#I want to be wrong but... these things just don't feel meant for me

[mephisto-reporting]

More to Love: With Sylus

Summary: Sylus wants to spoil you rotten and takes you shopping. But things don't go as planned in the fitting room as your insecurities take over. pairing: Chubby! reader x Sylus Note: Sylus and reader are in an implied relationship. This is based on this request. Content warning: insecurities, self depriciation, body image issues, slightly suggestive towards the end, angst (hurt-comfort).

The boutique’s soft lighting bathed the room in warm, golden hues, casting a glow on the endless racks of designer clothes that stretched before you. Sylus had dragged you out here, his hand firm on your lower back as he guided you into the posh little shop without a word of protest allowed.

“Indulge me, kitten,” he’d said with that signature smirk of his, his silver hair catching the sunset through the boutique’s large windows. “Pick something you like. No limits.”

As if limits had ever existed when Sylus was involved. He was a man of excess, of extravagance, and he was determined to spoil you rotten—even if you argued you didn’t need it. But you relented, knowing there was no saying no to him when he had his mind set. As you browsed through the aisles, your fingers brushed over silken fabrics and embroidered hems, eyes catching on the occasional outfit you usually would pick for yourself, only not in a store like this. Maybe he just liked to see you in pretty things. Maybe he liked watching you fumble over making decisions. But no matter the reason, you couldn’t help but feel a slight warmth bloom in your chest as you picked up a few pieces that caught your eye. His attention was there, but only just.

And then you saw it.

A little black dress, understated yet elegant, with faint red accents that shimmered subtly in the light. It screamed Sylus in every way: sharp, refined, and impossible to ignore. Your chest tightened with a flicker of excitement as you imagined yourself in it, standing next to him in his usual immaculate attire. He’d look at you the way he always did, with that blend of teasing confidence and a softness he reserved only for you. You could picture how well you'd complement each other, the two of you so flawless together that you felt almost… untouchable.

Grabbing it from the rack, you added it to the pile of clothes you’d picked for yourself and headed to the dressing rooms. The velvet curtain whispered shut behind you, enclosing you in a quiet little space with a single mirror framed in warm lights. The changing room felt cold and sterile as you slipped into the dress, carefully pulling it over your body. It should have fit perfectly—after all, you’d picked it out. It was your choice. But as you zipped it up, a knot tightened in your stomach.

The fabric clung to your body in ways it shouldn't have, and not in a flattering manner. It sat all wrong on your bosom, the seams straining against the curves of your chest, barely able to close. You tugged at the zipper, trying to pull it up the side, but it caught painfully against your side, tugging uncomfortably at the soft roll near your bra strap.

You stared at yourself in the mirror, your reflection unfamiliar. The dress, which had seemed so perfect on the rack, now felt like a cruel joke. The skirt, meant to be a silhouette, flared out over your thighs in a way that felt mocking. It hung awkwardly around your thighs in a way that made your legs look thicker, not more elegant. Your belly, which you’d always been conscious of, seemed to bulge in ways that felt out of place, unnatural against the black silk. The faint shimmer of the red accents only seemed to draw attention to the areas you least wanted highlighted.

What is wrong with me?

The voice inside your head was loud now, relentless.

I don’t belong in this dress.

Your fingers clenched the fabric at your sides as a wave of self-consciousness washed over you. The dress wasn’t the problem—it was you.

The mirror seemed to mock you, reflecting back every feature you’d learned to hate over the years. Your belly, round and soft, pushed against the fabric. Your thighs looked larger than ever, the material refusing to lie smooth. Your arms, left bare by the sleeveless design, felt exposed and unwelcome in the polished setting of this boutique.

As you stared, echoes of the past began to surface, unbidden and cruel. Your face twisted into a frown as you turned from side to side. The more you looked at yourself, the more you hated it. The reflection staring back at you seemed foreign, as though it was someone else’s body you’d somehow ended up in.

"You’ve got such a pretty face; you’d be stunning if you lost a little weight,” your mother’s voice chimed in your head, the way it had so many times over the years. Well-meaning, she’d always called it. But the words had planted themselves deep in your heart.

"Are you sure you want seconds?” a friend’s teasing voice from a high school cafeteria, laughing as though it was just a joke. It hadn’t been funny then, and it wasn’t funny now.

"I’m just saying, you’d feel so much better if you exercised more," someone had told you once, their tone dripping with condescension disguised as care.

Your friends in high school, laughing when you couldn’t fit into the trendy outfits they wore, saying, “Oh, don’t worry, you’ve got such a cute face!”

The offhand comment from a coworker last year: “Have you tried keto? I heard it’s great for people like you.”

Your father, well-meaning but always critical, pinching your belly and saying, “You’d be so much prettier if you lost all this fat.”

The memories compounded until your chest tightened with a mix of anger and shame.

God, I look disgusting in this.

And now, in this too-small dressing room with this too-tight dress, those voices joined your own as you whispered to yourself.

"I look ridiculous. Why did I even think I could pull this off? Sylus wouldn’t want to be seen with someone like this. Someone like me."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you forced them back. Crying here would be too much, too embarrassing. You turned away from the mirror, pulling at the dress, wanting nothing more than to get it off. Your breathing hitched as the panic rose, your nails biting into your palms to keep yourself steady. But the tears were already threatening to fall.

The curtain separating you from the world felt as thin as paper and just as fragile. The muffled murmur of boutique shoppers and the faint hum of music didn’t penetrate the storm of thoughts swirling in your head. The dress felt tighter by the second, suffocating, and your own reflection stared back with an almost accusatory glare.

Why did you even think you could look good in this? You were out of place, weren’t you? Not just in the dress, but here—here in this boutique, in Sylus’s world, in his life. The idea of walking out of the changing room, of standing in front of him and seeing that ever-present smirk falter for even a second, was unbearable.

Your fingers fumbled at the zipper, trying to undo it, but your hands were shaking too much to find the tab. The fabric bunched awkwardly around your side, pinching and pulling in a way that only made you hate it more. Hate yourself more. A sharp inhale turned into a shaky exhale as your vision blurred with unshed tears.

He’s going to see right through you. He’ll realize you’re not the kind of person who belongs at his side.

The voices in your head grew louder, and you didn’t even hear his approach until his voice broke through the storm, smooth and teasing, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Kitten,” Sylus drawled, his tone dripping with amusement, “don’t tell me you’ve gotten lost in there. Or are you planning to make me wait all day?”

Your breath caught. “I’m fine. I just… need another minute,” you called out, trying to keep your voice steady, but it cracked ever so slightly. You winced, praying he hadn’t noticed.

But he had. Of course, he had.

“Hmm,” came his thoughtful hum, followed by the sound of his boots against the boutique’s plush carpet. Closer. Too close. “You don’t sound fine, sweetie. Should I come in and—”

“No!” The word came out sharper than you intended, panic rising in your chest. “Just—stay out there. I’ll be out in a second.”

There was a pause. Long enough for you to realize he wasn’t moving away. His teasing edge was gone when he spoke again, quieter this time. “Sweetie. What’s wrong?”

“I said I’m fine!” you snapped, your voice a pitch higher than you intended. You winced at your own tone. The last thing you wanted was for him to push further.

But Sylus was nothing if not persistent. “Sweetie, you’re never fine when you say you are,” he said, the teasing edge returning, but softer now, as though he was testing the waters. “I’m coming in.”

“No, don’t—” Your protest was cut short as the velvet curtain slid to the side.

The curtain shifted slightly, and you turned away from it, clutching the fabric of the dress like a shield.  Sylus stepped into the small dressing room, his broad frame somehow making the space feel even smaller. His usual air of control and confidence filled the room, his sharp crimson eyes immediately locking onto yours. But his smirk faltered as he took you in—your tear-streaked face, your trembling hands, and the ill-fitting dress that clung awkwardly to your frame.

“Sweetie…” His voice was low, laced with genuine concern as he stepped closer. “What’s going on?”

You turned away, hugging yourself tightly. “Nothing. Just go, Sylus. Please.”

He didn’t move. Instead, he reached out, his hand resting gently on your shoulder. “Look at me,” he said, his tone soft but commanding.

“I don’t want you to see me like this,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“And why not?” he asked, his brows furrowing. “You’re my kitten, aren’t you?"

You turned away, hugging yourself tightly. “Nothing. Just go, Sylus. Please..I don’t want you to see me like this,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“Like what?” he asked, stepping closer, his hands reaching out but not quite touching you yet. “What are you talking about?”

You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut. “Like you’re trying to fix something that’s broken. I’m not—I’m not—” The words caught in your throat, but they spilled out anyway, raw and jagged. “I’m not good enough for this. For you. For any of it.”

His frustration was evident in the way his jaw tightened, but when he spoke, his tone was calm. “Where is this coming from?”

You gestured helplessly at your reflection. “Look at me! This dress—it doesn’t fit. It doesn’t look right. I don’t look right, Sylus. I thought I could—” Your voice broke. “I thought I could make myself… better. For you. But I just… don’t fit.”

The air grew heavy with your words, and for a moment, Sylus didn’t respond. Then, slowly, he stepped forward, his hands firm but gentle as they gripped your wrists, lowering them from where they clutched the dress. His touch was grounding, solid.

“Stop,” he said, his voice soft but commanding. “Stop tearing yourself apart like this.”

You blinked up at him, tears slipping free despite your efforts. “But it’s true. I don’t fit in your world. I don’t even fit in this stupid dress.”

His hand slid down your arm, his fingers curling around yours to still their trembling. “Stop,” he repeated, his voice firm but not unkind.

“No, I need to say it,” you continued, the dam breaking as tears spilled down your cheeks. “You’re this—this untouchable, powerful, perfect man, and I’m just—” You gestured helplessly at yourself, the words catching in your throat. “I’m not good enough for you, Sylus. I’ll never be good enough.”

He was silent for a moment, his jaw tightening as he studied you. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady, his usual playful demeanor replaced by something far more serious. “That’s enough of that.”

You blinked at him, startled by the sudden shift in his tone.

“You think I care about any of that?” he said, his eyes boring into yours “Sweetie,” he murmured, his tone laced with exasperation and something deeper—something tender. “You don’t need to fit into anything to be enough for me.”

His fingers brushed your cheek, wiping away a tear. “You think I give a damn about some dress? About whatever bullshit standard you think you’re failing to meet?” His crimson eyes burned with intensity as he spoke, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. “You don’t need to impress me. You already have me wrapped around your finger.”

Your breath hitched, his words sinking in even as you tried to resist them. “But I—”

“No,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “No more of that. Do you know what I see when I look at you?” His hands slid to your shoulders, his grip firm but warm. “I see the person who challenges me, who stands toe-to-toe with me even when she’s scared. The person who’s made my cold, miserable world worth living in.” His lips quirked into a faint smile. “And, if you must know, I happen to think you’re absolutely stunning. Always.”

“But I—” you began, but he cut you off with a shake of his head.

“No buts,” he said firmly. “You don’t need to dress up to impress me. I’m already smitten, in every way possible.”

His words hung in the air, wrapping around you like a warm embrace. Slowly, the tightness in your chest began to ease, the storm in your mind quieting as his presence anchored you. He reached for the zipper, his movements careful and deliberate as he began to undo the dress.

“Let’s get you out of this,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “We’ll find something that makes you feel like the goddess you are. And if we don’t, then to hell with the clothes.” Sylus’s hands lingered at the zipper, his eyes meeting yours with a teasing glint as the faintest smirk tugged at his lips. “Though, between you and me, kitten…” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, “I think you’d look better without anything on at all.” His fingers brushed deliberately against your skin as he slid the zipper down further, his touch light but intentional, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.

Your cheeks burned, the heat rushing to your face at his boldness. “Sylus…” you began, but the words caught in your throat, swallowed by the intensity of his gaze.

He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over your ear as he spoke again, his tone a mixture of playful and reverent. “But let me make one thing very clear, sweetie. Clothes or no clothes, none of that matters to me. You’re already perfect to me—just as you are. Nothing you wear or don’t wear is going to change that.”

His hands rested firmly on your hips now, steadying you as the trembling in your legs began to subside. “And by the time I’m done worshiping you, adoring you, loving you over and over again,” he continued, his voice husky, filled with an almost dangerous promise, “you’ll see yourself the way I see you. The way I’ve always seen you. Stunning, irresistible, absolutely mine.”

You shivered, not from the chill of the room, but from the weight of his words and the warmth in his touch. He tilted your chin up with one finger, forcing your eyes to meet his. “You’ll see it, sweetie. I’ll make sure of it. Because in my eyes, you’re more than enough—you’re everything.”

The air between you was thick with unspoken emotion, the tension melting into something softer, something unyieldingly honest. His lips brushed your forehead, lingering there for a moment before he pulled back, his hands never leaving your sides. “I’ll remind you every single day, sweetie. Over and over again, until there’s no room in your mind for anything but how much I adore you. Do you understand?”

You nodded, tears prickling at your eyes again—but this time, they weren’t born of pain or self-doubt. They were tears of relief, of something lighter and more hopeful.

“I’ll believe it,” you whispered, your voice trembling but earnest. “I’ll try.”

Sylus’s smirk softened into a smile, his thumb brushing away the tear that escaped down your cheek. “That’s all I ask. But just so you know…” His voice turned playful again, his lips quirking up at the corners. “I’m not above a little convincing, sweetie. And believe me, I’m very persuasive.”

“So,” he said, his smirk returning, though softer now, “what do you say we ditch this boutique? I’m thinking we’ve got better things to do than fuss over dresses that don’t deserve you anyway.” His thumb stroked gently over your hip, his touch grounding and sure.

The storm within you calmed as he pulled you into his arms, holding you close as if shielding you from the weight of your insecurities. For the first time in what felt like forever, you believed that maybe—just maybe, you could accept yourself just the way you are, just the way he did.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

[felassan]

David Gaider on Dorian, under a cut for length:

"Now this is a fun one. It's no big secret I have a lot of feelings about Dorian, not least of which because he was my first (and only) gay male companion. There's a lot more to him than that, of course (as there should be), and it was quite a trip. So let's go! Now, DAI is a story all its own, but I'm sticking to the characters. In this case, back at the beginning, the writers were going to try something new: we were going to let the artists take a more active role in the companion creation process. Why? Because not doing so had caused a lot of problems. See, here's the thing: writers and artists speak two different languages. When talking about characters, we talk about their story. Who they are. What they want. We'd write up these briefs, huge and full of information... but it was never the information the artists needed. They wanted visual cues. I don't mean describing their appearance. Sure, we'd usually provide that, especially if there was a story case to be made, but often the artists vetoed us on appearance stuff anyhow so meh. No, I mean they looked for visual language while we tended to only talk about who the characters *were*. What would happen is they'd hone in on something visual in our write-up not intended to be a focus. The first write-up for Anders in DA2, for instance, mentioned he was "haggard" after his journey... and the first concept we got was this pale, shriveled man. "What... is this?" "YOU SAID HAGGARD!" 😅"

"That was the other trick: sometimes when we DID try to be more descriptive, we had to be extra cautious because the words could be interpreted very differently. You encounter this recording VO, too. A VO note says "hysterical" and you *meant* "really upset" but the actor read "scream like a banshee" Thus this caused problems, like I said. The artists would struggle, sometimes conjuring details just to give the character *something* but which would change the character... and, to us, the character was created. Done. We were already invested, probably already writing them. Something had to give. So this time we wrote a bunch of character briefs - but short. One paragraph. We stuck to vibes and the *emotions* we wanted the concepts to evoke. And we didn't name them. They got titles like "Slick Con Man" or "Ice Queen", so we wouldn't get too attached. Then we handed these off to the artists. And it worked nicely. The ones that just weren't inspiring we'd discard, no problem. The others had juice... and the artists felt free to play and offer lots of variations because we weren't set on anything yet. A lot of times, what they produced ended up inspiring US. It was a neat back-and-forth."

"This is what led to Dorian, in fact. He came from a short write-up entitled "Rock Star Mage" and it really boiled down to "I'm cool and I know I'm cool, so take that you cretins". And just like that, the first sketches (by Casper Konefal, I think? I bet I'm wrong) were all amazing. Instant fire. Me: "He looks kind of like... Freddie Mercury?" Him: "Is that bad?" Me: "NO ARE YOU KIDDING THIS IS AMAZING" Plus there was a monkey. Sadly, we had to lose the monkey. There were iterations to come, but this was really where Dorian was born: Tevinter mage, noble, savant, and too cool for school."

"When did he become gay? Not right away. Like I said elsewhere, we didn't talk romance and sexuality until after the concepts were more in place. But as we were brainstorming about why this hot shot mage left Tevinter, the idea DID come up that maybe it was because he was gay. Not directly, however. Homophobia isn't really a thing in Thedas, after all, so at first blush I didn't think that could work. "Rich kid gets kicked out of the house for being gay" wasn't a trope I wanted to explore. But, then again, magister families in Tevinter are *obsessed* with the appearance of perfection, so...? Any deviation from the "norm" is considered scandal-worthy. It said weakness. It said you couldn't control your house. Now... THAT had real promise. The writing pit discussed it a lot. So I think it's fair to say that the gay fairy was already circling Dorian even before we got to the romance talk. I think it's also fair to say that the rest of the team realized I low-key wanted to write him, because when everyone started calling dibs, who was left standing for me? (I pick last, remember.) I gleefully snatched him up and got to work... ...about six months later. I was very busy at the time. 😅 That late start meant I had to design and write VERY quickly. And I did. Somehow, though, this one... it came easily. "Catty gay man" isn't digging very deep, no surprise to anyone who knows me, and it had an extra layer of being so fun because Dorian was confident. He sparred verbally. I loved it."

"There was more to it, however. The conflict between Dorian and his father... ugh, how do I say this? Let's be clear: Dorian's story is not MY story, but it's also not far off. I wrote the entire confrontation scene in one go. After I was done, I probably cried harder than I ever have in my life. 🫠 I was unsure whether it was any good, however. I just didn't feel objective. I passed it over to Cori May - my friend but also Dorian's editor - and asked her to please tell me and be honest. She read it. She walked into my office after, tears streaming down her face, and just nodded. "It's good." Here's the thing. Not everyone is going to agree with this, but: I don't think a writer NEEDS to be a minority in order to write a minority. Sometimes those characters should simply exist, and we want them to. But if that character's story is ABOUT their experience as a minority? That's different. Dorian's story didn't need to revolve around his sexuality - and, honestly, it only did so as a tangent to his family issue, but they're so bound together it's probably irrelevant to split them - but my writing him meant it could be. It allowed me to SAY something. That felt good. It felt right. Ramon Tikaram came on board after a lengthy casting process (so many British Indian accents, oh god). I sat in on a few recording sessions... the confrontation scene, though? Ramon: *says line* Me: (curled up on a nearby sofa in fetal position) *shaky thumbs up* Caroline: "Yep. Great work, Ramon!""

"Dorian's sexuality isn't all he's about, but that's certainly how some viewed it. When the character was announced in 2014, his being gay was mentioned as the last of a number of points, and the instant response from some gamers was to act as if we'd called a press conference just to say THAT. 🙄 It was annoying. Still is. Overall, however, the reaction to Dorian was very positive. The number of straight men who said they romanced him still pleases me. The number of fans who privately contacted me who'd been through conversion therapy, some who said Dorian helped them survive? Well. Gosh. 😭 I did write him for Trespasser - though I hear that a late scope cut meant every conversation had been chopped by 1/3rd or more, and that meant a lot of nuance lost. Which is sad, if true, because it sounds like the result of that left some Dorian romancers a bit cold. Such is how game dev rolls. 😔 If you need more proof of how it was hard for me to let go of him, a short story I wrote after Trespasser came out where Dorian has a bit of closure with his dead father: medium.com/@davidgaider... So yeah. He'll always be my boi. And I'll always be thankful Bio gave me this opportunity. ❤️"

[source thread]

User: "I'm not going to lie, it's hard to take my mind off Dorian almost having a monkey." David Gaider: "If by “almost” you mean there was a picture of a monkey that the concept artist put there as a whim, and which would almost certainly have taken more cinematics and modeling time to put in than we could ever afford… then yes. 😉" [source]

[ezziedoodles]

Why Season 2 Of Arcane Felt A Little Off

Let me preface this by saying I adore this show, and I loved this season. I laughed, I cried, and I had a good time watching it. The art direction and animation is a masterpiece. This is probably my favorite show, but I think it's good to critique the things you love and this entire season I felt like I was waiting for something.

For a show titled Arcane, season one had remarkably little to do with the arcane. Yes, there was Hextech and magic, but the show was centered on this class divide between Piltover and Zaun and all the conflicts that stem from this. The very first scene of the show is enforcers killing citizens on the bridge, with Powder and Vi finding their dead parents' bodies. Zilco's reasoning for doing anything he did was because he believed he was helping Zaun, including raising Jinx the way he did. Vi was so passionate about her city and the injustice facing it. Caitlyn witnessing this injustice is what causes her to question the systems she is a part of. Viktor and Jayce (but especially Viktor) created technology with the intention of wanting to improve life for the undercity. Ekko is a revolutionary doing so much to give his people a community and a chance to live their lives. My point is literally every single character is connected by this conflict between the cities.

Now let's take a look at the second season. Where is this part of the story that was so essential to the first season? There's a brief revolutionary beat with Jinx and her followers but once they escape from prison, the show moves on from this and never touches it again. We see Caitlyn's descent into corrupt madness, becoming everything she and Vi wanted to stop. Eventually she realizes how wrong she was but do we see her make any reparations to Zaun specifically for the damage she caused? She gassed the city, poisoning the air even further (with gas that has been confirmed to make people sick in the long run), harming hundreds of innocent people. And Vi, a character so vehemently against enforcers in the first season, goes along with this for how long? Days? Weeks? And only stops when she can visually see the impact of Caitlyn's madness as she almost kills a child in front of her. These characters are flawed and I love that, but we see them get their happy ending without ever truly addressing or helping with what they did to Zaun.

Ekko sees an alternate universe of everything his city could be, everything they all wanted so badly in the first season. Equality, safety, education, food security, and more. He says he is thankful for the reminder and I fully believe he will go forth with this vision in mind, but do we ever see it? And that right there is the problem. We don't know what happens to Zaun in the end, we don't know if things get better. All we see is Sevika on the council but we don't know if that will fix anything since people have stood up for the undercity in council before and it did nothing.

I want to see Ekko rally his people and repair the damage caused by the war. I want to see Vi open up the last drop and make it what it was always meant to be, a place of community. I want to see schools open in the undercity in honor of Viktor and Jayce. I want to see the two cities heal from the damage done to each other. Fuck it, I just want literally any closure on this plotline! Just tack on a 2 minute montage of what happened to this city after the war and I'd feel a little better. But instead this part of the story was completely sidelined throughout the season and ignored entirely in the finale. I'm not someone that thinks every story needs to have a moral, but this show was trying to tell us something! The first season was screaming from the rooftops to beware of privilege, beware systemic oppression, to fight inequality, and I find it really sad that there was no conclusion for that.

I do wish there had been three seasons to give it a smoother transition form politics to magic but it is what it is. Nothing is perfect. This season gave me so much including the best depiction of soulmates I've ever seen in my life so you win some you lose some ig.

[stalkedbytrains]

The air this morning was crisp, cool, almost but not quite the first frost.

The kind of morning that was perfect for sitting on the bench on the porch and drinking a beautiful warm coffee.

The hero sat there, drinking their morning coffee, watching the sun fully pull itself out of the horizon.

From out of the forest came a tall, imposing figure. Their hands were covered in dirt and mud and leaves.

The figure stalked right up to the hero on the porch.

"Where did you go?"

"I was out in the darkest part of the forest burying my old stuff."

"Before sunrise?"

"Dark lords and dark deeds are best done before the sun."

"You're so weird."

"It's ritual. It just feels right."

"Go get cleaned up, there's coffee inside for you."

The former dark lord, smiled. A fun, mischievous smile. They advanced on the blanket covered hero.

"Oh no! Don't you come over here all covered in mud! Don't you dare!"

Their companion's voice dropped a few levels, in a way that could have been intimidating, sexy, or both. "But I am so cold. I desire your warmth. Give me your warmth."

They advanced on the hero, dirty hands out stretched.

"Noooo!" the hero cried in mock distress, barely containing their laughter, as they were enveloped by the large, built, dirty dark lord. They tried to fight off their old enemy, but it was a losing fight.

After a moment, the dark lord settled on the porch bench behind their hero, their arms wrapped around the smaller figure. Their cold and dirty body greedily drinking in the warmth of the hero.

"Mmm... warmth," the once evil overlord said as they kissed the exposed neck of the hero with cold lips. "I will take it all from you."

The hero laughed, reaching back to put their hand on the back of the villain's head to keep them close.

"Do you think they bought it?" the hero asked. "Do you think they're going to search for us? Do you think it's finally over?"

"It better be," the dark lord said. "We didn't give them any reason to suspect we're still alive. Our finale was a spectacle. But I suspect people will always be looking for you."

"But I don't want to be anywhere but here," the hero whispered. "With you."

"Good," the villain said as they tightened their grip around the hero's hips. "I want you to be mine and only mine. And I want to only be your's."

The hero grinned. "But you do know where you left your stuff. Just in case."

"Just in case. It'll come back if I need it. But we won't. Where did you put your stuff?"

"I just put it in the cellar. In a box."

The villain finally leaned away from the hero, putting some distance between them. "I can't believe I love you. You have no style, no panache, no gravitas. Your hero attire in a box in a cellar? How trite!"

"And what do you think I should have done? Placed my sword in a stone? Given my armor to some pair of stone golems that only talk in riddles and puzzles?"

"At a minimum."

"But then people might look for me even harder."

"Or they will accept that the mantle will only pass to the next hero when needed."

"Why? Do you think there is going to be another evil overlord, leader of darkness to replace you?"

"No one that will be as attractive as me."

"Don't flatter yourself," the hero said teasingly, but with a stolen kiss. "Now go get cleaned up, so we can have breakfast together. Like I've wanted to for a long time."

"And if I want to dine on... something else?"

"Oh! You..."

"I don't hear a no."

The former dark lord stood up, suddenly tightening their grip on the hero, lifting them with the motion and moving into the small cottage with delightful peals of laughter from the now retired hero.

------

For years it was good. Perfect.

The world had not needed their hero for a long time.

The reforms and changes they introduced meant there need not be a villain to challenge and destroy the system.

Until one day when the hero didn't come home.

The former dark lord knew immediately that something was wrong when the sun had set without the hero coming back home.

Such a thing was unthinkable. No contact or message. No, that wasn't something they would ever do.

There was a feeling in the air. The dark lord tried to deny it. It was just the winds of an early winter, even though they knew that wasn't the truth.

With a twitch, a movement that was a familiar one, a long unused bit of muscle memory, the pieces of the office of Dark Lord flew from their long ago buried tomb in the darkest part of the woods and joined their master.

Heavy, sharp, precise dark metal gauntlets that pinched a little at softened skin but quickly grew and changed and shifted to fit perfectly. The dark helm settled gently on their head, fitting perfectly like it used to so long ago. The cloak was covered in dirt and dead leaves, but that only added to the aesthetic of the thing. It wrapped itself around the dark lord in a cool, comforting, almost forgotten embrace.

The last of the dark lord's attire was assembled and it felt familiar and cold in a way that they had grown away from but couldn't entirely forget.

With everything they'd need they walked, trespassing through shadows, and locked doors, and forgotten ritual sites, until they found their way back to a place that used to be home.

A dark, foreboding, cold castle at the edge of the world.

It was occupied.

Someone was trying to take their mantle. And as far as they cared, they could have it.

But these kinds of people always had to do something showy to cement their power.

"Ah, I was wondering when I would hear-" the new villain said, but they were cut off as the previous dark lord immediately closed the distance and clasped a strong hand on their neck and squeezed.

"I understand the game. I know what you are up to. But this time it won't work. Because you clearly don't understand boundaries. You took something that belongs to me."

The new villain smiled.

"Oh old timer. Perhaps you forgot something as well. Dark can't fight against the dark. You have no power here. You're just old, out of shape, and soft. This will go quickly."

The dark lord laughs as the upstart pulled themselves free.

"Magic isn't a muscle, it's not something that can wither and die. It's a reservoir. And I still have magic to burn. So while I can't kill you with it. I don't need to."

They reached into the old cloak and from the darkness within it, pulled out something that burned like a star. They suddenly held on to a bright and blinding sword.

"This is my partner's. You return them to me and you won't feel the sting. Find some corrupt politician or king to execute to make your grand statement."

"But who better to cement my name than the death of the last great hero!"

The upstart villain never spoke another word. The dark lord cleaned off their partner's weapon, putting away with a careful reverence. They then went to rescue their love and return them home. Where they belonged.

i have a kofi if you'd like to tip me for doing stuff like this

The hero and the dark lord have both disappeared after their battle, making everyone think they both perished. In reality, they are living on a farm, living the life of their dreams.

[genshingorlsrevengeance]

I need any girls of you choice with a reader who doesn't understand what the word fetish means and thinks it's another word for hobby or activity. Thus reader well say stuff like "Hey you wanna try out this new fetish with me."

(H:SR/GoV: NIKKE/Genshin Impact) Their S/O not knowing what "fetish" means

Honkai Star Rail: Bronya, Seele, Serval Goddess of Victory NIKKE: Anis Genshin Impact: Ayaka, Lisa, Eula, Xianyun

Quoth the Bae, of Hololive English Promise:

"What is a fetish? If you really think about it , the negative connotation of fetish just doesn't make logical sense don't you agree? I just think if you have your preferences you can have your own preferences and that's completely fine but like asking for someone's fetish just seems like you're prying into something but it shouldn't really feel that way? Also eyes and thighs"

Bronya was in the middle of drinking tea and filling paperwork before hearing the question that made her heart stop for a few seconds.

(S/O) "Bronya, would you care to try this fetish of mine?"

(Bronya) "HRK?!-"

Her hands fumble with the cup, causing some of it to spill over in the ground as she violently rocks in her seat, coughing as her eyes widened.

S/O quickly rushed over to her, one hand on her back and shoving some important documents aside as Bronya attempted to stabilize herself.

(S/O) "Bronya, what's wrong?!"

Bronya's face quickly scrunches up with embarrassment, quickly turning red as her voice cracked.

(Bronya) "What kind of question is that S/O? How can you discuss that so openly?!"

(S/O) "I-Is it that weird to paint out in public?"

...What?

(Bronya) "Paint?-...S/O, when you say fetish, what do you?-"

(S/O) "As in hobby? I overheard some of the people from Wildfire say it before."

Bronya blinks a few times before sighing, both her hands slowly dragging down her face before shaking her head.

(Bronya) "Dear...that's...not what that word means..."

(S/O) "What does it mean then?"

Bronya inhaled, trying her best to keep her composure that was snapped in half like a twig before her eyes shifted to the floor, fingers twiddling.

(Bronya) "I-It means..." ahem "...A certain activity or object you like when you are...intimate..."

(S/O) "Inti-?"

In an instant, S/O understood before their face looked similar to Bronya, the couple standing still completely red.

(S/O) "Oh..."

She thanked the Gods above that there were no guards currently in her room right now, lest they get the very wrong idea.

...Not that she was opposed to trying some things out, but this was her main office! Hardly the time and place!

(Bronya) "...Pray tell, who exactly gave you the definition of this word?"

(S/O) "W-Well, it was-"

Seele regrets saying the word fetish off handedly around S/O.

Forgetting that they came from the prim and proper SIlvermane Guard, they didn't know the meaning of such a vulgar word.

Or more accurately, they were a bunch of softies who couldn't bear to hear something so normal in the Underworld.

Regardless, S/O thought it meant something entirely different because Seele was not ready for the question:

(S/O) "Wanna join me in a fetish I've been wanting to try, Seele?"

(Seele) "Hm? Sure-...WHAT?"

Seele immediately spun around, heart racing as she eyed S/O up and down.

They were in the middle of the streets right now! She sincerely prayed that they weren't about to-

Was that a notebook and pencil they were holding?

(S/O) "Seele? Is something the matter?"

(Seele) "Yeah, somethings the matter! Just what the hell do you think that word means?!"

(S/O) "W-Well, I thought it meant activity, or-"

Well, S/O technically wasn't wrong.

(Seele) "Ugh, l-listen! Just...don't go saying that around in public! And just use the word 'hobby' like a normal person!"

(S/O) "So, what does it mean then?"

(Seele) "I'm NOT explaining that in public just...just wait till we get home, alright?!"

She spun around, mostly to make sure S/O didn't see her blushing.

Serval was in the middle of strumming her guitar idly, trying to make sure that it was tuned correctly when S/O came through the door.

(Serval) "S/O! What's up?"

S/O smiled at Serval, closing the workshop door behind her and taking a seat beside the rockstar.

(S/O) "Hey! I hope you don't mind me asking a favor."

Serval tittered, waving a hand nonchalantly in response before going back to adjusting the tuning again.

(Serval) "Not at all. What can I help with?"

(S/O) "A new fetish I want to try-"

A comically loud and out of tune note echoed throughout the shop as Serval's finger stopped flicking mid-motion, her eyes almost bulging out her skull.

The noise startled S/O, but not nearly as much as they had startled her.

(Serval) "Run that by me again, S/O?"

(S/O) "Y-Y'know. A, um...fetish. I want to try this particular song with you-"

(Serval) "Okay, okay! Hold up a second!"

Putting down her guitar and brushing the bangs that had fallen onto her face, she grabbed both their shoulders while she felt her face heat up.

(Serval) "S/O, are you and I thinking of the same word right now?"

(S/O) "I'm just talking about wanting to try an instrument out?"

(Serval) "And...there's no innuendo here, right?"

(S/O) "Does...fetish not think what I think it means?"

Serval gave an exacerbated sigh, though she couldn't help the smile that was forming as well.

(Serval) "Hah, not in the slightest."

S/O was such an idiot.

And by god, Serval was glad S/O was her idiot.

Anis spits out the soda she was drinking, not bothering to clean up as she spun around to S/O.

(Anis) "WOAH! W-When did you get so bold?!"

S/O was stunned by Anis's reaction, but she wasn't able to scan in any increase in heartrate.

Did they just get augmented to become extremely brave, or?-

(S/O) "I didn't think you'd get so worked up over model building, Anis."

...Okay, no they were just stupid.

Anis slumped back down on the couch, facepalming before cleaning up the soda that was covering the table.

(Anis) "S/O, fetish isn't some ol-timey word for hobby!...Well, for decent folk, anyway."

(S/O) "So what's it-"

(Anis) "Agh! L-Look, don't ask me!"

Her core quickly heating up, her fingers fidgeted as she did her best to look everywhere except at S/O.

(Anis) "Go ask Rapi or Ne-N-NO! DON'T ASK NEON! JUST...Just ask the Commander, or something!"

(S/O) "O-Okay? I didn't offend you or something, did I?"

(Anis) sigh "No, but...look it's something you don't ask in the middle of the lobby, okay? It means something pretty...dirty!"

(S/O) "Since when did you care about that kind of thing?"

(Anis) "WHEN MY BOYFRIEND/GIRLFRIEND IS ASKING ME TO TRY A FETISH ON THEM, OKAY?!"

(Neon) "WOAH! You're doing what?!"

(Commander) "...Is this a bad time to come in?"

(Rapi) "Perhaps we should take a break and leave the outpost for a while, sir-"

(Anis) "N-NO! YOU'RE GETTING THE WRONG IDEA!"

Ayaka gasped at S/O's question, a hand going over her chest before stammering out a response.

(Ayaka) "Huh?! S-S/O! W-We can't discuss something so...degenerate out in the open!"

(S/O) "W-Wine tasting?"

Now Ayaka let out a small squeak. She knows she's heard something to do with wine tasting in the bedroom.

(Ayaka) "S/O, please!"

(S/O) "Hang on a second, Ayaka! I don't think you're understanding what I mean!"

For once, Ayaka thinks she knows something that S/O didn't outside of her duties.

That being the true meaning of a word that she found much too dirty to use.

(Ayaka) "S/O, do you know what that word is?"

(S/O) "Hobbies, right?"

(Ayaka) "I'm...afraid not, love."

Looking around to make sure no one was around, she leaned over to S/O's ear before whispering the meaning.

Which doing so caused her to become just as red as S/O.

Lisa honestly doesn't know if she's disappointed or amused by the fact S/O asked her to try a fetish without knowing what it really means.

Maybe a little bit of both, but it didn't fail to get her to laugh anyway, Lisa covering her mouth by balling up a gloved hand.

And their confusion, accompanied by that cute tilt of their head and slight pout, got her to laugh even more.

(Lisa) "Sorry, sorry! Not laughing at you, cutie."

(S/O) "So, what are you laughing about then?"

(Lisa) "Well...that particular choice of phrasing, really. You do know what that word means, right?"

(S/O) "What, fetish?"

(Lisa) "Mhm."

S/O crossed their arms before sighing.

(S/O) "I saw it in a book, though the sentence it was used in was pretty vague. I know it means something to do with an activity, from context clues anyway."

(Lisa) "That book must have been very flowery in its language if you could only pick that up from the context."

Before making a mental note to check out the book S/O was reading, Lisa puts one hand under her chin as her elbow rests on the table.

(Lisa) "Allow me to tell you the definition proper, S/O...Rather, I'll show you it."

Later that evening, S/O did know what the word meant, one sore body later.

Eula goes bright red at the question, immediately raising an eyebrow at S/O.

(Eula) "Is this some kind of joke, S/O?!"

Seeing S/O only laugh in reaction confirmed her suspicions. They were teasing her!

(Eula) "Hmph! Trying to get a rise out of an elegant woman such as I will only earn you my vengeance, S/O!"

(S/O) "My apologies, miss Eula! I did not know that a mere painting could get you so flustered!"

So, it was that kind of painting? Eula had no idea S/O was so...perverted!

(Eula) "Any right person would be, if asked! If you desire a nude model, then-"

Immediately, she noticed how red they got.

(S/O) "W-Woah! Hang on, I meant a regular painting! Like of a smile, or something like that!"

Eula paused for a moment, then furrowing her brows again.

(Eula) "Did you not just ask me to try a fetish with you?"

(S/O) "As in, hobby? Isn't that just a fancy word for it?"

...Oh.

(Eula) "N-Not in any circle I know."

Well, Eula certainly didn't want to be the one to explain it.

Xianyun is relatively unaffected by S/O's question as she adjusts her glasses.

She's rather thankful of S/O being so straightforward about the request, less trying to decipher or beat around the bush for her.

(Xianyun) "One is not opposed, S/O. What fetish would you like to attempt?"

(S/O) "Great! See, I really want to try swimming as fast as I can versus one of your inventions!"

(Xianyun) "...A competition against One's contraptions is enough to stimulate you?"

(S/O) "I imagine it would! If it's made by you, then it's going to give me a challenge!"

Xianyun is honestly touched, that something made by her would get S/O that excited.

Who is she to deny her lover such a request?"

(Xianyun) "One will oblige! Let us head towards the beaches and find a worthy space to try it out."

...

Later as she watched her contraption race against S/O to a nearby rock, gliding against the waters, she heard footsteps behind her.

(Lumine) "Cloud Retainer?"

(Xianyun) "Ah, you return! One is pleased to see you doing well. Though you come at a rather...intimate moment, I believe."

Paimon blinked into existence next to her companion, waving hello excitedly.

(Paimon) "Hiya!...What's S/O doing?"

(Xianyun) "They are indulging themselves in a fetish of theirs."

(Lumine) "HUH?"

(Paimon) "W-WOAH! Did Paimon hear that right?!"

(Xianyun) "One is certainly not to judge. In fact, One can appreciate their openness about the subject matter."

Lumine and Paimon did a double take at what S/O was doing, then back to Xianyun.

...Either she didn't know what it meant, or-

S/O returned to shore a moment later, still clothed in a wetsuit that Xianyun had created and waved hello to the Traveler and Paimon.

(S/O) "Oh, hey you two!"

(Paimon) "Uh...hi?"

(Lumine) "S/O, Xianyun just told us you were...involved in a fetish?"

(S/O) "Yeah! I wanted to see if she could make a machine that was faster than me at swimming!"

(Xianyun) "Are mortals not accustomed to speaking so openly about it to their lovers?"

(Paimon) "P-Paimon guesses? But...do you know what it means?"

(Xianyun) "Naturally. A sexual desire of the partner-"

(S/O) "WHAT?!"

(Xianyun) "...Oh. Well, that certainly explains why you were so calm about it-"

(Lumine) "...I should go-"

[satansdarlin]

Marigold margins

Chapter two

Ceo!Tim Drake x assistant fem!reader

Notes: hammered this out when I was supposed to be sleeping! Also I'm twenty now :0! Not beta read this time so excuse any grammar errors. Comments and reblogs are always appreciated! Tell me what you think! I love to hear your thoughts

Warnings: talk of the loss of a parent, toxic work environments, talk about how a sugar daddy relationship can be toxic (not in this one tho!), referenced past cheating (all my homies hate Josh and Alexia), straight up attempted murder (cause that bitch knows you don't know how to swim), sickeningly sweet love confessions, Thomas being a bit of a cockblock but we love him.

Word count: 10k

Rating: T

Playlist

The restaurant was a world apart from anything you'd experienced before. Gotham's most exclusive Vietnamese restaurant wasn't just a dining establishment – it was a temple of culinary artistry. Crystal chandeliers cast soft golden light over tables draped in pristine white linens, each setting a carefully curated masterpiece of silver and crystal.

You felt like an imposter.

Your pale yellow dress – the nicest thing in your wardrobe, carefully selected after three panicked phone calls to your sister – suddenly felt woefully inadequate. The other patrons looked like they'd stepped out of a high-fashion magazine, all carefully tailored suits and designer jewelry that probably cost more than your entire year's rent.

The hostess – impossibly elegant in a tailored red silk uniform that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe – looked you up and down with a gaze that made you want to shrink into yourself.

"Name?" Her tone was crisp, professional, and utterly intimidating.

"I'm, um, here with Timothy Drake?" The words came out as a question, your confidence evaporating under her scrutiny.

Her perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched. "I don't believe we have—"

"There you are." Tim's voice cut through your mounting anxiety like a warm knife through butter. He appeared beside you, immaculate in a charcoal suit that looked like it had been tailored by angels. His hand settled on the small of your back – warm, reassuring, possessive.

The hostess's demeanor changed instantly. "Mr. Drake, your table is ready. Right this way."

You found yourself guided through the restaurant, feeling like you were floating. Tim's touch was steady, grounding you even as your mind raced. The other diners seemed to part like a sea, heads turning in recognition.

"Sorry about traffic," you mumbled, fingers nervously smoothing the fabric of your dress.

Tim leaned in, his breath close to your ear. "I could have sent a car," he murmured. "One of the company's autonomous vehicles would have—"

"And that," you interrupted, finding a spark of your usual banter, "would be even more unprofessional than this, Mr. Drake."

The nickname made his eyes dance with amusement. "We're not at the office," he said, pulling out your chair with a fluid motion that spoke of years of practiced elegance. "Just Tim. Please."

As you sat, you couldn't help but marvel at the contrast between you. Tim moved through this world like he was born to it – which, technically, he was. You, on the other hand, felt like an actress who'd wandered onto the wrong set.

The menu was a work of art, more like a leather-bound book than a list of dishes. Golden-edged pages revealed delicacies you'd only read about, prices conspicuously absent – a sure sign that if you had to ask, you couldn't afford it.

"Have you ever had real Vietnamese cuisine?" Tim asked, his menu folded casually beside his plate.

You shifted uncomfortably. "Define 'real'?"

His laugh was soft, meant only for you. "Not from a food truck or a strip mall restaurant."

"Hey," you mock-protested, "those are cultural institutions!"

A waiter appeared, as if summoned by magic. Crystal water glasses were filled, a wine list presented to Tim with the reverence usually reserved for religious texts.

"The 2015 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, sir?" the waiter suggested.

Tim's fingers brushed yours across the table. "What do you think?"

The wine probably cost more than your monthly salary. You swallowed, suddenly feeling very out of your depth.

"I'm more of a craft beer girl," you admitted.

Tim's smile was blinding. "Good. Because I am too. Though don't tell my family."

Something in that moment – his genuine smile, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room – made all the elegance around you fade into background noise.

"So," you leaned forward, "tell me something real. Something the tabloids don't know."

His eyes glinted with a promise of secrets about to be shared. Tim leaned back, a challenge dancing in his eyes. "Something real, huh? Most people think they know me – Timothy Drake, Wayne heir, tech prodigy. But nobody knows the real me."

The waiter returned, setting down an array of dishes that looked more like art installations than food. Delicate rice paper rolls, a steaming pho that sent wisps of aromatic steam into the air, garnishes so precisely placed they looked like they'd been positioned with tweezers.

"I was seven," Tim began, picking up his chopsticks with the same precision the chef had used to arrange the meal, "when I first taught myself computer programming."

You raised an eyebrow. "Most seven-year-olds are playing video games. You were writing code?"

"Not just writing," he corrected, a hint of that boyish enthusiasm breaking through his polished exterior. "I was trying to hack my parents' computer to prove I could do it."

A laugh escaped you – loud, unrestrained, completely inappropriate for the refined setting. Several nearby diners turned, but Tim's eyes never left you.

"Did you succeed?" you asked, leaning forward.

His smile was pure mischief. "Of course I did. Took me three days. My mother was both furious and secretly impressed."

You took a bite of the rice paper roll, trying to look elegant and immediately realizing how difficult that was. A drop of sauce landed on your dress.

"Shit," you muttered.

Tim slides a napkin toward you, but there's something soft in his eyes. "It's just a dress," he says simply. "Not like the world will end."

It wasn't just a napkin. It was a perfectly pressed white linen napkin that probably cost more than your dry cleaning budget for a year. You dabbed at the spot, acutely aware of how out of place you felt.

"Your turn," Tim said. "Something real about you that nobody knows."

You hesitated, twirling your chopsticks. "I... can't actually use these very well."

His laugh was unexpected. Full. Rich. The kind of laugh that made other diners turn and smile, even if they didn't know the joke.

"tell me something actually real," he prompted again, his eyes holding a mix of curiosity and challenge.

"When I was in college," you admitted quietly, a mischievous edge creeping into your voice, "I may have orchestrated the complete academic downfall of six guys from Gotham University."

Tim's laugh burst out unexpectedly, sharp and surprised. "You got them expelled?"

"They had cut up photos of my sister Indi from magazines," you exclaimed, a fierce protectiveness blazing in your eyes. "Hung them in their dorm with these... disgusting annotations. No one makes gross comments about my sister without consequences."

Your voice was matter-of-fact, but there was a steel underneath that made Tim's eyes widen. He leaned closer, fascinated.

"What did you do?" he asked, genuinely intrigued.

A small, dangerous smile played across your lips. "Let's just say their academic records became... quite complicated. Plagiarism allegations. Lost recommendation letters. Academic conduct hearings." You shrugged. "By the time I was done, they were lucky to transfer to community college."

Tim's laughter was a mix of shock and admiration. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."

"Wise choice," you winked.

The conversation hung between you - a delicate balance of humor and intensity. Tim's fingers traced patterns on the pristine white tablecloth, his next words carefully chosen.

"Most people think I'm just the tech genius of the Wayne family," he said softly. "But my first love was actually marine biology."

You blinked, caught off guard. "Marine biology? Really?"

"Spent an entire summer when I was fourteen volunteering at the Gotham Aquarium," he admitted, a soft vulnerability replacing his usual polished exterior. "I wanted to save every single sea creature. Drove my family absolutely mad. I still have a boat bruce bought me for it."

The waiter returned, setting down two steaming bowls of pho. The aroma was intoxicating – star anise, beef broth, fresh herbs creating a symphony of scent that made your mouth water.

"What changed?" you asked, watching Tim expertly manipulate his chopsticks. "Why didn't you become a marine biologist?"

His smile turned slightly rueful. "Reality of the Wayne legacy, I suppose. Family expectations are... complicated."

You understood that. Family expectations were a language you'd spoken fluently your entire life. The weight of unspoken rules, inherited dreams, and silent sacrifices - you knew that terrain intimately.

"My turn, huh?" You traced the rim of your water glass, your voice soft but steady. "My father died when I was fifteen. Lung cancer - a delayed consequence of a Joker gas attack years earlier. Most people don't understand how something like that lingers, how toxicity can take years to kill you."

You looked up, meeting Tim's gaze directly. No apology in your eyes, just a raw, unvarnished truth.

"He made me promise something before he died," you continued. "Not just me, but all my sisters. 'Never stop fighting for what you want most in life.' Not in a motivational poster kind of way. But like a mission. A directive."

Tim's hand moved across the table, his fingers barely touching yours. Not a gesture of pity, but of connection. Understanding.

"Some legacies are survival instructions," he said quietly. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of solidarity.

You appreciated that he didn't say "I'm sorry." Those words had lost meaning years ago.

"Want to know something else?" Tim's smile shifted - part mischief, part vulnerability. "I've been wanting to ask you out for months."

"No way," you laughed, the sound low and disbelieving. "Me? Of all people?" Your eyebrow arched, a challenge dancing in your eyes. "Absolutely not."

Tim's smile didn't falter. If anything, it deepened - a mix of amusement and something more profound. "Oh, but yes way," he countered, his fingers still intertwined with yours. "The universe works in strange ways."

You'd heard that before. Gotham was a city of strange ways, of unexpected connections.

"The truth," Tim continued, leaning closer, "is always more complicated." His voice dropped, intimate. "You're the first person who's ever looked past the surface. Who sees beyond the Drake heir, beyond the Wayne successor. Who sees just... me."

The words hung between you - vulnerable, honest, dangerous.

The food arrived like a distraction, a symphony of colors that seemed almost too artful to disturb. Delicate rice paper rolls that looked like they'd been crafted by an artist, not a chef. Steam rising from a soup that promised complexity. Crisp pancakes that looked more like small architectural models than something meant to be eaten.

"Eat," Tim encouraged, his eyes never leaving yours. "No nerves required."

Your chopsticks felt awkward, clumsy. Tim's movements, by contrast, were fluid - each motion precise, economic. A dancer's grace, a programmer's efficiency.

The first bite exploded across your tongue - layers of flavor so complex they almost seemed impossible. Nuanced. Unexpected. Nothing like any Vietnamese food you'd experienced before.

"Good?" Tim asked, and the word was loaded with something more than simple curiosity.

"Incredible," you admitted. And you weren't just talking about the food.

Outside, Gotham's night was falling. City lights began to sparkle - a million stories unfolding in the darkness. But inside this restaurant, in this moment, there was only the two of you. The elegant space. The extraordinary food. And a connection that felt like it was writing its own unexpected story.

The evening was drawing to a close, and the last thing you wanted was for it to end. The tension between you and Tim was electric - professional boundaries blurring with each passing moment. One more hour, and you'd be dangerously close to crossing lines that couldn't be uncrossed.

Gotham's night air bit through your jacket as you stepped outside, the city's chill a stark contrast to the warmth of the restaurant.

"Metropolis," you said softly, a statement and a promise. Your feet shifted, reluctant to create distance between you.

Tim's gaze was warm, understanding. But there was something else brewing beneath the surface - a careful consideration you recognized instantly.

"I spoke with Bruce," he began, each word measured. "About us. About potential... complications."

You tensed slightly. The unspoken implications hung between you - this could work, or this could spectacularly fall apart.

"A contract," Tim continued, watching your reaction carefully. "Not what you're thinking. An NDA. A way to protect both of us. Professionally and personally."

A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it. "A contract? Like some kind of corporate romance clause?"

Tim's laugh matched yours - nervous, excited, slightly ridiculous. "Something like that. Bruce thought it might provide a framework. Protection."

"Romantic," you deadpanned, but your eyes were sparkling.

"Bruce was never known for his romantic sensibilities," Tim shot back.

A soft silence settled between you, the city's background noise a distant hum. Tim's hands were tucked into his coat pockets, but you could see the tension in his shoulders - a mixture of hope and uncertainty.

"So," you said finally, your breath creating small clouds in the cold Gotham air, "a contract that essentially says what, exactly?"

Tim's smile was equal parts nervous and calculated. "Mutual discretion. Clear boundaries. Protections for both of us if things become... complicated." He paused. "Bruce suggested it might help us navigate the professional complexities."

You appreciated the directness. In Gotham, in your world, nothing was ever simple. Relationships were chess matches, and Tim was proposing a detailed playbook.

"And if I want to play?" The question hung between you, loaded with possibility.

"Then we play carefully," Tim responded, his voice low. "Very carefully."

The streetlights cast a golden glow, creating a bubble of intimacy in the middle of a city that never truly slept. Gotham watched, perpetually curious, perpetually waiting.

“I can do careful,” you hummed sweetly and stood on the tips of your toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek making him flush red in the face. You heard a honk and looked over and saw scarlet's car. “That's my ride. See you in Metropolis, Mr. Drake”

“I'm never going to get you to just call me Tim all the time, am i?” His voice filled with mirth and teasing as he smiled at you.

“We will see, sir” you chirped, giving a mock salute before going off to your sister's car.

.

.

.

"That should be everything," Scarlet declared, setting down the final box in the spacious Metropolis penthouse. She let out a low whistle, surveying the room. "Quite the setup your boyfriend arranged."

"He's not—" You sighed, catching yourself, maybe you were, you werent sure. "Tim just needs me close for our work."

Scarlet's eyebrow arched, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Right. Just work."

You rolled your eyes, recognizing the familiar teasing. "You sound just like Indi and Dick."

Her laugh was soft, but her gaze grew serious. Stuffing her hands into her pockets, Scarlet studied you with a mixture of concern and pride. "You sure you'll be okay out here? It's a hell of a long way from Gotham."

The concern was layered—part sisterly protection, part lingering grief. You both knew how much had changed since your father's death.

"I need this," you said quietly. "A fresh start. Away from... everything."

"Away from Josh," Scarlet corrected, her tone hardening. "I still offer to break his kneecaps, by the way."

"Calm down, Vito Corleone," you chuckled.

For a moment, Scarlet looked less like the fierce small business owner and more like the sister who had helped raise you. Her fingers traced the edge of a nearby box—an old nervous habit from childhood.

"I worry," she admitted. "Ever since dad..."

You moved closer, placing a hand on her arm. "I know. But I'm not alone. I've got you. Indi. Petal. Mom. And now, this opportunity with Tim."

Moisture gathered in Scarlet's eyes. "You're going to do amazing things. I know it."

The hug was tight, filled with the familiar scents of lavender, flower shop soil, and citrus cleaning products that defined Scarlet.

"How's the shop? How's Harkin?" you asked, sensing she needed to shift focus.

Her smile transformed her entire demeanor. "Growing like a weed. He's 'helping' me arrange flowers—which means creating beautiful, chaotic messes."

"Sounds exactly like his mother," you teased.

"Careful," Scarlet mock-warned. "I have connections with every florist in Gotham. I could make your professional life very interesting."

You raised an eyebrow. "Weaponized flower arrangements?"

"Not a threat. A promise."

Laughter dissolved the remaining tension. Outside the penthouse windows, Metropolis awaited—a canvas of new possibilities.

"Call me," Scarlet insisted as she prepared to leave. "Every. Single. Day."

"Yes, mom," you retorted, the affection clear.

After she departed, you stood amid the boxes—each one a symbol of transformation, of escape, of hope.

Your phone buzzed.

From: Tim

Everything settled in?

To: Tim

Almost. My sister just threatened to weaponize flower arrangements if I don't call her daily.

From: Tim

Remind me to never get on her bad side either.

A smile played on your lips. Metropolis wasn't just a new city. It was a new beginning.

.

.

.

The weeks blurred together, each day more demanding than the last. You could feel the tension building—in your jaw, in Tim's posture, in the very air around your work.

You were on a call, your tone clipped and professional, when Tim entered the room. His face was a map of stress, fingers rubbing his temples. Their eyes met—a silent acknowledgment of the mounting pressure.

The phone call was a masterclass in professional restraint. Your voice, crisp and controlled, sliced through the potential client's growing agitation.

"Mr. Drake's schedule is completely booked," you stated, each word precisely calibrated. "We cannot accommodate additional meetings at this time."

Tim watched from the doorway, a silent observer to your professional ballet. The muffled sounds of argument filtered through the phone's speaker—frustration, desperation, the kind of negotiation that happened when someone was used to getting their way.

"I understand your concerns," you continued, a razor's edge of patience threading through your tone. "If you could provide a more comprehensive proposal, I'd be happy to review it for potential future consideration."

Another pause. Your fingers drummed a subtle rhythm against the desk—the only outward sign of your mounting irritation.

"No," you said firmly. "Mr. Drake maintains strict boundaries regarding business communications. Discretion is paramount in our work."

When you finally ended the call, the silence felt like a physical thing. You exhaled—long, controlled, a study in professional composure.

Tim's chuckle was low, tinged with exhaustion. "Problems?"

Your smile was wry, weathered. "Just another client who believes the rules don't apply to them."

The subtext was clear. The Metropolis transfer—once a promising strategic expansion—had become a crucible of unexpected challenges. New clients, competing interests, a constant barrage of professional obstacles had transformed their work into a high-wire act of precision and patience.

"I'm starting to think Samantha might have been right about the market volatility," you admitted, shuffling papers that seemed to multiply with each passing moment.

Tim's jaw tightened. The mention of Samantha was a deliberate provocation, and he knew it.

"We're not giving her the satisfaction," he responded, the words clipped.

You raised an eyebrow, a challenge masked as curiosity. "Competitive?"

"Always," he said. But beneath the professional veneer, a hint of his younger self emerged—that brilliant, driven individual who'd never backed down from a challenge.

"Coffee?"

It wasn't a question. It was survival.

The break room was a sanctuary of sorts—a small pocket of relative calm in their storm of professional intensity. The coffee machine gurgled, filling the space with a rich, bitter aroma that spoke of long nights and endless negotiations.

Tim's phone buzzed. The caller ID read "Dick"—a name that immediately sparked a warning look from Tim.

"Don't," he said, catching your inquisitive glance.

"Don't what?" Innocence personified.

"Whatever matchmaking scheme Dick and Indi are plotting." No real heat in the words. Just resignation.

Outside, Metropolis stretched beneath gray skies—a city of perpetual motion, of opportunities hidden behind concrete and glass. Much like the relationship developing between you and Tim. Professional. Intense. Something more.

"We're going to make this work," you muttered. A promise. A prayer.

Tim looked at you—truly looked. Past the stress. Beyond the tense shoulders and dark circles. He saw potential. Resilience. Something profound.

"Together," he confirmed.

The word hung in the air. Weighted. Promising.

Your phone buzzed. Scarlet, as always, a lifeline.

From: Scarlet

Coffee count? Eating actual food today?

You showed Tim the message. He laughed, a sound that broke through the professional tension.

"Indi's more responsible sibling" he observed.

"Careful," you warned. "She weaponizes flower arrangements."

As if summoned by the conversation, a delivery arrived. A small, elegant bouquet. The card read: "Survive. Thrive. Love you."

Something soft passed over Tim's expression. A vulnerability quickly masked by professional composure.

"We've got this," he said quietly.

And for the first time in weeks, you believed him.

.

.

.

The first true glimpse of Timothy Jackson Drake's anger wasn't a explosion. It was precise. Surgical. Triggered by a rumor that threatened everything you'd both been building.

A coworker's casual observation. You and Tim, lunch, appearing more familiar than strictly professional.

The storm was just beginning.

The voices filtered through Tim's office door, muffled but unmistakable.

"Mr. Drake, we aren't saying personal relationships are forbidden, but consider the optics."

You continued typing, each keystroke a measured rhythm of professional composure. But you were listening. Always listening.

The arrangement between you and Tim was a delicate architecture. Not a relationship, not exactly. Something more calculated. Less romantic, more strategic. Bruce's recommendation hung over everything—a non-disclosure agreement disguised as professional courtesy.

Tim took care of things. A Prada handbag here. Covering unexpected expenses there. You weren't naive enough to call it love. You were pragmatic enough to recognize opportunity.

Inside the office, Tim's voice rose—a razor's edge of controlled fury.

"My assistant's performance is exemplary," he stated. Not a defense. A declaration.

You knew the game. Every interaction choreographed. Lunches that could pass as strategy meetings. Texts that whispered professional necessity. Gifts positioned as performance incentives.

The door opened. Tim emerged—professional armor firmly in place, save for the microscopic tension in his jaw.

"Pull the quarterly reports," he instructed. Not a request.

You understood immediately. Performance metrics as weaponry. A clinical dismantling of any suggestion of impropriety.

Your phone buzzed. Indi's perpetual concern.

From: Indi

You're being careful?

To: Indi

Always.

Tim's fingers flew across his keyboard—composing what you knew would be a surgical email. Destroying potential narratives before they could take root.

"Coffee?" you asked.

"Already brewing," he responded, because you always were.

The first true fracture came later. Not during the meeting. After.

His office. Private territory. The walls seemed to breathe with unspoken tension.

"I've never seen you so calm," you remarked.

Tim's response was immediate. "I'm not calm."

A muscle ticked in his cheek. Fury, precisely contained. "I'm furious they would dare question your competence. Your integrity."

You stepped closer. An instinctive movement. Grounding.

"Tim—"

The space between you was charged. Not with anger. Something more complex. More dangerous.

Metropolis stretched outside—a city of ambition, of carefully constructed facades. Much like the relationship developing between you and Tim.

Professional. Intense. Undefined.

Precisely where you both wanted it.

"They don't truly see you," Tim said, his voice a low, controlled intensity that could slice through steel. "Just another face. A convenient target."

The space between you vibrated with unspoken tension. Professional. Personal. Something impossibly complex.

His hand caught your wrist—not a restraint, but a connection. Firm. Deliberate.

"I see you," he repeated. Each word a precise instrument. A vow. “Do you know what I see? What you are?”

You knew the game. The careful dance you'd choreographed. Bruce's recommendations echoing in every interaction. Boundaries drawn with surgical precision.

"I'm the one who understands the numbers," you murmured. "The one who keeps this machine running."

His grip softened. A single finger tracing the delicate skin of your inner arm—a touch that defied every professional protocol you'd both meticulously constructed.

"The one," Tim said, "who makes me want to break every rule we've set."

City lights filtered through the office windows. Metropolis—a backdrop to your carefully modulated tension.

"Tim," you warned. A plea. A boundary.

He was close. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him. The controlled fury. The restrained desire.

"Just one moment," he said. Not a question. Not quite a demand.

The line between professional and personal blurred. Dissolved.

His kiss was precise. Controlled. A claim and a surrender wrapped into one moment of absolute clarity.

When he pulled back, you were breathless. Flushed. Changed.

"Remember," Tim said, "who you are to me."

You nodded. A return to form. To function.

"Reports," he instructed.

And just like that, the moment dissolved. Professional composure restored.

.

.

.

Performance reports became your weapon. Tim's legendary meticulousness combined with your strategic brilliance—a combination more surgical than any board meeting could anticipate.

"They're searching for weakness," Tim murmured, documents spread between you like battle plans.

The office was silent. Just desk lamps. City lights. The soft rustle of paper.

"They won't find it," you responded. Your phone buzzed. Indi.

From: Indi

Message: Heard through the grapevine you're causing board drama. Need me to come weaponize some PR?

To: Indi

Message: Absolutely not.

Tim glanced over, catching your slight smile. "Your sister?"

"Offering to commit professional warfare on my behalf," you deadpanned.

He chuckled. A rare sound these days.

The Metropolis expansion was proving more challenging than anticipated. Tech companies were circling, sensing vulnerability. The board's whispers about your relationship were just one pressure point.

"We could make a statement," Tim suggested, not for the first time.

"And say what? That we're... what exactly?" You raised an eyebrow. "Professionally involved? Personally connected?"

The space between those definitions was where you lived now.

A knock interrupted. Martin Reynolds – the board member who'd been most vocal about your "inappropriate relationship" – stood in the doorway.

"Ms. (Y/L/N)," he said, deliberately not looking at Tim, "a moment?"

Tim's hand – almost imperceptibly – brushed yours under the desk. A silent warning. A promise.

The game was just beginning.

You followed Mr. Reynolds out into the hall, who glanced around for a moment, ensuring no one was within immediate earshot.

"You wished to speak to me, sir?"

"With all due respect, ma'am, I'd like to make a suggestion." His tone was clipped and lined with a superiority that made you want to claw his eyes out. "End whatever little situation you have with Mr. Drake before it ruins you."

You gaped at the audacity of this man for a moment before your eyes narrowed. "Mr. Drake and I's connection outside of work hours is not of company concern, sir."

Reynolds leaned in, his voice low and threatening. "Do you really think you're the first assistant to believe she can navigate a relationship with her boss? I've seen careers destroyed for far less."

Your spine straightened. You'd grown up with Indi as a sister and survived Scarlet's protective fury and had helped raise the youngest of your sisters into a formidable young woman. A middle-aged board member attempting to intimidate you was child's play.

"Are you suggesting, Mr. Reynolds, that my professional performance has been anything less than exceptional?" Each word was precisely placed, a verbal chess move.

He faltered slightly. The quarterly reports – the ones you and Tim had meticulously prepared – spoke for themselves. Your metrics were impeccable. The Metropolis office had seen a 17% increase in efficiency since your arrival.

"I'm suggesting," he said, recovering his bluster, "that personal entanglements compromise professional judgment."

A laugh – short, sharp – escaped you before you could stop it. "With all due respect, sir, the only compromise I see is your apparent inability to recognize talent when it's directly in front of you."

Tim's approach was subtle. You didn't hear him, but suddenly he was there, a presence just behind you. Not intervening, but clearly present.

"Is there a problem?" Tim's voice was silk over steel.

Reynolds straightened, the bravado momentarily deflating. "Mr. Drake. Just having a professional discussion with your... assistant."

"My executive assistant," Tim corrected, a razor's edge to the words. "Is there something specific you needed to discuss about our recent performance reports?"

The hall seemed to compress, tension thrumming between them. You were acutely aware of the strategic positioning – Tim slightly behind you, a silent support, letting you handle the confrontation.

Reynolds knew he was outmaneuvered. "No," he said finally. "Nothing further."

As he walked away, Tim's hand brushed yours – so briefly anyone watching would miss it. A moment of connection. Of solidarity.

"Lunch?" he asked, as if nothing had happened.

Your smile was pure defiance. "Absolutely."

The walk to the cafeteria was charged. Tim's mind raced, replaying the interaction. Reynolds' thinly veiled threats. Your sharp-edged response. The way you'd stood your ground, unflinching.

"You know," he said as you entered the elevator, "I'm starting to think you enjoy these confrontations."

Your laugh was sharp. Bitter. "Not so much enjoyment as necessitate."

The elevator doors slid shut, sealing you in a capsule of forced intimacy. Tim leaned against the wall, studying you. Really seeing you for the first time since the whole Reynolds debacle began.

"I never thanked you," he said quietly. "For handling that. With Reynolds."

You shrugged, but there was a tension in your shoulders. A tightness around your eyes that spoke of long-held frustrations.

"Don't," you said, too quickly. "Don't thank me for doing my job."

Ah. There it was. The crux of the issue.

"(Y/N)," he started, but the elevator dinged, doors sliding open to reveal the bustling cafeteria. The aroma of fresh coffee and reheated pizza wafted out, a stark contrast to the sterile hallways of Wayne Enterprises.

Tim hesitated, his hand hovering at the threshold. The urge to pull you aside, to find a quiet corner and hash this out, was strong. But the rational part of his brain knew that wasn't the answer. Not here, not now.

So he followed you into the fray, falling into step beside you as you wove through the lunchtime crowd. You moved with purpose, your posture straight and your gaze focused. No one would guess at the tension thrumming beneath your skin.

"Salad bar?" Tim asked, a peace offering. A chance to salvage some normalcy.

You nodded, a curt jerk of your head. No words, but the message was clear.

As you loaded up your tray with greens and vegetables, Tim found himself studying you. The set of your jaw, the furrow between your brows. He'd seen you angry before, but this was different. This was cold. Calculating.

"You know," he said softly, leaning in so only you could hear, "if you ever need a sparring partner, I'm your guy."

The joke fell flat. Your eyes never left the salad bar, but he could see the muscles in your back tense.

Right. Not the time for levity.

They found a table in the corner, as far from the crowds as possible. You sat across from him, arranging your food with mechanical precision.

Tim took a bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly. The silence stretched between you, heavy with things unsaid.

"(Y/N)," he started, but the words tangled on his tongue. How did you even begin to address this? The double standards, the constant scrutiny, the need to be twice as good just to be seen as half as competent?

You looked up, meeting his gaze. There was a challenge there, a defiance that took his breath away.

"Don't," you said, your voice low and intense. "Don't look at me like that. Like I'm some fragile thing that needs protecting."

"I'm not," he protested, but the denial rang hollow even to his own ears.

"Yes, you are." Your knife scraped against your plate, a sharp sound in the quiet cafeteria. "You're looking at me like I'm a victim. Like I need you to fight my battles for me."

Tim's jaw clenched. He knew that look. That patronizing tilt of the head, that subtle shift in body language that said 'poor little girl, can't handle the big bad corporate world'.

It made his blood boil.

"That's not," he started, but you cut him off with a look.

"It is," you insisted, leaning forward. "It's exactly what you're thinking. You're wondering how I can handle myself, how I can stand up to men like Reynolds."

"I'm not," Tim said, but even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were a lie. He had wondered that, in the moment. Had seen you standing tall and proud and fierce, and had felt a flicker of doubt.

"Well, stop," you said, sitting back. "Stop wondering, stop worrying, stop treating me like I'm made of glass."

Tim's hands curled into fists beneath the table. He wanted to argue, to defend himself. But the words wouldn't come.

Because you were right. He had been treating you differently, holding you to a different standard. And that was wrong.

"I apologize," he said finally, the words stiff and formal in his mouth. "I shouldn't have assumed."

You studied him for a long moment, searching his face. Then, slowly, you nodded.

"Apology accepted," you said, and just like that, the tension broke.

You went back to your salad, and Tim to his sandwich. The conversation flowed back to safer topics - work, the weather, the never-ending stream of emails.

But beneath it all, something had shifted. A new understanding, a deeper respect.

Tim Drake was many things - a vigilante, a detective, a genius. But today, he was learning to be something else. Your equal.

.

.

.

Morning sunlight filtered through your penthouse windows, illuminating an elegantly wrapped box outside your door. The tag made you sigh: 'a proper apology - T'. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, lay a dress that made your breath catch. Chamomile yellow silk, the kind of elegance that belonged at galas, not board meetings. Your laptop search for the designer nearly stopped your heart.

You hit Tim's speed dial. "Timothy Jackson Drake, did you seriously buy me a five thousand dollar dress as an apology?!"

His chuckle was warm, rich. "Guilty. But it's not just any dress. It's Valentino, that designer you mentioned loving at the charity gala last month."

Your fingers traced the impeccable stitching, betraying you even as you protested. "This is excessive."

"Says the woman who orchestrated a complete restructuring of our Asia-Pacific division in three days." The smile in his voice was audible. "But seriously, I wanted... I needed to show you that yesterday meant something. That I heard you."

You bit your lip, caught between admiration and unease. The gesture was thoughtful, intimate even - he'd remembered an offhand comment about your favorite designer. But it also highlighted the very power dynamic you'd fought against yesterday.

"Tim," you said softly, still running your fingers along the silk, "I can't accept this. It's too much."

His pause spoke volumes. When he finally responded, his voice had lost its playful edge.

"This isn't about the money, (Y/N). This is me saying I see you. As my equal. My partner. Yesterday made me realize I needed to show that, not just say it.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. You closed your eyes, taking a steadying breath.

"I appreciate the sentiment," you said carefully. "But gifts like this... they create expectations. Obligations."

"I'm not trying to create obligations," Tim said, exasperation creeping into his tone. "I'm trying to show you that I value you. As a person. As my colleague. You're important to me."

You opened your mouth to protest, but the words died in your throat. Because maybe... maybe he was right. Maybe you were reading too much into this. Seeing shadows where there was only light.

"Keep it," Tim said, his voice gentle now. "Wear it to the gala next week. Show them all how wrong they are about you."

The gala. Of course. The annual charity event that was as much about business as it was about philanthropy. A chance to network, to make statements.

To make a point.

"Fine," you said, surprising yourself with the word. "I'll wear it. But only because it's a lovely dress."

"And because you look stunning in yellow," Tim added, his voice warm.

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. "Flatterer."

"Always," he agreed, and you could hear the smile in his voice.

You hung up a moment later, still holding the dress. The silk was cool against your skin, a reminder of the promise – and the danger – that lay ahead.

The dress was beautiful. Tim's intentions were pure. But in the cutthroat world of Wayne Enterprises, even the most innocent of gestures could be twisted. Used against you.

You'd have to be careful. Cautious. But for now, in the early morning light, you allowed yourself a moment of indulgence.

Of possibility.

The next morning arrived too soon, the alarm jarring you awake with its insistent beep. You groaned, burying your face in the pillow, but the events of the day ahead refused to be ignored.

The gala. The dress. Tim.

With a sigh, you dragged yourself out of bed, stumbling to the closet where you'd hung the chamomile dress the night before. The silk shimmered in the low light, a promise of elegance amidst the chaos of your morning routine.

You showered quickly, taking extra care with your hair and makeup. Tonight was about making a statement, and you wanted to look your best.

As you slipped into the dress, you marveled at the way it hugged your curves, accentuating your assets without being overtly sexual.

You stepped back, taking in the full effect. The dress was perfect – elegant, sophisticated, but with a hint of something more. A whisper of danger beneath the surface.

Just like you.

A knock at the door startled you from your thoughts.

“Door is open, let yourself in,” you called out. The door swung open, revealing Tim in a tailored tuxedo. His blue eyes widened as he took in the sight of you, the chamomile dress clinging to your curves like a second skin.

"Wow," he breathed, stepping into the room. "You look... incredible."

You felt a flush of pleasure at the compliment, even as you tried to tamp it down. This was about making a statement, not fishing for compliments.

"Thank you," you said coolly, moving past him to grab your clutch. "I hope you don't intend to keep me waiting."

Tim chuckled, following you out into the hallway. "Wouldn't dream of it. I know better than to keep a lady waiting."

The ride to the gala was filled with small talk, the kind of inane chatter that filled the air at these sorts of events. You pointed out a few notable guests as they arrived, while Tim regaled you with stories of past galas gone wrong.

"One year," he said, his eyes twinkling in the dim light of the limo, "one year, I accidentally spilled red wine all over Bruce's date. He was furious. Threw me out of the car and made me walk home."

You couldn't help but laugh at the image, the sound escaping before you could stop it. Tim grinned, clearly pleased with the reaction.

"I've never lived it down," he confessed, shaking his head. "But hey, at least I learned to hold my drink."

The limo pulled up to the gala venue, the Starlight Ballroom, a glittering palace of glass and steel. You stepped out onto the red carpet, the flash of cameras blinding in the night.

Tim offered you his arm, ever the gentleman. You took it, ignoring the way your heart raced at the contact.

The Starlight Ballroom shimmered like a jewel box, crystal chandeliers casting prismatic light across the crowd of Metropolis elite. You smoothed down the chamomile silk of your dress - Tim's gift - and fought the urge to fidget with your clutch. The weight of eyes on you was tangible: board members, society mavens, all wondering about the nature of your relationship with Timothy Drake.

"Champagne?" Tim appeared at your elbow, two flutes balanced elegantly in his hands. In his perfectly tailored tuxedo, he looked every inch the billionaire CEO - except for the slight softness in his eyes when they met yours.

"My hero," you murmured, accepting the glass. The cool crystal anchored you, gave you something to do with your hands besides betray your nerves.

"Reynolds is watching," Tim said under his breath, his smile never wavering. "Third pillar from the left."

You didn't turn to look. You'd learned that much about these gatherings - never let them see you react. "Let him watch. We have nothing to hide."

Tim's fingers brushed yours as he took your empty glass, the touch sending electricity up your arm. "Dance with me?"

The orchestra was playing something slow and romantic - because of course it was. You let Tim lead you onto the floor, his hand settling at your waist with practiced ease. This close, you could smell his cologne, see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.

"You're thinking too loud," he murmured, guiding you through a turn.

"Someone has to," you shot back, but there was no heat in it. How could there be, when he was looking at you like that?

The music swelled, a slow, sultry beat that seemed to pulse in time with your heart. Tim pulled you close, his hand splayed across your back, drawing you flush against his body.

You moved together, your bodies finding a rhythm that was uniquely yours. The world fell away, the gala fading into the background as you lost yourself in the feel of him, the scent of his cologne, the heat of his skin.

When the song ended, you pulled back, breathless and flushed. Tim's eyes were dark, his gaze heavy with promise.

"Tim... I" your hands lingered on his shoulders and he hummed softly, gazing at you through hooded lids.

"Mmmhm?"

"I.."

"(Y/N), is that you?" A voice like honey laced with arsenic cut through the moment. You stiffened, your spine turning to ice. Slowly, you turned to face the architect of your past heartbreak. Alexia stood there, resplendent in a champagne-colored dress that probably cost more than your monthly rent, her smile sharp as a knife's edge.

"Alexia." Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

"(Y/N)!" She glided forward with practiced grace, enveloping you in a cloud of expensive perfume and false warmth. "It's been absolute ages!"

You remained rigid in her embrace, your arms hanging uselessly at your sides. The memory of finding her in your bed – in your bed with Josh – flashed unbidden through your mind.

Tim's hand found your waist, his touch grounding you. His fingers pressed ever so slightly into your skin – a silent reminder that you weren't alone.

"How... unexpected to see you here," you managed, extracting yourself from her embrace. The smile you offered felt like shattered glass on your lips.

Alexia's perfectly shaped eyebrows arched as her gaze slid to Tim, lingering just a heartbeat too long on the elegant cut of his suit. "And who might this be?"

"Tim Drake," he introduced himself with impossible smoothness, extending his hand. The way he said it – so casual yet commanding – sent a flutter through your stomach.

"Charmed," Alexia purred, her manicured fingers wrapping around his hand. She held on just long enough to make you notice, her thumb brushing his palm as she withdrew. "I don't suppose you're here alone?"

Your fingers curled into Tim's jacket before you could stop yourself. "Actually, Tim's my date."

"Is he now?" Alexia's smile didn't waver, but something flickered in her eyes – calculation, perhaps. Or hunger. "How... lovely."

She turned back to Tim, angling her body to partially exclude you from the conversation. "You must tell me how you two met. (Y/N) was always so... particular about her choices. After Josh, I mean."

The casual cruelty of the reference made your breath catch. Tim's hand tightened imperceptibly on your waist.

"Actually," he interjected smoothly, "we were just about to get some air. The terrace here is supposed to be spectacular."

"Oh, but you must save a dance for me later," Alexia called as you turned to leave, her voice carrying just enough to draw curious glances from nearby guests. "For old times' sake."

You didn't trust yourself to respond, letting Tim guide you through the crowd. But you could feel Alexia's eyes following you, calculating and cold as a snake's.

Later, when you found yourself alone by the pool, the click of heels on marble announced her arrival before her voice did.

"Quite the catch," she drawled, coming to stand beside you. "Better than Josh, I'd say. Though that's not saying much, is it?"

You turned to face her, tired of the games. "What do you want, Alexia?"

Her perfect smile faltered for just a moment. "Want? Can't I just want to reconnect with an old friend?"

"We stopped being friends the moment you chose to destroy everything I trusted you with."

"Oh please," she scoffed, mask slipping further. "You always were so dramatic. It was just sex. Besides," her lips curved into a cruel smile, "he wasn't exactly thinking about you that night."

The words hit like a physical blow, but you refused to let her see you flinch. "And that's supposed to make it better? That you both betrayed me so completely?"

"Betrayed you?" Alexia laughed, the sound like breaking glass. "Honey, you betrayed yourself. Always playing it safe, always so... proper. Josh needed more. Maybe Tim will too, eventually."

Your hands clenched at your sides, nails biting into your palms. "You don't know anything about Tim."

"Not yet," she agreed, her smile turning predatory. "But the night is young."

You stepped closer, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Stay away from him, Alexia. And stay away from me."

She merely laughed, the sound echoing across the water. "Come on, don't you wanna hear about how good I have it now?"

You paused, hand hovering over the ornate handle of the ballroom door. The rational part of your brain screamed at you to walk away, to deny her the satisfaction. But there was something magnetic about the moment – like watching a car crash in slow motion, knowing the impact was coming but unable to look away.

Pivoting slowly on your heel, you faced her with a carefully constructed mask of indifference. "Alright, Alexia. Dazzle me."

Her smile unfurled like a poisonous flower, perfectly painted lips curving with predatory satisfaction. "Oh, I think you'll find this particularly... interesting." She paused, savoring the moment like fine wine. "Wayne Enterprises just signed me as their new Director of Strategic Partnerships. I'll be working directly with Tim on all major accounts."

The words hit you like ice water in your veins. You fought to keep your expression neutral, even as your mind raced through the implications. Tim. Every day. In meetings, over coffee, late nights at the office...

"Funny," you heard yourself say, voice steady despite the tremor in your chest. "Tim hasn't mentioned anything about it."

"Hasn't he?" Alexia's eyebrow arched delicately. "Well, it's all very recent. The paperwork was just finalized today, actually. Tim and I had quite the... intimate discussion about my role." She emphasized 'intimate' just enough to make your skin crawl.

Your fingers curled into your palm, nails leaving crescent moons in their wake. The familiar whisper of inadequacy crept up your spine – the same voice that had haunted you after finding her with Josh. But something else stirred beneath the surface. Something harder, sharper.

"Although," you began, surprising yourself with the honeyed steel in your voice, "you might want to check that paperwork again. As Tim's executive assistant, I handle all his strategic partnerships." You watched the flicker of uncertainty cross her face. "And I don't recall seeing your name cross my desk."

The change in Alexia was instant – like a switch being flipped. Her perfectly composed facade cracked, revealing the raw fury beneath. Before you could react, her hands connected with your shoulders.

The world tilted.

The pool water shocked your system, stealing your breath. You flailed, your designer dress becoming a lead weight dragging you down. The underwater lights blurred into abstract shapes as panic clawed at your chest. Your lungs burned. You'd never learned to swim – a fact that had seemed inconsequential until this moment.

The water above you rippled and distorted, darkness creeping at the edges of your vision. Then – movement. Strong arms encircled your waist, pulling you up, up, up.

You broke the surface gasping, instinctively pressing your face into the crook of a familiar neck. Tim's cologne cut through the chlorine, grounding you as he lifted you from the pool.

"I've got you," he murmured against your hair, his voice rough with barely contained emotion. "You're safe. I've got you."

Water cascaded from your ruined dress as he carried you swiftly through the service entrance, away from prying eyes and whispered gossip. Your fingers clutched at his soaked shirt, feeling the rapid beat of his heart against your palm.

He shouldered open the door to a private bathroom, setting you down carefully on the closed toilet lid. "Don't move," he ordered, voice tight with concern. "I'll be right back."

You nodded numbly, watching droplets fall from your hair to the marble floor. Time seemed to stretch and compress oddly – you weren't sure if seconds or hours passed before Tim returned, arms full of pristine white towels.

He knelt before you, hands infinitely gentle as they moved to help you out of your waterlogged dress. "We need to get you warm," he murmured, but there was something else in his voice. Something dangerous. "Are you hurt?"

You shook your head, then stopped as the movement made the room spin slightly. "Tim..."

"Shh," he soothed, wrapping a towel around your shoulders. "We'll deal with her later. Right now, all that matters is you."

But even as his hands worked to warm you, you could see the cold fury building behind his eyes. Tim Drake was not a man who forgot. And Alexia had just made a very, very big mistake.

You shivered as the cool air kissed your wet skin, raising an army of goosebumps across your arms and legs. Tim's hands were steady as he wrapped a towel around your shoulders, then another at your waist, his movements precise yet tender.

"Think you can stand?" His voice was soft, brow furrowed with the kind of concern that made your chest ache.

You nodded, gripping his forearms as he helped you up. Your legs trembled beneath you like a newborn fawn's, but Tim's presence was solid, unwavering. His soaked suit clung to his frame, water still dripping from his usually perfectly styled hair, and something about seeing him so disheveled, so human, made your heart flutter traitorously in your chest.

The whispers followed you through the ballroom like persistent shadows. Did you see...? In the pool...? Drake's assistant... But they felt distant, meaningless against the steady rhythm of Tim's heartbeat where your hand pressed against his chest for balance.

He guided you to a secluded alcove, settling you onto a velvet sofa that probably cost more than your monthly salary. The fabric would be ruined by your wet clothes, but Tim didn't seem to care as he knelt before you, one hand resting carefully on your knee.

"I'm going to find you something dry to wear," he murmured, his thumb tracing an absent circle against your skin. "Then we'll get you home, okay?"

You managed a nod, sinking back into the sofa as exhaustion began to seep into your bones. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness that made your eyelids heavy.

When Tim returned, he held what looked like designer workout clothes. His touch was feather-light as he helped you change, his eyes carefully averted even though you were still in your slip. Ever the gentleman, even now.

"Better?" he asked, smoothing your damp hair back from your face with a gentleness that made your breath catch.

"Tired," you admitted, unconsciously leaning into his touch. "And mortified that half of Gotham's elite just saw me dripping all over their marble floors."

Tim's laugh was low and warm, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Trust me, they've seen worse at these things. Besides," his eyes softened, "I think I ruined the dramatic effect by jumping in after you in a three-piece Armani."

That startled a laugh from you, though it caught in your throat as you really looked at him – his ruined suit, his tousled hair, the way his eyes hadn't left your face since pulling you from the pool. Like you might disappear if he looked away.

"I should go," you whispered, the words feeling wrong even as you said them. "Before someone takes a photo of me in borrowed Lululemon."

Tim's hand stilled against your cheek, something flickering in his eyes before he slowly pulled away. "Let me take you home," he said, standing and offering his hand. "We should... talk. About Alexia. About everything."

The drive home was quiet, filled with the soft hum of the car's heater and the occasional brush of Tim's hand against yours as he shifted gears. When you finally reached your building, he insisted on walking you up, carrying your ruined dress in a designer shopping bag someone had procured.

The lights in your penthouse apartment flickered on, casting a warm glow over the hardwood floors. You kicked off the borrowed shoes with a sigh of relief, and then—

"Mrrrrrowww?" A long, creaky sound echoed from the kitchen, followed by the appearance of a distinguished-looking tuxedo cat. Thomas sauntered out, his black and white coat gleaming in the light, tail held high like a flag of greeting.

"Hey, old man," you cooed, bending to pet him, but he gracefully sidestepped your still-damp hand with an affronted look that only cats can truly master.

Tim's surprised laugh was warm and genuine. "You have a cat?" He watched as Thomas performed his elaborate greeting ritual, circling your legs before sitting just out of reach, green eyes studying Tim with regal assessment.

"This is Thomas," you said, fighting a smile as the cat turned his attention to Tim, whiskers twitching with interest. "He's particular about his humans. And apparently about wet hands."

Tim crouched down, extending his fingers toward Thomas. To your surprise, the cat moved forward immediately, butting his head against Tim's hand with a purr that sounded like a small motor.

"Traitor," you muttered fondly, watching as your normally aloof cat melted under Tim's attention. "He usually takes weeks to warm up to people."

Tim glanced up at you, a soft smile playing at his lips. "What can I say? I have a way with complicated personalities."

The weight of the evening suddenly pressed down on you – the party, Alexia, the pool, and now Tim kneeling on your floor, charming your cat while still wearing a soaked designer suit. It felt surreal, like a dream you might wake from at any moment.

"Tim," you started, not quite sure what you were going to say, but needing to say something.

He stood slowly, Thomas weaving between his legs. "We should talk," he said quietly, "but first, you should get warm and dry. Properly dry." His eyes were serious now, concern evident in the set of his shoulders. "Do you want me to stay?"

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with possibilities. You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly aware of how vulnerable you felt in the borrowed clothes, hair still damp and curling at the ends. The question lingered in the air, charged with unspoken meaning.

"Yes," you whispered, then cleared your throat. "Yes, I'd... like that."

Tim's expression softened. "Okay. Go change. I'll make us some tea."

"You know where everything is?" you asked, already knowing the answer. He'd been here countless times for late-night work sessions and early morning briefings, but this felt different somehow.

"Second cabinet on the left, top shelf," he replied with a small smile. "Go on. Thomas and I will handle things out here."

As if on cue, Thomas let out another creaky meow and padded after Tim toward the kitchen. You shook your head, still amazed at your cat's immediate acceptance of him.

In your bedroom, you peeled off the borrowed clothes, hanging them carefully over your shower rod. The hot water of the shower felt like heaven against your chlorine-scented skin, washing away the last physical traces of the evening. But Alexia's words still echoed in your mind, mixing with the sound of running water.

When you emerged, wrapped in your softest pajamas and warmest robe, you found Tim had made himself at home. He'd somehow procured dry clothes – you suspected he kept a change in his car for emergencies – and was sitting on your couch, two steaming mugs on the coffee table before him. Thomas was curled in his lap, purring contentedly.

"Better?" Tim asked, looking up as you approached.

"Much," you said, settling beside him on the couch and accepting the mug he offered. The familiar scent of chamomile wafted up, along with something else – honey, you realized. He remembered how you took your tea.

"So," he began carefully, his free hand still absently stroking Thomas, "want to tell me what really happened with Alexia?"

You stared into your mug, watching the steam rise in delicate spirals. "She... she said she's going to be working with you. At Wayne Enterprises."

Tim's hand stilled on Thomas's fur. "Is that what she told you?"

"She said she'd be your new Director of Strategic Partnerships." The words tasted bitter on your tongue.

To your surprise, Tim let out a short laugh. "Well, she certainly has an active imagination."

You looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"

"(Y/N)," he set his mug down, turning to face you fully. "Wayne Enterprises did receive her application, yes. But it was rejected two weeks ago. She didn't meet our requirements."

Relief flooded through you, followed quickly by embarrassment. "Oh."

"Besides," he continued, his voice softer now, "did you really think I'd hire someone without running it by you first? You're not just my assistant, you're..." he paused, something shifting in his expression. "You're important to me. Very important."

Your heart stuttered in your chest. "Tim..."

He reached out, gently taking your mug and setting it beside his. "When I saw her push you," his voice had dropped, taking on an edge you rarely heard, "when I saw you go under..." His hands clenched briefly before relaxing. "I've never been so scared in my life."

"You jumped in after me," you said softly. "In your Armani suit."

"I would have jumped in wearing a tuxedo made of diamonds," he replied, dead serious. "I will always jump in after you, (Y/N)."

The weight of his words settled over you like a warm blanket. Thomas chose that moment to hop down from Tim's lap, padding away with an air of feline discretion.

"Even my cat approves of you," you murmured, trying to lighten the moment even as your heart raced. "He never likes anyone."

Tim's hand found yours, his thumb tracing patterns on your palm. "Maybe he just knows what I've known for a long time."

"And what's that?" Your voice was barely above a whisper.

He leaned closer, his other hand coming up to cup your cheek. "That I'm completely, utterly in love with you."

The world seemed to stop, narrowing down to just this moment – the soft brush of his thumb against your cheekbone, the warmth of his hand in yours, the way his eyes held yours with an intensity that took your breath away.

"Tim," you breathed, "I—"

"You don't have to say anything," he interrupted gently. "I just needed you to know. After tonight, after almost losing you... I couldn't keep pretending these feelings don't exist."

You shifted closer, your free hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling his heartbeat strong and steady beneath your palm. "What if I want to say something?"

His breath caught, hope flickering across his features. "Then I'm listening.”

"If I tell you the truth," your voice barely a whisper in the dim light of your apartment, "everything changes. We can't go back."

Tim shifted closer, the leather of your couch creaking softly beneath him. His hand was still on your cheek, thumb tracing invisible patterns that sent shivers down your spine. "Maybe I don't want to go back."

"The press would have a field day," you breathed, but didn't pull away. "Vicki Vale would write headlines for weeks. 'Wayne Heir Falls for Assistant: A Modern Cinderella Story.'"

His lips curved into a half-smile, eyes dark with something that made your heart stutter. "Let them write. I'll buy every newspaper in Gotham if I have to."

"Bruce—"

"Bruce has his own complicated love life to worry about," Tim murmured, his forehead coming to rest against yours. Your noses brushed, and you could feel his breath against your lips. "Besides, he's not the one I'm in love with."

The word hung between you, heavy with promise and possibility. Your fingers curled into the soft material of his shirt, anchoring yourself to this moment, to him.

"The board would talk," you tried one last time, even as your resolve crumbled like sand. "Your reputation—"

"Listen to me," Tim's voice was low, urgent. His other hand came up to frame your face, holding you like something precious. "I would give up Wayne Enterprises tomorrow. The money, the reputation, all of it. I'd walk away from everything if it meant having this – having you – for even a moment."

Your breath caught in your throat. "You can't mean that."

"Try me." His eyes met yours, blazing with an intensity that made you tremble. "Just say the words, (Y/N). Tell me you feel it too. Tell me I'm not alone in this."

Thomas chose that moment to leap onto the back of the couch, letting out a disapproving meow at the tension in the room. You couldn't help the small laugh that escaped, even as tears pricked at your eyes.

"Even my cat is telling me to stop being stubborn," you whispered.

Tim's thumb brushed away a tear you hadn't realized had fallen. "Smart cat."

You took a shaky breath, finally letting yourself say what you'd been holding back for so long. "I love you too. God help me, Tim Drake, but I'm completely in love with you."

The smile that broke across his face was like sunrise – slow, warm, and absolutely beautiful. He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, his eyes scanning your face as if memorizing every detail.

"Say it again," he breathed.

"I love you." The words came easier now, like they'd been waiting all this time to break free. "I love your brilliant mind, and your terrible coffee addiction, and the way you look at three in the morning when you're finally solving a problem that's been bothering you all day. I love—"

He kissed you.

It wasn't like the movies – there were no fireworks, no swelling orchestra. Instead, it was soft and sweet and achingly tender, like coming home after a long journey. His hands cradled your face like you were made of spun glass, even as yours fisted in his shirt to pull him closer.

When you finally broke apart, both breathless, Tim rested his forehead against yours again. "We're going to figure this out," he promised. "The press, the board, Bruce – none of it matters. We'll face it together."

"Together," you echoed, the word tasting like a promise on your lips.

From his perch on the couch, Thomas let out another creaky meow, as if sealing the deal. Tim laughed, the sound rich and warm.

"Does this mean I get joint custody of the cat?" he teased, reaching up to scratch Thomas behind the ears.

You smiled, leaning into his touch. "He already likes you better than me anyway."

"Impossible," Tim murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. "But I'll settle for second place in his affections, as long as I'm first in yours."

"Always," you whispered, and knew with absolute certainty that you meant it. Whatever came next – whatever headlines Vicki Vale wrote, whatever the board whispered, whatever challenges lay ahead – you would face it together.

And somehow, that made everything else seem insignificant in comparison.

Thomas purred his approval, settling between you like he'd always belonged there. Like all of this had always been inevitable, just waiting for the right moment to fall into place.

Maybe it had been.

.

.

.

Taglist:

@ahqkas

@prettyktarou

@a-candle-maker

@mact85

@babxtxxn-blog

@mercys-manic-episode

@lilithskywalker

@princesstrunkz

@a-taken-url

@hisjdjs

@mellowtunekitty

@awkwardcrowberry

@vintageroses10

[saintsenara]

Do you think there is parallel between Peter and ron.

Fandom does Peter wrong. That is a fact. He is either absent or is present just for comic relief or is pure evil. But all those characterisation are simply cartoonish. As if written by a person who is living in la la land...

Peter, just like Lupin, we only know major things about him. But like not many people see lupin as a gray shade character only a kind fluffy guy, Peter is polarised to the bad one....

Ron similarly is often given the last place if how much of a good friend each person in golden trio was to be questioned. And that is a tragedy in itself because atleast for Ron we have so much material...

Infact for me, Ron will always be a person who has bigger heart than jkr's favorite mary sue-Lily Evans. She did what any good mother should do. But fandom never stops going on and on about it Or even Harry's sacrifice at the end is so much singed about...but then we have Ron, an 11 year kid who for the sake of defeating voldy, told his new Friends to leave him. He sacrificed himself at 11. Everyone was sure that he is risking his life...but no one i see ever gushes about that act of bravery. It is always about one Potter Or the other.

Peter too. I mean he won't have been friends with the other three for 10 years if they just tolerated him and vice versa. But making him evil kr stupid kr dumb Or hideous to look at in his childhood or teen years is like taking all his personality away and giving us just a shell of a person...

He did become animagi at 15 and that is quite a commendable magic. He is cunning to pull up his stunt as a spy....

Like war as sirius describes in gof is so dark and scary. And people forgot that big things make a person change.

Ron on the other hand had done quite a lot in his life time but often he is found to be judged for leaving his friends.

I believe that the only difference between them is that ron recognised his faults and made correction. Meanwhile pettigrew simply kept on walking on the wrong path he chose....

What do you think on this..?

thank you very much for the ask, pal!

i don't think this entirely works. ron gets cast by the fandom as a gluttonous moron who's also a bad friend primarily on account of the films - and as a bad person by people who want to ship hermione with other people but don't have the nerve to do this in a complex or interesting way - but the text never suggests that either harry or hermione think of him as being in last place in the trio.

indeed, when harry does think of himself as better than ron - when ron gets made a prefect over him in order of the phoenix - he feels horrible for his brief flash of jealousy and soon gets over it. on other occasions when he notes something about himself which could be seen as superior to ron - when he notes that ron got no outstandings at owl, for example - harry doesn't actually force a comparison which is designed to position ron below him. they end up doing the same newts, which is what harry - who sees ron as his partner in crime - cares about.

ron is also demonstrably harry's best friend, and harry tends to enable him and automatically side with him in conflict - it's an example of great self-growth that he doesn't cut hermione off in half-blood prince when ron does, since he's perfectly happy to do so in prisoner of azkaban. but he's also demonstrably hermione's best friend too. harry's relationship with her is, as he says, sibling-like, which doesn't just mean that it's not romantic, but that it contains a "you can't choose your family" vibe - he loves her fiercely, but he also finds her exasperating in a way ron doesn't, doesn't make any real effort to learn about her interests or include her in his, and is often quite harsh to her. ron - in contrast - does see his relationship with her as one of active choice.

this is why i never really like the idea that the trio and the marauders are meant to be parallels. on the surface, ron and harry should be the equivalent of james and sirius and hermione should be remus...

but they're not, because the clear dynamic of the marauders in canon is that they were a group centred around james. all three of sirius, remus, and peter clearly understood james as their best friend, and their relationships among themselves primarily depend on their understanding of their and the others' relationship to james. there is - i think - a credible case to be made that, if james was removed from the picture entirely, but not in a way that caused the profound trauma of the canon timeline [if he just moved away with lily, for example], the remaining three would drift apart.

james - of course - only understood sirius as his equal, his brother. peter is obviously someone he considered inferior to the two of them - albeit in a fond way, rather than a cruel one. he clearly thinks of him the way a teenager might think of their pre-teen sibling - someone you love and are happy to include in your social life if they do what you want, someone you also don't want to embarrass you in front of your cool teenage friends by letting them do what they want instead of following your instructions. remus is clearly someone he didn't think of as quite so socially inferior to him, but he also still seems to have understood him as peripheral to his and sirius' rampant codependence.

the trio doesn't have anything like this dynamic. even though harry is narratively unequal to ron and hermione - he is their leader, they are his disciples - the relationships across the three of them [harry's active choice to be friends with ron, harry's feeling that hermione is his sister; ron's active choice to be friends with hermione, his pseudo-familial relationship with harry] are much more equal than those among the marauders.

what i have been convinced by, however, is @whinlatter's belief that the best parallel for peter in the series is ginny:

[themadzarka]

CG and Flowey mini-fic. I think it's the first time I write them actually interacting.

-

"You want one?" She presents me a packaged snack. I recall the familiar colors. Used to eat these when I was a kid... Caramel-filled donut, typically glazed with strawberry-flavored cream. There would be other variants, but I would always pick the strawberry one.

Inevitably, it lost the flavor. More like, I lost my sense of taste. It was boring and uninteresting like every other snack, and it's not like I haven't tried. I'd avoid my favorites as much as I can to forget what it felt like to eat them, and eventually, I'd try again. Three bites, then I'd throw it away if it wasn't of great healing value.

And this weirdo. She keeps offering me food.

"Why do you keep feeding me? I don't want this," I decline. I DON'T want it, it's true. What hunger would it satisfy? I only function because this world apparently forces me to. But she insists.

"Just eat."

What the hell is wrong with her? Wasting so much money on feeding a plant... It's not just an offer every now and then, it's all of the time. She buys snacks for me, she saves a third of her dinner for me... Even Frisk is beginning to copy her, it's annoying.

"Why don't you give this to someone who actually NEEDS to eat? I'm a flower, you know?"

"I know."

"Uh-huh?"

"So? You have a mouth, and teeth, and a tongue. They're there for something, right?" She drops the little bag next to me. What a stupid thing to say. She orders her food online unless forced to leave her room to go outside like a normal healthy person, doesn't mean her legs are useless.

Nonetheless... Arguing with her would be a waste of time.

"Maybe they're here to eat people." I comment, picking up the snack.

"I wouldn't doubt it." She leans on the table, as if waiting for me to take the first bite and see my reaction.

It's disturbing to be observed by a faceless creature so often. A human, they call her. She's as real as the gray phantoms of Hotland... I wouldn't remember it to care, but if the world ever repeats itself, she wouldn't be here. And she knows it.

I wonder what it would've been like. If she didn't exist in this happy reality. Nothing would change, I presume. The extra room in Toriel's house would be empty, but, that's about it. She said she would leave after summer passes, to her home, very far away from here. Nobody would really remember her.

"Hmm!" I surprise myself as if I never ate this donut five thousand times before. "Wow. It's not that bad."

"I can tell. Your little face lit up."

Sometimes, I feel as if she was meant to be here, scrutinizing my being to no end, making me pay for my sins by feeding me all sorts of things just to see what I say, react, feel about them. I put up with it. When summer ends, she'll be gone as if nothing happened.

[theallianceofcelestials]

Okay, so apparently people have been harassing Kat, Earth's VA because they... don't like the characters she plays and how she writes for the show? The actual fuck?

Like don't get me wrong, perfectly fine to look at a character and decide you don't like them, even hate them potentially, but you don't go and harass the people responsible for making the character. That's just plain dumb. I hate/dislike characters from some of the shows (Bonnie from Moon and Sun Minecraft for example), but that doesn't give me the right to go and harass their VAs. BECAUSE IT'S JUST A CHARACTER FOR A SILLY LITTLE SHOW PEOPLE MAKE FOR FREE! IT'S NOT THAT SERIOUS! Sure I may rant about the character, but NEVER badmouth the actor, because them being able to achieve such a visceral reaction out of me by just looking at the character, makes them so incredibly talented.

Like how can you be so fucking terminally online, that you decide to harass someone because "I Don't LiKe ThE chaRacTeR"?! Like that's no valid reason to do that! Go and touch some god fucking grass, my god! I swear it's actually good for you!

Like this is just straight up disgusting behaviour in general. It's unacceptable, and shows just how much of a coward these people actually are, because there're no consequences for THEM. And well, they clearly don't fucking care about their fellow human beings, so like jfc.

And like the shit Kat does is for FREE! She doesn't charge us money for her services! She just went and did some amazing stuff for us, and now some idiots're feeling butthurt because they hate female characters or something.

I sincerely hope it was only a couple of individuals at worst, and a single person at best, because my faith in humanity is already rather fragile, and this is just ridiculous and pathetic.

So like, if by some miracle the person/people who harassed Kat is/are reading this, I want you to know this says more about to how sad and pathetic you actually are, and how you peaked back on the playground as a bully and didn't manage to develop into an actual fucking person, than it does anything about Kat. I hope you realise just how stupid you are, but I know you likely won't. Because people like you lack brains, so you can't comprehend basic fucking concepts like how the sky is blue, and 2 + 2 is 4. Or how grass is not your fucking enemy.

This isn't about just just Kat, because from what I've heard, other female characters' actresses get similar bs, and their characters get tremendous ammount of hate compared to male characters that potentially did incredibly horrid stuff, but I don't really follow the other TSBS to know what's going on. But my gods. That's so disappointing.

Why are fandoms nowadays so toxic? Back in my day, and I'm not that old myself either, and joined fandoms later than most people in said fandoms, since I'm a not native english speaker, but back in the day fandoms were so much more positive. Sure, there was the toxic minority, but they were just that. Loud small group of jerks. Like when did we start catering to these people? When did we decide that these toxic people were whom we should listen to, and explain every little thing we do to them? Like why do I have to explain why I like villian characters or whatever to internet strangers? I think people are more than smart enough to realise morality should not be taken from media!

And when did fanart and fanfic start becoming expectation, something the fanfic writer has to do, the fanart artist has to do? Instead it being the expression of joy and feelings the consumed media gave them? When did shipping become life or death? When did a headcanon or an AU become so fucking serious that lives apparently depend on it with how people jump eachother? Why can't we just relax and have fun? Like do what fandom is meant for?

This is obviously not for the people who didn't do any of this shit, but the fact I need to clarify that or someone will get offended is disheartening. Like people please deal with your anxieties! If it's not your shirt, don't put it on as a saying in my native tongue goes!

Sorry for the angry rant, it's just so disappointing, especially because Kat is such a talented person! I really enjoy how she plays these characters and I love her writing! So I thank her for deciding to not just quit altogether, no matter how understandable that would have been! I hope stepping back will make things better!

I just hope her mental health doesn't have to suffer more, because this shouldn't have happened to her in the first place. She's been doing amazing work, for free I'll say once again, and I'll forever cherish it! I hope things get better for her!

If by some miracle this reaches Kat, thank you for sticking with us for as long as you have! I hope things'll get better for you! Take care of yourself! :)

[itsa-me-lily]

So here's y'alls first fight! Aren't you excited? Also I get to introduce y'all to one of my favorite girls.

Here is the Simon x Thimble playlist

Here is the MPS AU masterlist

Reminder, reader is fat. It's not a morally right or wrong thing, she's just fat.

Content warning;

Swearing, some weight stuff, Goggles

You woke up in bed, which typically wasn't a strange thing to do. But you hadn't gone to sleep in bed this time though. You'd crashed out on the couch after trying to read a book your mother had recommended, it was always obvious that the two of you had very different tastes in literature. So the fact that you had fallen asleep on the couch, but woke up in bed, was perplexing. Hopefully you weren't developing a habit of sleep walking. Sleep arguing was bad enough.

Padding out to the living room, you were prepared to look for clues to your mystery. Only you found Simon. On the couch. Reading the book that had put you to sleep. And judging by how much further into the book he had made it, he was enjoying it more than you had. He didn't even notice your presence until you were right in front of him. You even had to clear your throat for him to peer at you from over the pages.

"Was I still on the couch when you got home?"

"Yeah."

Ever the well of conversation your husband was.

"Did I sleep walk?"

"Negative."

Well that was not an answer you were expecting.

"Then how did I go from..."

You motioned between the couch and the bedroom door, as if the space was vast and truly impossible to have crossed other wise.

"Carried you."

"What?"

You didn't mean to sound flat in your question, but the idea that you had been carried around, regardless of if you were awake or not, wasn't one you liked. Not that Simon seemed to understand that, given how he raised a single eyebrow at how unenthused you sounded.

"That a problem?"

How could you answer this in a way that wasn't going to cause an issue. Because you could see this becoming an issue that would be annoying to have to deal with. Unfortunately the longer it took you to answer, the more likely it would be.

"No? Just wake me up next time."

Simon didn't seem satisfied with the answer given how he closed the book with a snap, giving you his undivided attention.

"You'd rather I wake you up."

You think he meant it as a question, even if he didn't say it that way.

"Yeah. Don't pick me up."

You could feel that curl of anxiety start in your gut, and it only got worse as Simon got up, his height causing you to have to crane your head back to look up at him.

"You hate getting woken up."

"Yeah well I don't like being picked up more."

"How come?"

Was this man serious? Was he honestly going to question you about why you didn't like something? Really you wanted to argue, tell him that it was none of his business and that you had made your request clear. But you remembered your mother's words that she had dispensed the last time you had complained to her about Simon, and his...lack of sharing at times. 'You don't get what you don't give'. Maybe you should stop complaining to your mother. Still, wouldn't hurt right? So with a sigh you just shrugged, meeting Simon's eyes once before looking aside.

"I'm heavy."

You had accepted what your body looked like ages ago. Understood that there were more important things than fitting into a certain size. Didn't mean you weren't aware of your body, the space you took up. You knew your body, and you knew you were heavy.

Instead of asking, or elaborating, Simon Riley did probably the worst thing he could have done. He picked you up. His arms were around your waist and your feet were off the floor before you register what he was doing. The second you did though it was like every nerve ending in your body was screaming no. You did not like this. You went tense, shoulders up to your ears and volume control wasn't your first concern as you practically shouted into Simon's face.

"Put me down. Put me down right now damnit!"

Whatever reaction Simon thought he was going to get from you, that hadn't seem to be one he was expecting. He did so, though the landing was a little jarring, most likely due to the sheer suddenness of your demands. It only served to make you angrier, you could feel it shooting up your spine. You could have been gentler as you pushed yourself out of his arms, but you didn't particularly care to be at the moment.

You didn't know if it was better or worse that he didn't say anything in his defense. Actually it was probably better that he was silent because it made it easier to cuss him out as you went back to the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind you. Fuck the sleeping arrangements. He could sleep on the fucking couch that night.

Simon had heard other soldiers complain when they had marital disputes. He didn't always listen in, but when he did he could typically agree that it was somehow the soldier's fault. Now that he was on the other end of it though? He didn't get it at all. He had only been trying to show you that it wasn't an issue for him to pick you up. He went to the gym, he could lift. But then you got all huffy and loud, and slammed the door in his face. You had even made him sleep on the couch.

And it wasn't like it had gotten better the next day. Apparently you had still been mad because you hadn't talked to him at breakfast, just gone through your usual routine and left without a goodbye. All he did was pick you up. It wasn't even like he dropped you or anything.

The puzzle left him feeling sour, though he couldn't really pinpoint what it was about it that made him feel such. Was it the cold shoulder you gave him? Maybe it was the fact you made him sleep on the couch. Either way he didn't like the fact that apparently you were still mad at him and it apparently was obvious to anyone given how Soap pestered him all morning about it until Simon finally spilled during PT in the weight room. It did make him feel better though, that Soap was equally as confused as to why you were so upset.

"I mean I don't get why the hen's mad, but have ye tried apologizing LT?"

"I would if I knew what I was apologizing for."

"Wow you're both fucking stupid."

The new voice caused both him and Johnny to whip around, hackles raised at being caught unaware. Some woman racked her weights, brushing her hands together before paying them attention again, expression such that seemed to beg what they were waiting for. Thankfully Soap bit the bullet before Simon could rudely do it.

"You are?"

"Goggles. Mechanical Engineer Unit."

She held her hand out for a greeting as if she hadn't just insulted the both of them. Simon only stared at it before crossing his arms over his chest, puffing himself up a little to sooth his ego. Again Soap stepped in since he was probably going to be the more civil of the two.

"What makes ye think we're stupid?"

"Oh it's not a thought." There was a brief pause afterwards, intentional, before she continued, "Anyways big guy here clearly wasn't listening to this Thimble person."

Big guy? Since when had Simon become 'big guy'. Clearly his reputation for being a hardass was suffering since his marriage to you. He was going to have to fix that. And what did she mean that he 'clearly wasn't listening'. He listened to you fine. He slept on the couch didn't he? Simon tuned back in at Soap's sputtering, confused as to why the Scotsman's cheeks were a little flushed. He clearly had missed something.

Clearing his throat, Simon got everyone's attention again and he could give Goggles a firm stare down. Not that it helped much given how nonchalant she appeared. He had a point to make.

"I listen to my wife just fine."

"Clearly not since you did the thing she didn't like, right after she told you she didn't like it."

Simon did not enjoy the tone she was using with him. In his affront it took him a second for the words to really sink in. Sure he had kind of disregarded what you had said, but it was just to show you it was okay.

"I can pick up my wife just fine."

The sigh Goggles gave him sounded like it came from the depths of her soul, and he couldn't quite get what she had mumbled under her breath, but Simon could imagine it wasn't flattering. He was just pointing out the truth.

"And that's why you're stupid."

"No I'm not."

The look Goggles gave him begged to differ. He was going to have to find out her rank and CO, he was not going to tolerate this kind of flack from someone ranked under him.

"You made it about you and your ego."

"No I didn't."

"Why'd you pick her up then."

"To show I could."

"But she didn't want you to. She told you that, and you did it anyways."

"Cause she said she was too heavy and I was proving she ain't."

"It doesn't matter. You still ignored what she said and steamrolled over the boundary she set."

That...might have caught Simon off guard. Just a little. Goggles seemed to have taken his lack of rebuttal as an acceptance of the point she was trying to make because she continued.

"Look I don't think you were trying to be an asshole but you still were. What if she ignored you when you said you didn't like something."

Simon wanted to argue that you basically always did what you wanted, his opinion be damned but...that wasn't really true was it? You didn't make a fuss about the face masks, you were always careful to not just go grabbing at him, and even if it was with dramatics, you respected his space. At least he hadn't seen you attempt to get a pin board into his home office. He couldn't really remember him ever having to tell you that he needed or wanted those things. You just...seemed to pick up on it. And when you had told him something you didn't like he ignored it. Not maliciously but...roads to hell and good intentions as they said.

It was his turn to sigh, in defeat, shoulders slumping as he accepted the fact that he had messed up. Without much fanfare he turned to leave the gym, firmly ignoring Soap's confused shouts to wait and Goggles' 'you're welcome' that floated to him. He had an apology to give.

Simon didn't know how to give an apology. Sure he had heard that the usual was chocolates and a bouquet of roses, but that was typically for someone you were in a relationship with. What did one get their technical wife but really more a roommate person as a way to say 'I'm sorry'? He could go with chocolates, but he knew that you tried not to over indulge in them since it messed with your sugar levels, and roses seemed to romantic. He stood in the card aisle at the shops looking at the wide selection without really liking any of them. They were either too sappy or too impersonal, or just stupid.

With a rising sense of frustration Simon grabbed the first apology card that had caught his eye and made his way over to the hot food section. Fuck it, you were saying you wanted a bird the other night. Chicken could be a decent apology gift.

When you got home, you weren't as angry as you had been when starting the day. Honestly you kind of felt stupid. Most girls seemed to kill to have a man that could pick them up willynilly, you were just...an outlier. When you had asked a coworker for advice she had told you you were being dramatic and that if you weren't going to appreciate Simon she would. You didn't think Simon was into the geriatric type but you had told her you'd pass along the message at least. So apparently you were a dramatic outlier that needed to apologize. Great.

It seemed that Simon had gotten home before you, and wasn't expecting you back so soon given how he froze up at the kitchen table, shoulders hunched as he had his back to you. Might as well get it over with.

"Hey Simon I-"

"Wait."

You weren't expecting Simon to interrupt you while you were trying to say I'm sorry, neither were you expecting him to turn around and step away, revealing an entire rotisserie chicken and a card.

"You got chicken?"

"As a sorry."

"A sorry?"

You looked from the chicken to Simon, who somehow looked both stoic and sheepish at the same time. It was probably how he stuffed his hands into his pockets, like he didn't know what to do with them.

"Yeah. 'm sorry. Shouldn't have ignored what you told me."

Oh. That was...unexpected. You had anticipated having to apologize and pretend like the entire situation hadn't happened. You didn't think he'd apologize first, or at all. You both stood in awkward silence as you tried to think of what to do next. Should you still apologize? Just accept it and still pretend nothing happened?

Before your brain could make a choice, your stomach did it for you, grumbling loudly as the scent of the cooked meat wafted to you. You could feel yourself flush as Simon huffed in what was probably amusement, turning to grab what you were hoping were plates. There was a chicken to eat after all.

"Thanks. And...I'm sorry too. For just yelling at you...and making you sleep on the couch."

Simon seemed to shrug off your apology, handing you two plates and sets of silverware before digging around in the freezer for some sort of steam bag to throw into the microwave.

"I've slept in worse places."

"Still we have an agreement."

"Hn."

You figured that was the end of your rivetingly awkward conversation as you worked on carving the bird into portions to eat and then store away. You didn't mind the silence as the two of you set up dinner together and started to dig in, though it did catch you off guard when Simon decided to have a different one.

"Is it okay for emergencies?"

You looked up from phone, blinking owlishly as you tried to understand what he was saying.

"Is what okay?"

"Picking you up? It's okay during emergencies ya?"

Was Simon planning on burning down your house anytime soon? Before you could question him on it though, an idea struck you. He was trying to ask what the boundary was, so he wouldn't break it again. You tried to ignore the warmth that bloomed in your chest.

"Yeah, it's okay for emergencies."

"Good."

You nodded, going back to your phone to wonder why the hell your friend still hadn't responded to your messages.

"And Thimble?"

Once again you looked up at Simon to see him looking back at you seriously.

"Yeah?"

"You're not too heavy."

You wanted to argue differently, but before you could he cut you off.

"Not for me at least."

You had to look away, feeling a blush climb your cheeks.

"Thanks Simon."

"Hn."

Edit;

Why wasn't Soap really talking in the gym scene? Because I imagine Goggles said something kind of out of pocket that left him reeling for a minute. She is no better than a man some days and I love her for it.

Also this isn't my favorite piece but I wanted to introduce Goggles with her calling the boys out for being dumb, because that is just so her.

As always I hope you enjoyed it and feel free to drop an ask about anything.

[itsallpoliticsstupid]

The US Presidential Election 2024 - A mini Deep Dive into what went wrong for the Democrats

I would say this will be my last post on the US Presidential Election of 2024, but we all know it won't be.

I wanted to bring all my thoughts together as to what I perceive the biggest issues for the Democrats were, and how this needs to be rectified in 2028. Well, they won't listen to some random person on a Politics blog with *checks* 44 followers (oh hi, thanks for following), but this is my opinion.

And interestingly, it all starts with the sale of a certain social media platform.

October 2022 - Elon Musk buys Twitter

In my personal opinion the acquisition of Twitter was a major contributing factor to how the election was won. Elon Musk has never been quiet about his Political leanings being closer to the Conservative ideology and how he believed that it was wrong to silence those on the right for their views. So Trump et al. Going as far as to reinstate their accounts.

We all know that Twitter has now become a very toxic place. With extreme ideological views. I feel it was easy to use this platform to peddle a more Trump ideal for the election. It's still one of the biggest platforms out there, why wouldn't it be used to try and win an election. And without it, it would have made things significantly harder for the Republicans to reach a larger audience.

Anyway, this isn't just me twitter bashing. This is me actually analyzing what the situation is.

So back to what the Democrats did wrong.

Joe Biden confirms he will run for President

I believe the election was lost from the moment that Joe Biden made the decision to stand as President for a second term.

This is where everything fell apart, and set a tone for the remainder of the election. Joe Biden was not medically fit to run for the Presidency, and it had been so clear towards the end of his first term as President. You could see he was struggling in front of camera. Getting words wrong. Forgetting the most basic of things. It was a bad look for the Democrat's, and something that the Republican's could easily jump on.

It meant they could capitalize on it and make the Democrat's look like a party of weak leadership.

By the time he dropped out, Kamala Harris had approximately 100 days of campaigning. It wasn't enough. It didn't allow her to really put herself forward as an ideal candidate.

Which leads me to...

Kamala Harris - what did she stand for?

Outside of the right to healthcare/abortions I can't name what Kamala Harris stood for in this election. To me she was a status quo candidate at a time where American's needed assurances due to the increase in cost of living; terrible wars in the Middle East and Ukraine; and high levels of immigration.

Regardless of how bad Trump's policies were (and as we are seeing they are BAD) they were offering an alternative. One that people have been crying out for because they're struggling with the most basic things in their life.

Unfortunately the alternative is likely to make things significantly worse for the American people. But when somebody is saying they will lower costs for you, it's something you take at face value. Especially if you don't necessary understand the impact of raising tariffs or the removal of the affordable care act.

It's just sad that the Democrat campaign was so bad and didn't offer an alternative, it allowed this to happen.

Celebrity Endorsements

I was in two minds about what to put next. This or negative campaigning. But I think this one works.

Whilst Trump was backed by people like Elon Musk, I don't believe he had anywhere near the level of celebrity endorsements that Kamala had, and it very often doesn't work in a persons favor for a couple of reasons.

The first is I think there was a heavy reliance on people listening to their favorite celebrities when considering who to vote for. But in many cases, people will see an endorsement from Taylor Swift, or Misha Collins, or Bruce Springsteen and think 'well, what the hell do they know about what I am currently facing.' A lot of people will view celebrities as out of touch with the reality of today's world.

I'm not saying this is always the case. But that's what the average voter who has zero understanding of Politics will think. That somebody who has millions in the bank will never understand the struggles of having to hold down three jobs to feed your children, or pay your mortgage. And yes, there is a level of cognitive dissonance there because they don't think the same for Trump or Musk, but they seem them as a ruling elite who have the knowledge to make things better for the country. Not just a 'bleeding heart liberal' who just hates the right and has no business being in Politics.

I see the second that it took away from Kamala Harris as a candidate, and shielded a lot of the issues that she had. I think the endorsements worked for Obama because he had charisma. He offered something different. But for Harris, it was just a shield to show she had nothing.

And really, for the reasons above, it was a shield that didn't work as many people were turned off and inevitably chose not to vote.

Negative Campaigning

It never works. It's as simple as that. It never works.

And ultimately I feel that's what the Democrat campaign boiled down to. Being as negative as possible about the Republican's. About their views on abortion. About how many of them are Russian sympathisers. About Trump's health. And that always leaves people thinking 'they can't be that bad though.' And I think a lot of people got turned off by voting Democrat for that reason.

There is more. If I was to do more research I could continue for hours with this. Maybe I will come back with a part 2 when I have had more time to digest everything. But right now, these to me have been the biggest drivers behind the Democrat's losing the election.

And not the fact Kamala Harris was a woman like some people who like to believe.

It's time for the Democrats to stop burying their head in the sand and listen in time for the 2028 election.

[sokkastyles]

Actually, yeah, there is such thing as trespassing, and you sure do seem to complain a lot about me "misconstruing" your arguments when you came here to argue with me and then claimed about four times in this reblog that I said Mai was an abuser when I said nothing of the sort. I thought you wanted to agree to disagree. I think "nasty" is a word that fits you better, since that's how you started acting because I didn't agree with your opinions on a fictional character.

"Aside from her just existing as a fire nation character on the wrong side of the border"

Lol, THIS is the kind of stuff Azula stans say, actually. Mai helped Azula capture Zuko and infiltrate Ba Sing Se, and fought the gaang numerous times. The first time we meet her, she shows disdain for the city her father helped colonize. We are told that Mai and Azula bond over their "dark sense of humor," which is also what we see a lot of from Mai. She makes a joke about the Dai Li "peeing their pants." She makes a joke about ordering around servants. She's a villain. She's not the worst villain, but she is a villain. We are supposed to think she's a villain. It's not speculative. Otherwise, why did she need to learn to be better in the first place? I know the show is making an attempt at showing her growth, I just don't think they do a very good job of it, and I find your arguments of "but actually she did nothing wrong" alternating with "but actually she got better" to be inherently contradictory and not helping you here. The difference between the Azula stan arguments you are citing is that while we are supposed to feel sorry for Azula to a degree, we are also still supposed to recognize she is a villain. I think you know this, but you're using a strawman argument. Just like I think you know that we're supposed to not think Mai is not being particularly kind when she dismisses Zuko's worries about going home. Something she does in part because of her own trauma, but also because she helped put him there and that is not something she is willing to admit. Saying that she "doesn't have to be his therapist" is not only callous, but an inherently bad reading of the show. And no, the scene is not portrayed as it being "just a joke." Zuko looks upset when she says that. He accepts being kissed, but the tone of the scene is still meant to make us understand that Zuko is right and Mai is wrong.

I don't have time to go through every scene with you and explain where you're being willfully obtuse about this because you don't like that I don't think these two characters would be besties. But I do think it's interesting that you jumped real quick to the "but Zuko." I think you also know that the difference with Zuko is that he was actually shown unlearning most of the things that Mai kinda sorta unlearns on a personal level, actually understood why his country was wrong and worked to correct those wrongs. Mai ends the show with "actually, I kind of like you" but also feels entitled enough to tell the person she's with to never break up with her. That's not good enough for me. I get what the show was trying to do here, but I don't have to like it, sorry. That's not the same as me saying Mai is an abuser. Get out of here with that nonsense, or stop acting like you're better than Azula stans who blatantly make shit up.

I know what Zuko says about protecting Mai. That doesn't erase the context of him not trusting her. Why would he? Their relationship is not built on trust. That's not entirely Mai's fault, but there is a fault when we try to ignore the context which does include Mai being an agent of fascism, does include him being in a context where he is not safe on a personal level and is being abused. Ignoring that context is not great. And if you have to ignore it to make maiko work, well, then, that's why it doesn't.

Anyway, I don't actually think Katara should punch Mai (mostly), but like. Come on. The comics are bad but they didn't pull Mai supporting imperialism out of thin air, and "he wasn't a real threat" is a ridiculous thing to say in her defense. Zuko's characterization in the comics feels regressive because we actually do see him working to end the war. We don't see Mai care about anything except Zuko. And that's me being generous about it. It's not unreasonable to critique her character based on that alone.

You're also still making a false equivalence based on Sokka and Suki's relationship. What would be a real comparison is if Sokka and Suki broke up because Suki tried to kill him and then when they met again Sokka wasn't sure whether she was still his enemy. The difference is that Suki is never written as a villain and Mai is. Like, it's okay to admit this. And again, if you can't, then that's why her character arc and her relationship with Zuko don't work.

"I think Katara would get along with Azula/Mai because female solidarity!"

Cool. I think Katara would punch fascists in the throat.

[shoehorseconstant]

I used to fantasize about what it would be like to have him in my life and introduce him to everyone and go on cute dates with him and finally be special to someone but I think it's just not my time to understand those things

[theangrypomeranian]

I just want my passion back man idk why that's so much to ask for

[curlygrant44]

The mention of later warms him, sends his brain buzzing with possibility and hope-

Which is yanked away just as quickly by the next thing Sunshine says.

Of course, it was stupid to think anyone would want something like that, especially when this is himself. He really is wrong for feeling like this, isn't he? Even if Jim and Mistake share something similar, no one else does with their own doubles. Shouldn't that be proof enough for him that this isn't right?

He pulls away, pasting on a polite smile. "I don't think I need to worry about something like the buddy system. It's not like we can be together every second of every day. Sooner or later Jim would...need to express his feelings about the matter. Keeping me away from him will only provoke him more. I can handle this."

Hopefully he doesn't need to say any more about that.

"If you're really worried about the matter, we could swap cockpit assignments. Put both Jimmys in one, and Sunshine and I in the other. The two of them could be kept under guard if need be. That way, we're not down any pilots. If we ever do manage to leave the anomaly, we'll all need to have safe ships, and preferably not be docked so much pay for delinquency that we end up bankrupt."

It's meant to sound lighthearted, but he can't quite manage it with the way his chest feels so cold and aches so much -- he should never have been so arrogant. Sunshine was just being kind.

So he'll return that kindness the right way.

As a friend, and nothing more.

@number-one-constellation-guide

Perri stares miserably at their can of soup. They fish through it with a spoon, but every time they think to try eating it, a wave of nausea hits her. After a while of just sitting there sadly he drops the spoon and looks up at Wolfrum. "Want mine? I can't eat." He mutters.

He can't stop thinking of Jimmy, of watching the life and air leave him so quickly. Silently, he's glad for this moment of respite. They haven't meaningfully spoken to each other since sitting down, aside from occasional questioning about the food. They'll need to talk soon, though.

After all, there's a corpse on the ship, and captains to question.

She sighs and pushes the can over to Wolfrum. "We'll need to find them soon, figure out what they knew, and we'll need to..." Dispose of the body. He can't finish the sentence; the words linger unsaid and he buries his face in his hands. "We'll need to finish here soon."

In such a centralised area of the ship, it's probably more likely that the captains find them rather than the other way around, but it doesn't matter. It's not like they know what happened, yet.

( @surprise-its-safety-violations @curlygrant44 @the-captain-of-the-tulpar )

[restinpeacesensei]

suggesting something,,