaps, but they are very, very different beasts, they play fundamentally different and dare I say opposite in many regards. The moment I stopped trying to play Dark Souls in Monster Hunter, no, the moment I stopped trying to apply my prior knowledge of nearly all action games in Monster Hunter, was the moment it really started to click that this is more of an action positional turn based game than an action game. In Dark Souls, for example, you and enemies have really good tracking and adjustment, and even in Dark Souls 1, a game slow by the modern standards of the formula, you find speed similar to the fastest in the base World -- I've not played Iceborne -- there is a relation of economy of action and speed of action equals the amount of turns you can take. You take turns in Soulsborne as well, but the way you take and steal them is by knowing your attack speed, how many times you can swing and roll before running out of stamina, and how these factors interact with each of the enemy's attacks. This is reactive turn based action combat, where your main way of staying alive is properly timing your i-frames to the enemy's moves and then not overextending your stamina usage so you can both attack and get ready for the next affront. In Monster Hunter, you have way fewer i-frames, but conversely, both Hunter and Monster are extremely committal in their attacks, there's almost no adjustment, and the relation is instead economy of action and position instead of speed of action: Faster and less positionally important moves are weaker proportional to their convenience (Dual Blades, Bow for example), slower and more positionally important moves are vice versa stronger due to how inconvenient they are (Great Sword TCS). Your main way to evade attacks is to move to where you shouldn't be and not being there; your have a super high i-frame universal option in the sprinting dive, but this is entirely defensive and sacrifices your turn for a very safe move, which is antithetical to the offensive defense MH likes to encourage.

Once it clicked, the combat went from "holy fuck this feels awful to play" to "ohh this makes so much sense", initially there was a certain desperation of me trying to do things Fast because I like playing Fast, but that only resulted in missing attacks nonstop. You don't need to be Fast because nothing is Fast in this game. And just like Dual Blades and Bow, if a Monster is Fast And Its Attacks Are Convenient, it comes with a price tag: Odogaron and Tobi Kadashi are fast! But they are VERY linear, and what few moves they have that swipe or hit horizontally, they telegraph three business days in advance. Odogaron attacks 1 to 4 times in strings depending on its HP, but all you need to do is Move To The Side for the most part. Hunter and Monster follow the same rules, but you have to follow the rules! In fact, the reason Deviljho is so dangerous is because it doesn't follow the rules with its advancing body slam and with the Beat A Motherfucker With A Mother Fucker mode; Body Slam comes out relatively quickly compared to how it makes its entire body because a meteor sized hitbox advancing at you. And even then, it has a tell that gives you enough time to Move Out Of The Way (depending on where it cocks it head before the slam, it swerves left or right, meaning you can dodge towards the side its head is to get out of the way), as for the Holding A Monster, it gets insane and fast horizontal attacks, meaning disarming it is essential (Flash Pod).

Now, the flow of the game felt pretty good, but what I like the most: Scoutflies. For an environment rich in detail, Scoutflies allow you to properly parse the world without needing to strain your eyes by giving you all sorts of useful info and highlighting items of interest in the environment. The more you learn about a monster, the easier they track it for you. This is great, because, personally, I like the Fighting Part of the game more than the Tracking Part of it... But! The breathing living nature of World was still very fun to engage with.

In terms of difficulty, I think the game was pretty tame. It lives and dies by its rules, and I think the postgame will disrupt that with its superbosses and such, but at least the base experience was very strictly tied to the rules of combat. That doesn't mean it's boring, it was incredibly fun! Engaging with the rules per each Monster's needs means not only having to know the rules well, but also to be able to identify where a monster is not following them! So, for example, Odogaron overcommits, Xeno'jiiva has a tool for everything but only mediocre tools, Teostra is strong from the front and back but very weak from the flanks, Nergigante has good attacks but they are all highly telegraphed with high start up, Kirin has insane damage output options but can only land them on Stun, and so on. Just like your weapons diversify how you engage -- and skip some of -- the rules, so do Monsters. It's an incredibly level field between you and the Monster, almost like a fighting game where you can't pick half of the cast and the AI can't pick your half.

Initially, I thought the rhythm of having to grind the fuck out of stuff was going to make me hate it; the thing is, the fights were sufficiently fun for me to not mind doing some Monster fights several times in order to craft the gear I wanted, and this gear didn't need to get replaced often, that's great! However, this does lead to something the game disappointed me with: Weapons. The vast majority of weapons don't look good, and are small variations of the same base model for the tree. Sure, you got your Kirin Bolts and Bazelgeuse Hachets, but the majority is just... Generic weaponry with small modifications. In fact, Xeno'jiiva, the freaking final boss, doesn't get unique weapons! What the actual hell. The armor is great, but man, big fumble on the weapons to be frank!

The story is obviously just there, and the Handler -- I hope on purpose -- legitimately just exists as an entity that gets in trouble for you to see a Monster being dangerous for a while. But I didn't hate it or anything! It's Just There as a wrapper for the Monsters and the Hunters. This is pretty explicit, I think, considering all monster are named yet no human/wyverian is named. The only non-monsters with names are your Hunter and your Palico (Big Al my man). That said, I appreciated the angle of the story! We are a research commission, we are here to Learn Shit and not kill god, because god is part of the ecosystem, it's just Nature. It's Animals. We don't fuck with the environment, except when something has already fucked with it in ways that will be catastrophic to Everyone Involved, so we get involved to Unfuck It. I like that.

Overall, my experience with the game was very positive, and I am happy to have given this game a try. These two weeks have been pretty busy for me, but getting home and carving Odogaron and Deviljho to get those damn parts I am missing (Deviljho Scalp is rarer than Deviljho Gem, the spirits told me) has been a pretty fun activity to destress and beat the fuck out of Monsters with cool moves.

The Thing Is,

I Get It Now.

I get why you like this.

Looking forward to doing the rest of High Rank and then Iceborne and later on playing Rise!

[sleepyorchidmonster]

Okay, but what if Riddle attempts to fight Malleus alone to buy Idia some time?

Like, we know Riddle is both reckless and confident in his power, also, if timed correctly, Off With Your Head can be make a difference in a fight, and even Leona was having trouble with it (granted it was normal not-overblotted Leona and this is Malleus we're talking about).

It can also play with the reveal that Riddle thinks everyone hates him, so he convinces himself that the least he could do is make sure Idia stays safe, both for the mission and Ortho (and maybe he's feeling guilty because last he checked Ortho required urgent repairs and it's his fault). Or maybe Riddle just feels like his lack of understanding of technomancy is not being helpful enough andhe is eager to actually do something right (he doesn't understand the situation and, as far as he can tell, everything went wrong after his dream).

And then Idia has to stop his doomed typing with a side of panicked ramblings to take a deep breath and tell the 17-year-old kid to "Calm Down. We're not dead yet, and I'm not letting you go on a suicide mission."

And before Riddle can make a counter-argument, Idia is already following up with some extra points:

1) "Yeah we're both housewardens and troublemaking SSRs. I'm also older so I'm supposed to be the responsible one here."

2) "Technomancy is my domain, so if I say you're doing okay, you're doing okay. It's natural for veteran players to carry the noobs when they're just starting out!"

3) "You're a powerful DPS, but you're also a glass canon. Meta dictates that good DPS units need great supports, and I'm trying to summon them with negative gacha pulls and a dream here!!!!"

4) "If we open the door to let you fight Malleus, then the door will have been opened anyway, and that guy can multitask like a PRO..."

5) "You know chess right? Great. We're currently in check, with the only thing between total anihilation being a Rook (A.K.A. my precious door) and the Queen (A.K.A. you). The lil' pawns may have metamorphosized into a murderous army, but there's still a whole board between us, so we have to hold on!!!"

6) "And before you get the chess analogy wrong, I am NOT keeping you around just because of your magical power. You're a TEENAGER not a weapon, for crying out loud. Did you really think I'd be that stupid?? Ortho is literally my brother and I'd rather DIE than treat him like a weapon!"

7) "Is it really that hard to understand that I don't actually hate you? Sure, you have zero E.Q. and is in my "Top 5 Most annoying Students in NRC", but I don't want you dead! Who would drag me to dormhead meetings then? Vil and Ortho need a buddy who's not afraid to break the doo- NOT NOW MALLEUS"

8) "I actually like being alive and don't want Trey and Cater to kill me, and neither that freaky cat friend of yours. Or Floyd, Kalim, Sebek, Silver, Vil..."

Idia: And that would be all! Thank you for coming to my TED Talk! Now, I know the Final Boss is right outside that door, but why don't you read a manga or two to pass the time? You've already helped me A LOT, so why don't you rest a bit?

Malleus, from the other side: You should listen to Shroud, Rosehearts. I will even refrain from tearing the door down while you read, rest assured!

Malleus: Also, who gave you the idea that everyone hates you? I just want to have a pleasant chat with them! Lillia taught me the importance of understanding the point of view of others! :)

Meanwhile the others are trying to use Meet Me in a Dream while driving a gigantic Blastcycle so they can speedrun the dream hopping and get back to Idia's dream so they can make sure Idia is okay (Ortho), complete the final stage of the plan (the others) and locate Riddle (Heartslabyul and Equestrian Club mostly, but everyone's at least worried that he's MIA). Also Silver is resting while Ace uses his UM and Deuce drives.

Leona got what he wanted (a better mean of transportation between dreams) but at what cost (two freshmen at the wheel, and they're not the competent robot kid).

[librarygarten]

I’ve been thinking about the infodumping to the chain about Zelda games post and all I want to do now is tell them about the speedrunning in botw 💀

Like imagine looking Wild dead in the eyes and telling him that he could’ve beaten Ganon with a pot lid and a spoon completely naked not even a day after he wakes up habdmdvsusjsbd

Even better, imagine the potential angst if the boys DID use speedrun strategies... because of Isekai! Reader. Reader is their player, and the line between their control and the boys' free will is incredibly blurry at best >:]

#1 Chain x Speedrunner! Deity! Isekai! Reader - Who's in Control?

Part 1 includes Wild, Four, and Warriors Part 1 (you are here) ✿ Part 2 ✿ Part 3

When you first fell through the portal and joined the chain on their quest, you had revealed that they were only stories in your world. It had taken a while for them to understand the concept of a video game, and even longer for them to come to terms with the fact that some of the most traumatic events of their lives were reduced to children’s entertainment. However, as they talked with you, they came to another horrifying discovery: YOU were their “player.” Your actions in your world, the decisions you made while playing the games, directly influenced their own lives. What’s more, you were a speedrunner.

Wild

It was a peaceful day in camp. You were sitting near the fire, watching Wild cook, chatting about nothing in particular. Suddenly, his head snapped up, as if he suddenly realized something important.

“You made me fight Ganon in my underwear.” he says. He stares at you. You stare back, unsure how to respond. Anything you could say dies in your throat. He continues. “I couldn’t beat Ganon back when the Champions were alive. Back when I had the Master Sword. But you managed with a pot lid and a spoon.”

“Well, that was still you.” You can feel the sweat run down the back of your neck. “The line between what’s me and what’s you is kind of blurry. It didn’t feel like you were being controlled, did it?”

“No. I just remember thinking I had to get to the castle as soon as possible.” Wild looks down at his hands, contemplating his next words. “I did things without thinking, really. When I jumped around and shot that arrow, I didn’t know why. It just seemed… natural.”

You were aware of what he was talking about. A common way to skip Windblight Ganon. The only things needed were some well-placed jumps and an arrow. Shooting the arrow at just the right place would make it get stuck in Windblight’s head, essentially one-shotting him.

Wild turns back up at you.

“You made me fight Ganon in my underwear.” He emphasizes the last few words, as if he still can’t come to terms with this reality.

“I’m sorry?” You really don’t know what to say. Nothing could possibly make this situation worse. “It would have made a difference, really. I wasn’t planning on getting hit, so armor was pointless.”

“That’s right. I didn’t get hit once.” Wild looks shocked. “I dodged everything.”

“So everything worked out!” You smile nervously.

“But why?” He asks incredulously. “Wasn’t it hard? Why would you go straight to the castle?”

“Gotta go fast?”

Four

Another busy day at camp. There was food to cook, clothes to mend, weapons to fix. While the others went out to gather materials, you and Four kept yourselves busy, trying to get as much done as possible before they got back.

“Y/N. You played my games, right? You kind of influenced what I did and stuff?” Four asks out of the blue.

“Yea, why?” You put down the shirt you were mending and looked up at him. He was staring into the distance, as if lost in thought.

“Are you the reason why I could walk through that wall?” He turns to look directly at you. His gaze is almost paralyzing.

“Which time are you talking about?” You laugh nervously. “There’s a couple areas in The Minish Cap where you can glitch through walls into other areas.”

“The Octorock!” He exclaims, “I pushed a pot into the wall and went through the wall! Did that actually happen? I thought I was going crazy!”

“Oh, yeah. The Octo Clip is essential for speedrunning.” You explain. “It’s one of the few glitches available in your game for the 100% category.”

“Speedrunning?” He tilts his head, confused. “What’s that?”

“It’s a thing people do when playing video games. It’s like a challenge to see how fast you can beat the game. People compete to get the fastest time.” You pick up your needle again, praying that would be the end of the conversation. Talking about the nature of the chain’s free will was uncomfortable to say the least.

“Did you win, at least?” Four asks. He could understand competition; one of his games was mostly a competition between the colors.

“Ugh, not even close. I messed up the timing on the final boss so the fight took way longer than necessary. I ended up missing the top ten by a whole minute.” You lament.

“I think I remember that. I was fighting Vaati, and suddenly started panicking. I thought I was just scared.” He points an accusing finger at you. “But that was you, realizing you messed up?”

“I guess?” You shrug. “It could be both. Like, maybe you just happened to feel fear at the same time I realized I messed up? Or maybe you felt fear, causing me to mess up? It doesn’t have to just be me influencing you. It’s the multiverse. You probably influenced me too… right?” You try not to sound too desperate with your question. Surely, this connection went both ways. Otherwise… you don’t want to think about the possible implications.

“Maybe.” Four nods, but you can tell he doesn’t really believe it. With nothing more to say, you slip into silence.

Warriors

(I legit cannot find speedrun glitches for his game??? Let’s dive even deeper into the nature of freewill lmao.)

Warriors was silent as you walked along the trail. The rest of the group had run ahead, apparently excited about something they had spotted over the horizon. The last thing you heard was Wild shouting something about Hinox toenails. You were glad to have a moment of silence. You loved the boys to death, but they were a bit much at times. Unfortunately, the silence was short-lived.

“I’ve been talking to the others about their adventures. Now that we know about you, some things are starting to make sense.” Warriors’ voice is quiet, his voice low. Almost threatening. You don’t say anything. He continues. “Four told me you like to do something called speedrunning? Where you try to beat the game as fast as possible.”

“Yeah,” you say. You can feel his gaze on you. “I’m not very good at it. Most of my times don’t even get on the leaderboard.”

“And your behavior during the games influences our world.” It’s not a question. He knows.

“I guess?” You chuckle nervously, suddenly finding the dirt beneath your fingernails very interesting. “I’m still trying to figure that out. Multiverse travel be wild.”

“Was it worth it?” His voice is laced with venom.

“What?”

“What is worth it?” He repeats, then scoffs at your confused expression. “You wanted to beat my game as fast as possible. You’re the reason Zelda and I were constantly trying to push forward. Even when our supplies were low. Even when we knew we were outnumbered. That. Was all. YOU.”

You don’t know when you stopped walking. You only realize when you notice the small wet spots on the ground in front of you. You wipe your eyes, trying to stop the tears. It doesn’t help. Warriors only watches.

“I’m sorry.” Your lip trebles, but you keep looking at the ground, using your bangs as a curtain to hide your face. You don’t want him to see you start sobbing. That wouldn’t help anything.

“Sure you are.” He continues walking, leaving you standing in the middle of the path, completely alone. Before he’s out of earshot, he turns to look over his shoulder, and sarcastically remarks, “Glad you had fun.”

[hiding-under-the-willow]

Quick interest check for a project I'm currently considering!

I've been given an assignment in one of my studio classes regarding ephemeral (nonpermanent) art and have had an idea that requires a bit of community involvement.

To keep it basic, my idea involves opening a public Minecraft server for a short period of time (somewhere between 3-5 hours is my current estimate) and recording through the whole duration to document what people use that time to do. Essentially, seeing what kind of things people choose to do or create in a survival sandbox like Minecraft when they know in advance that their time in the world is extremely limited.

I would set up a discord server in advance for those interested to get more information and to connect with other players before the opening, meaning that if you wanted to you could plan in advance as a group.

The server would likely be advertised here, to a few people/groups I know IRL, and in a local campus discord server or two. I would leave it open for anyone involved to invite others. So, you would be playing with strangers.

The server will be vanilla. I'm debating between using in game proximity chat or just letting people use voice chat in the discord at the moment. Obviously using VC wouldn't be required, but I want it to be available.

I would be spectating and recording the event. A ~10 minute compilation of the events of the server would be made for me to turn in for the assignment and would be shown to the class. There is a possibility that compilation or a longer one may end up online afterwards. Anyone else who participates would be free to record, and obviously if anyone wanted to send me their footage to possibly be included in the final edit that would be great

You could do whatever you wanted with the time given. Organize a speedrunning group. Race to kill the dragon. Raid an Ancient City. Work on a build you haven't had an opportunity to use in other servers. Create some weird art. Organize a civilization. Hide in a cave the whole time. Roleplay. Create a fight club. Kill unsuspecting players. Just play casual Minecraft with some friends. Literally whatever.

This would likely be happening somewhere near the 2nd half of this month so that I had time to edit down the footage for class before the end of the semester

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

pt IV good omens but all i know is i watched three episodes on a stream with you all

Three hours being in a server with good omens fans in the wild *insert random emojis to sound like optimum clickbait youtuber except this ain't clickbait*

Okay I woke up. Before everything just WASHES out of my brain, I'm gonna describe whatever happened last night best as I can, because that's what I do.

Some of you were unable to attend the stream, and were sad. But don't worry I got you guys here's the rundown:

people joined the server. people were confused. i was afraid. i was assured that i should be, which was meant to comfort me.

people introduced themselves. someone said they had worked in a brothel as a bartender, which was cool, they said they had many stories. they did not elaborate for fear of scaring the newcomers. The newcomers, aka, me, were already scared, and it was not of the brothel stories.

I brought an emotional support orange with me. It looked uncomfortable. I thought it would be rotten. It was not, but we would not know that until later.

@thescholarlystrumpet entered fabulously, and started the stream.

i didn't realise the show had started for a good two minutes because there was a random voice over that was telling us about Earth's star sign (Libra) and somehow that didn't compute in my brain as being part of the episode. I thought we were checking audio.

It turned out, the episode had begun, and everyone was acting like this is a completely normal way for a show to start.

We time-jumped from the fall of man to modern day society so fast that I got whiplash.

There were a lot of orgasmic noises. I asked why. I was told in no uncertain terms that those were screams of labour. I'm sorry to everyone who has given birth ever.

There were three babies. I tried to keep track, it was hard. I thought the Antichrist won prizes for tropical fish. I was wrong.

I fell in love with Crowley and his hips and was very gay on the chat. This was heartily applauded.

I didn't realise an hour had passed when the episode ended, which it seemed was to be a common theme. I said nothing happened which everyone found funny for some reason.

I was very concerned about Armageddon. Everyone assured me that it would take place over the course of the season. I asked why we'd speedrun through millennia in five minutes but eight days took several episodes. I was a naive fool. Time is a social construct and this show cares not for social constructs.

They fucked up the mission. This was also to be a common theme.

I begged for a break and had to shake my head to try and get the brain rot out. I did not succeed.

The second episode commenced. The intro concerned me, because the cartoon Aziraphale looked pregnant or like a chicken. I asked if Crowley had impregnated him. He had not.

The pornography scene had to be replayed because I was so lost and had not relished it properly.

There was a lot of crying on the chat. Every few minutes someone would say a normal sentence in English and everyone would respond with crying emojis. Needless to say, I was concerned. This was also to be a common theme.

I asked why we were talking about random children. I was told it was The Them and they were the Antichrist's friends. I liked the hellhound.

I wanted to adopt the Antichrist, and grew more thirsty for Crowley every time he was a casual accessory to murder. I'm relying on this fandom not to use this as evidence with the cops. The chat was not reassuring, they said maybe.

I thirsted for Crowley more. This was also to be a common theme.

Aziraphale was very cute, I realised. That was nice. It was not nice when he had gay panic and said mean things to Crowley and they broke up. This was also to be a common theme.

I got so gay for Crowley that I ate the emotional support orange. It was gaseous. The chat was concerned, and everyone got excited every time oranges were mentioned after.

The third episode was a fucking roller coaster. Crowley and Aziraphale were your average high school couple but biblical for 6000 years.

Both were casual accessories to murder, and sometimes the cause of the murders, before going out for a date. Crowley got horny and he stopped listening every time Aziraphale ate. This was also to be a common theme.

The chat was keeping count of the husband breakups. This was not nice.

The Bentley was silver in many scenes, and people were forced to concede that they saw it. I was smug.

Crowley was sexy. She served gender, or as some people in the chat said, she served cunt. Her hairstyles got better and better. No one liked the 60s one. I did. I like everything she does. I love him.

Things happened. The fandom infected me. Someone mentioned how the book said Crowley felt lonely. I was near tears.

Crowley walked down the aisle for Aziraphale. We all were happy.

The book case, the thermos, the bandstand. I was broken.

Everyone said very emotional goodbyes.

I made a post on tumblr that was absolutely incomprehensible but accurately conveyed my love for Crowley. I fell asleep.

Same time next week, I believe.

I hope this was an adequate summary of the livestream for everyone, I am broken irreparably and if anyone mentions the bandstand I will have to start drinking and not stop till I get a happy ending. I cannot afford alcohol. I will ferment grapes myself if I have to.

[starguardianniom]

Billy and Lighter

I love their dynamic so much.

Freaking Lighter of all people sees Billy as his worthy rival.

Ngl but I legit think it's because Billy is the only one he can fight without being afraid of passing out.

Given Lighter faints at the sight of blood and that Billy is an android, if Billy gets hurt he will probably leak oil, but no blood, which is perfect for Lighter.

I honestly, half-seriously thinks that's the sole reason Lighter considers Billy is rival, because he won't risk embarassing himself if he manages to hurt Billy while fighting as Billy has no blood for him to faint to.

But he also does respect him given he thinks highly of him and actually likes him like a brother too.

They playfully tease one another but you can also clearly see that Lighter has a high opinion of Billy and is also happy for him to have found happiness somewhere else too, and that's so wholesome, my heart.

I was pratically screaming of joy in my head the entire time yesterday when I speedrun the chapter (I had the day off lucky me so I used it to clear out chapter 4 entirely yeah!).

I took so many pictures, will upload them this weekend, now I need to go do that certification exam to get my people to level 50, given I need to level up pretty much everyone I have right now (Billy, Anby, Nicole, Corin, Soukaku, Ben, Anton, Seth, Jane and Lucy are the characters I currently have the game refuses me Piper and just sended me a lil army of Corins, Anby and Soukaku, now I have Anby and Soukaku to M4 and Corin to M3, though it gave me Billy M2 and Seth M2 thank god) I'll be at it for a while.

But honestly I expected Lighter to be a bit more mean toward Billy and feeling superior to him but it seems like I was worried for nothing, Lighter loves Billy and Billy loves him back, though I'm pretty sure Billy also thinks that he wasn't able to escape Lighter entirely given he now has Anby around. XD Lighter keeps forgetting things and Anby keeps forgetting the line between fiction and reality, I imagine Billy must be used to Anby because he had to spend half his time reminding Lighter of stuff all the time. XD

I swear Billy had it better than Lighter back then, given he was the Champion that means he was the strongest of the Sons of Calydon, which means he's stronger than Big Daddy, and Big Daddy is most likely the one who raised and taught Caesar how to fight, so if she didn't get the title of Champion back then, then Billy was most likely strong enough to beat her too and Big Daddy. But then he left. But he also got to meet Lighter before that, but Lighter is weaker than Caesar but still has the title for some reason, so it's a bit murky there as to why they needed 2 champions.

I think Billy wanted to leave or something happened that made him leave and then Big Daddy brought in Lighter to pick up his title but Billy sticked around long enough to make sure Lighter was up for the job given they have a good brotherly friendly rivalry relationship together so once Billy thought Lighter was ready he gave him his title and left. And then Caesar got to be the new boss of the Sons of Calydon when Big Daddy retired, and was strong enough that she was able to beat Lighter apparently.

But the title of Champion is basically being the number 2 of the gang, so if the leader isn't around it's most likely the champion calling the shots and making sure everything is alright and settling disputes and what nots, but since Lighter is pretty scatterbrained, most of the duties went to Lucy while Lighter is just now extra muscles, since Lucy is pretty much the one making sure everything is alright and being the brains of the Sons, but she clearly doesn't have the strenght to be the Champion because Lighter is the one with that title.

So I imagine Billy used to handle negotiations and relations and other stuff with Big Daddy before he left and probably used to be deadly efficient, in some parts of the story he is a lot more aware and shrewd than he presents himself most of the time, such as asking us about the H.D.D and asking why we'd bother to be proxies when we could have done so much more and get a much more lucrative job, or when he was ready to sell us out to PubSec to save the Cunning Hares and himself pointing out that the Cunning Hares could get their record cleaned if they reported a proxy, which was a very smart way of thinking given their situation back then. He is also knowledgeable about the Outer Ring, so he is way much smarter than he acts too.

I do feel like Billy is seen as a superior predecessor to Lighter and while Lighter doesn't resent Billy at all for it he also feels the need to prove himself to him in some way to live up to his "brother's" legacy.

Lucy probably didn't have much to do until Billy left and Big Daddy retired. Then she basically became the second half of the Champion title in the Sons of Calydon, being the brain to Lighter's brawn, but Billy before them had the title on his own to the point that he is still feared today by other people in the Outer Ring.

It does beg the question of what was Billy like back then, probably less happy and more brutal and having the mindset of a weapon maybe, but he was still cared for a lot.

I also like to think that Big Daddy called him Billy Kid because he honestly saw Billy as "his" kid when he bought him from a group of drifters, now I really want the whole story, if they release Big Daddy and Lighter, give them more content with Billy, I need more, Hoyo!