#as do i... a fourth person not in the equation

[niinnyu]

SNOWBALL FIIIGHTTT!!

[akkivee]

read a post that classified?? explained??? the various ways kuukou’s been written across hipumai’s media and it made laugh lol so it went

stage:

DEMON

anime

functions on actual common sense

actually uses fundamental buddhist monk arguments

his father will tell him to do something and he will actually do it diligently

the kuukou with the least corrupt personality

arb

a completely pure individual. purity at its finest

he’s living his best life out here, the kinda guy that excitedly runs to his dad to show off his decorations, and had a blast celebrating halloween, christmas, hinamatsuri etc

adults tend to treat him to food

will also throw away the mattress his teammate sleeps on

the kuukou with the most corrupt personality

drama tracks/manga:

a healthy 19 year old that may have experience with women

the kinda guy who will sing a song like get busy and can also make a lady ghost experience nirvana

because of an intense and overwhelming love for his family, he will occasionally adopt a buddha-like tone of voice

he has a corrupt personality

[autisticcassandracain]

Free story idea I'll probably never write but am kind of obsessed with: Scott and Lightray role reversal where Scott grew up on New Genesis and Lightray was traded to Apokolips.

Basic set up: Scott, as a little baby child, was supposed to die when Steppenwolf killed his mother. He survived, narrowly, but Izaya hid that from Apokolips in fear of retaliation. So when the pact happened, Izaya's son, presumed dead, wasn't on the table; instead, (quite literally) the brightest child on New Genesis was traded.

So Scott grows up hidden on New Genesis as the son of Highfather, with his big brother Orion. And the thing is, he loves his home, his father, his brother, but by the time he hits young adulthood he's positively gnawing at the bars. He's going stir crazy from his limited movement; even in New Genesis he has to be careful, because after all these years, he's still hiding from Darkseid, who might change the pact if he hears Izaya's son is still alive, or even flat out kill him, breaking the truce in the process. It's not something anyone is willing to risk, least of all Highfather and Orion.

But Scott is not the type to accept limitations on his freedom, and on top of that, the longer he hides away, the more guilty he feels. He's not stupid, he knows that he should have, by all rights, been the one traded in the pact. But Highfather prioritized his safety and took the out that him being presumed dead offered, and another kid took the fall instead. How is that fair? It's not like Lightray is any less important than him. Scott may have been too young to make informed decisions or understand what was happening when the pact occured, but now, as an adult, he's becoming increasingly dissatisfied with being protected at the cost of other peoples lives.

If only he could help in some way – he's no fighter, but he's crafty and creative. Surely, even if he wouldn't he terribly useful on a battlefield (and has no real desire to enter it to begin with), he could at least do something for the kid that got traded in his place? Help him escape, perhaps? He's already capable of giving even New Genesis the slip, Apokolips can't be that much harder...

Meanwhile, Darkseid was fully planning on pulling the same basic gambit with Lightray as he would have with Scott: torment him until he decides to escape at all costs, breaking the pact. So Lightray was put in Granny's Orphanage, ostensibly a normal student, with Granny reporting back on him to Darkseid. And things would've gone roughly like they went for Scott, if it weren't for one thing: Lightray's intelligence.

Where Scott was, as far as we can tell, a perfectly average student, Lightray quickly proves to be exceptional. His fighting is largely mediocre (relatively peaking, of course), but he still wins a vast majority of sparring matches, even when his opponents far outmatch him in skill, resources, numbers, or all three. He does this by simply outsmarting them, figuring out positively brilliant strategies even under the effects of Granny's mind-altering drugs. Granny reports this back to Darkseid, baffled and annoyed, lamenting about cowardice and rebellion; children in Granny's Orphanage are not supposed to think, after all.

But Darkseid quickly realizes that the pact handed them far more than just a symbolical light, an easy way to end the truce; it handed them a weapon. Child of New Genesis Lightray may be, Darkseid reads Granny's reports of cunning, manipulation, underhanded and even ruthless strategy and sees himself. On New Genesis, Lightray may have been a formidable enemy, but now, Darkseid has the opportunity to mold him into a surprise weapon. A cunning strategist, perhaps even on a similar level as himself, completely loyal to Apokolips, but easily able to win New Genesis' trust if necessary. A perfect potential spy. Lightray still has some of that pesky New Genesis kindness, but nothing a little careful manipulation won't fix. But the brute force of Granny's Orphanage won't bend him into the right shape; a little more subtlety is required here.

So Darkseid takes Lightray from Granny's Orphanage and only lies to him a little bit. He tells Lightray about the pact, about how he was traded for convenience's sake; Darkseid even graceciously admits that he'd originally planned to use Lightray much the same way, but had realized his mistake and decided to give him a chance instead. Darkseid sees how special Lightray is, how much more he could be than just a bargaining chip; Darkseid could make him great, give him power and, more importantly, a place to belong. Lightray could be important, and important things aren't easily traded away, are integral to their home and respected as peers. He could have a place here if he just listens to Darkseid, and why shouldn't he? What has New Genesis, what has Highfather given him? At least Apokolips, Darkseid is giving him a chance, believes he can be more than a bargaining chip. Highfather sees him as nothing but a tool, but Darkseid gets him, believes in him, believes he is more. Between the two of then, who has earned Lightray's loyalty?

So Lightray grows up as Darkseid's adopted son, favored even over Kalibak for his merit, risen above his origins as a bargaining chip, and only feels a little weird about it all. Just a little bit. Somewhere in the back of his mind, there is an instinctive part of him that cringes when a hunger dog rebel begs for mercy while being tortured to death, but that's just his New Genesis weakness, and he's long since overcome it. It's nothing Darkseid holds against him, as long as Lightray fights it. His origins don't define him, and he's grabbed the knife and chosen Darkseid's strength over New Genesis' weakness.

They were planning on having him 'escape' Apokolips and slotting him into New Genesis as a spy, but a golden opportunity drops straight into their lap. A New Genesian manages to sneak straight into Lightray's room, in the heart of Darkseid's home. The only one they know with the skill to pull that of is Himon, but this is clearly someone else.

This is Highfather's son, remarkably alive despite all information to the contrary, and doesn't that just reinforce everything Lightray's ever been taught? Highfather had been unwilling to sacrifice his own son, as Darkseid had done, and had instead cowardly offered up Lightray as a sacrificial lamb. Well, joke's on them, this lamb has grown into a wolf, and is ready to earn his spot in the pack. Highfather's son is called Scott Free (which is really just salt in the wound, isn't it) and is here to break him out, take him back to New Genesis, and it's a little before schedule, but they can't possibly pass up this opportunity.

Scott returns home to New Genesis, having successfully rescued Lightray and feeling pretty good about himself, not understanding why Orion is so spitting mad at the whole thing. He knows this means war, and that's awful, but this truce was never going to last, and they all know it. And now that he's seen the horrors of Apokolips for himself, he can't help but want to do something about it. He may be no fighter, but he thinks he can work with Himon; Himon's methods seem to fit very well with Scott's strengths. He can help, but his father still forbids him to leave New Genesis, and Orion insists that Darkseid is planning something, that it's too dangerous. Scott is inexperienced, naive, and must be protected at all costs, and if they think they can actually successfully keep him in one place they're idiots. It's only a matter of time before he gives them the slip.

Orion knows this damn well, but that's not going to stop him from trying to keep Scott from walking straight into an enemy trap. He doesn't trust Lightray, not even a little bit; he still remembers what Darkseid is like, and he knows, knows that Lightray would never have been allowed to live as his son if he wasn't useful to him in some way. Orion would bet his astro harness Lightray is a spy, but what can they do? Highfather refuses to lock Lightray up without concrete proof that he's a traitor, and they obviously can't send him back to Apokolips. If Scott goes through with joining Himon, he'll be in the middle of enemy territory, with a spy to report back to Darkseid on it. Orion can't allow that to happen, no matter what. But he can't just babysit Scott, even if Scott would've allowed him to do that; with the war starting, Orion is needed on the front lines. He doesn't know how to balance the need to protect his brother with his duties towards New Genesis and the universe at large.

Lightray, meanwhile, is having a bit of a culture shock. New Genesis is, for the most part, exactly what he'd been told to expect: bright, soft, holier-than-thou, all-around fake and weak. But it's still a shock to go from dark Apokolips to bright New Genesis, and to his alarm he can feel the effects already. In the sunlight, he is physically stronger and much more comfortable. He settles in easy, feels content in a way he rarely (never) felt on Apokolips. No matter how much he tries to remind himself that these people betrayed them and he's here to destroy them, he fits on New Genesis in a way he never did on Apokolips, and that scares him, a little bit. Because he knows he'll never have a place here; he'd be a tool at best, and an interloper at worst. Orion's hostility, though a significant hurdle in the plan, is almost welcome; it's familiar, and makes it easier to remind himself that he does not, in fact, belong here.

And then, there is one more complication: Scott Free. Scott Free, Highfather's hidden son, for whose sake he was traded, who is naive and reckless and easy to manipulate, and genuine in a way that completely throws Lightray for a loop. Highfather lies, pretending to trust Lightray despite obviously agreeing with Orion's suspiscions, apologizing for trading Lightray even though he'd surely do it again without hesitation, claiming to respect New Genesis' youth above all despite how obviously untrue that is. It's easy to look at him and see confirmation of everything Darkseid told him about New Genesis.

But Scott tells Lightray he never should've been traded in his place and honestly seems to believe it. He defied orders to come 'rescue' Lightray because he believed it was more important than the continuation of the pact. He's weak, in many ways, but he sees the world how it could be, not the way it is, and has a bright resiliance to him, which Lightray stubbornly refuses to compare to anyone he's met, especially not one Aurelie, the Fury who'd been revealed to be part of Himon's rebels. Scott Free will either die painfully or waste the rest of his life away imprisoned, and Lightray finds himself making just a few too many excuses for why that bothers him.

When Scott Free finally escapes Orion and Highfather's watch to go join Himon, Lightray does not immediately report to Darkseid. He contacts Big Barda instead. It's not treachery, he tells himself. Big Barda is wholly loyal to Darkseid, the leader of the Furies, and will get the job done; besides, he'll report to Darkseid soon enough. He still refuses to think about Aurelie, and how closely Barda stuck to Lightray's side afterwards, drawn to him for reasons they both knew but refused to acknowledge. When he hears back about Barda's defection and her and Scott's escape to Earth, he is obviously very shocked and not even a little bit relieved the plan he didn't have worked.

Then the anti-life equation is discovered on Earth, and suddenly Lightray is told by Darkseid that discovering its location should be his top priority. Orion is sent to look for it as well, to protect it, and Lightray, seeing an opportunity, insists to go along. To his surprise, Orion actually agrees. Orion, for this part, just wants to get Lightray as far away from New Genesis as possible, and is working on a 'keep your friends close, but your enemies closer' logic. So off they both go, on the universe's most high-stakes and hostile buddy road trip.

[sitkowski]

sweet surrender (nick folio x oc)

pairing: nick folio x harper (oc)

cw: 18+ MDNI ⚠️ fake dating, kinda crappy parents, vaginal fingering. doing things on a motorcycle that probably aren't realistically possible.

word count: 3.8k

author's note: this one wasn't originally started with the intention of being posted around the birthday boy's day, but here we are. i've seen enough rom-coms and hallmark movies to know anything is possible. title comes from the song by sarah mclachlan 🫶🏻 dividers by @saradika-graphics

⇉ masterpost || taglist signups

Harper’s flip flops smack noisily against the asphalt as she hurries across the parking lot. She’s already seventeen minutes late, and her mother doesn’t like to be kept waiting. The second her hand is on the handle to the restaurant door, her phone pings loudly in her purse for the fourth time since she left work. She didn’t even think of trying to go home and change, knowing that it would only delay the inevitable more.

Inside the quaint little bar and grill, Harper’s mother sits in the back at a small table, disappointment evident on her face as she approaches the table. There were many things that she considered hell, and lunch with her mother was one of them. But she knew if she didn’t go, she’d just keep bugging her until her sister’s wedding. And somewhere between work and arriving at the restaurant, Harper came up with a possibly insane plan.

“Hi mom,” she sinks down in the chair across from her and grabs a menu. “Sorry I’m late. I had to wait for someone to relieve me at the bar—”

“I already ordered you a sweet tea. I know it’s your favorite.”

Harper tries her very best not to seem shocked at that, because she knows there’s probably an ulterior motive behind it. “Um, thanks.”

“Look, I know I’m a broken record here,” her mother begins, and there it is. “But I wish you weren’t coming to this wedding alone. You’re the last of my children without a partner, don’t you feel like the odd person out?”

It takes everything Harper has not to get up and leave right then and there. She tells herself that her mom is only looking out for her, that she just wants her to be happy. But somehow, she’s always equated happiness with finding someone, having a boyfriend. Being the youngest of four, and right now the only single child, she’s heard it all so much over the years, and it’s one of the reasons why she’s kept any relationships she’s had to herself until they got serious. Which, of course, hadn’t happened in a long time.

“I have a date for the wedding.” she blurts out instead. Harper is a liar. She has nothing remotely close to a date, but she sees the way her mother’s eyes light up, and she raises her hand before she can immediately start drilling her with questions about this nonexistent date. “It’s still very new, but he’s nice. And I’ll let you meet him before the wedding, at the final rehearsal. But for now, can we just keep this between us?”

“Oh absolutely, of course!” her mom says. But Harper knows, her mom is a liar too, and the entire family will know before the end of the day. “I’m just happy you found someone, I know you’ve got to be lonely in that house all by yourself.”

Harper opens her mouth to say something else, but the waitress arrives with their drinks and to take their orders. She’s never been so grateful for the distraction. Her mother even changes the subject before their food arrives. But now all Harper can think about is the fact that she has to convince her neighbor to be her plus one to a wedding.

It’s either a coincidence or a twisted act of fate that Harper’s neighbor is outside working on his bike when she pulls into her driveway. She and Nick aren’t exactly close friends; they’re friendly with one another, she grabs any mail that comes while he’s on tour for him and makes sure his three plants don’t die. He asks her about her day if they catch each other outside at the same time, and once they shared a few beers on his porch after she accidentally locked herself out. She baked him cookies.

And now she’s got to ask him this huge favor.

She knows she could get out of this with her mom, admit she lied or say this mystery guy broke up with her. But as she gets out of her car and looks over at Nick in his driveway, wearing a fitted black tank top and his hands stained with grease, she realizes she wants to prove a point. Her shutting the car door seems to grab his attention, and he turns to wave at her. She lifts her hand in return before taking a deep breath and walking across the section of grass that separates their houses.

“Is something wrong with your bike?” she asks by way of greeting.

Nick shakes his head, wiping his hands off on a rag from his back pocket. “Nah, I just like doing everything on it myself. I’ve got the free time right now.”

“No big tours coming up?”

“Not for a few weeks,” he shoves the rag back into his pocket and pushes his hair back out of his face. “It’s hot out, you want a drink?”

“As long as it’s alcoholic, please.”

She follows him up to his porch and he disappears inside. Harper sits in on the porch swing, picking nervously at her chipped nail polish. The worst that can happen is he can say no, that’s what she tells herself. She waits for Nick to come back, holding out a glass to her. Her eyebrows raise because instead of beer, he brings her whiskey.

“You look like you could use it,” he admits, before sitting beside her. The last time they did this, it was just two beers sitting on the porch steps so she could keep an eye out for the locksmith. It’s not lost on her that this is the closest she’s been to him before. “Everything okay?”

“Just…lunch with my mom. My sister’s wedding is coming up and she’s being extra…extra.”

“She’s stressing you out?”

“More like she won’t stop asking me who I’m bringing to the wedding as a plus one,” Harper takes a sip of the whiskey and rubs her forehead. “I kind of…told her I had a date, when I didn't.”

Nick winces sympathetically, “Ouch.”

She nods in agreement before taking a deep breath and looking over at him. “So I have this stupidly huge favor to ask, and I know you’re probably busy with your band even though you said you have a break, or maybe you just wanna be left alone in which case I will finish this drink and go, but do you maybe wanna pretend to be my date to this wedding?”

She knows that she’s babbling, and she sees the way his eyes widen a little at her question. He’s quiet though, for a lot longer than she thought he’d be, and she fully expects him to let her down gently when he speaks.

“Yeah, sure.”

“I totally get it, we don’t even know each other all that well so if you don’t want to I’ll find someone who—”

“Harper, stop!” he laughs a little, reaching over to put a hand on her knee to cut off her second round of anxious speaking. She blinks and looks down at his hand and then back at his face. “I said I would. I’ll be your fake boyfriend.”

She doesn’t mean to let out a little squeak and throw her arms around his neck, but she can’t help it. She lets go quickly, her face on fire. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, but thank you—”

“Hey it’s no problem, she’s obviously driving you a little insane and I don’t mind helping. I wasn’t kidding when I said I’ve got a few weeks off.”

“It’s seriously just two days, the final rehearsal dinner and then the wedding and reception,” she explains and he nods along. “Do you…do you own a suit?”

She doesn’t mean it in an insulting way, but she’s only ever seen him in t-shirts and jeans, and his riding leathers. That was a distracting enough image, and she quickly banishes it from her mind.

Nick doesn’t seem offended. “I can clean up when I need to. Unless you want to traumatize your mother in which case I am fully prepared to take you to this thing on my bike and make myself her worst nightmare. I’m flexible.”

Harper downs the rest of her whiskey, letting it burn all the way down her throat so that the flush that comes across her cheeks can be blamed on something else.

“Just a nice dress shirt will work,” she pauses and thinks about it. “And yeah, maybe your bike.”

She imagines her mother’s face when she shows up to the rehearsal on the back of Nick’s bike. It wouldn’t be so much the motorcycle itself, but Harper on the back of it in a dress. If this is going to be the way that she’s going to get her off of her back about dating, so be it.

“So, if we’re pretending to date, should I have a cover story?” Nick asks.

Harper hadn’t thought about that. Her mom was nosy, she was going to want every little detail of how she and Nick met, how long they’d been together, what their plans for the future would be. Even if it was just two days, she has to have some kind of details besides him having a motorcycle and being in a band. 

I mean,” he seems to be able to tell that she’s struggling with what to say. “We kind of already have our story, don’t we?”

“We do?” she doesn’t let herself get stuck on how that sounds. Our story.

“We’re neighbors who became friends, you came over and had a few beers when you got locked out of your place and it just…took off from there?”

It sounds so easy, and it’s not even a lie. She nods. “Yeah, that works.”

“So when is this thing? That way I’ve got time to get my bike nice and shiny.”

The day of the final rehearsal approaches quickly. Harper spends most of the morning out with her sisters, getting pampered for the day. They ask her questions about her mystery guy, and she gives them vague but believable answers. When Nick agreed to do this for her, he also gave her a little bit of a rundown on himself in case of situations just like this. She almost wondered if he’d had to be a fake boyfriend before.

When she goes home, she puts on the green floral dress she bought for the day, and even though she knows it’s not exactly practical for the back of a motorcycle, she likes how it looks. She’s doing the finishing touches on her makeup when there’s a knock on the front door. Feeling oddly nervous, Harper goes to answer it. 

Nick wasn’t lying when he said he could clean up when he needed to and he took her words to heart; the black dress shirt he’s wearing beneath his leather jacket looks really good on him. They’re kind of just standing there, staring at each other for a few minutes.

“You look gorgeous,” Nick says, and Harper blushes. His eyes drift down, and the corner of his mouth tilts up. “And while those shoes are very pretty, they’re not safe for the bike. Do you have any flats you can wear?”

Harper slips back into the house and grabs a pair from her hall closet, switching them out and putting her heels into a bag to bring with her. When she comes back out, she follows Nick down to his bike. He hands her a helmet, one that isn’t a full face like his.

“Figured you didn’t wanna sweat off your makeup on the ride.” he says, and she thinks he’s teasing her. “Have you ever been on a motorcycle before?”

She’d been on the back of a friend’s bike in high school, but it had been another style and she knew there was a difference between the two. “Nope.”

“Don’t worry, it’s the safest thing you’ll ever have between your legs.”

Harper’s mouth opens and closes again in surprise, before her eyes narrow. “Did you…did you just quote Girls Just Wanna Have Fun to me?”

Smiling proudly, Nick takes the helmet out of her hands, putting it on her. She holds her breath as he buckles it for her, before pulling on a pair of black leather gloves. He grabs his own helmet and puts it on. With his help, she gets on the bike behind him. She’s able to tuck the skirt of her dress enough so it won’t blow when they’re on the open road. This part she knows enough about, and she puts her hands on his sides. Nick reaches down, wrapping his hand around her wrist and pulling until she gets the message, wrapping her arms tightly around his torso. Harper presses her cheek between his shoulder, clenching her fingers in his jacket.

There was nothing more exhilarating than being on the back of Nick’s bike. It’s not that far from their houses to the venue where the final rehearsal and wedding is being held, but she enjoys every minute of the ride. The parking lot is littered with familiar cars, and Nick parks his bike, cutting the engine. It takes Harper a minute to be able to loosen her grip on his jacket, and she can still feel the rumble from beneath her in her thighs. She lets out a shaky breath, undoing the strap of the helmet and taking it off. In front of her, Nick holds out his hand so she can lift herself off of the seat. When her feet touch the ground, her legs are still shaking.

She can see her mom and her sister Reece watching her from the alcove by the entrance, and it’s hard to miss the smirk on Reece’s face and the look of concern on her mother’s. Harper takes off her flats and slips her heels back on before fluffing out her hair. She watches Nick get off the bike, and he takes off his helmet, gloves and jacket. He’s got the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled to his elbows, and it shouldn’t be nearly as distracting as it is.

“Ready to do this?” he asks, holding out his hand to her. 

Harper nods, lacing her fingers through his. He pulls her closer and she swallows hard, unable to avoid the smile that comes to her face. “Yeah.”

Making the introductions almost seems like the easy part. Within minutes of meeting, all of her sisters are enamored with Nick, including the bride to be. Her mother is a different story, but Harper already knew that it would happen like this. She hears the words drummer and motorcycle club and puts on the most believable fake smile she can. But Harper genuinely wants them to like Nick, even if it is pretend. And for the most part, they do.

“And your band…it does well?” her mother asks sometime between the final rehearsal and dinner, and Harper feels the evening going downhill. 

“They’re viral on Tik Tok,” her grandmother says. Nick smiles that wide smile again and her grandmother winks at him. “Leave them alone, dear. They seem very happy together.”

It eases the tension for Harper, just a little. Beside her, Nick puts his hand on her thigh in a comforting gesture, and she relaxes back in the seat.

The rest of the dinner goes okay, until her mother asks to speak to her privately. She leads her off to the hallway of the floor they’re on away from everyone else. Most of the day has been a blur but Nick’s been there with her the whole time, and she’s thought that they were pretty convincing.

“I know what you’re doing,” her mom says, and Harper frowns. “How could you hide something like this from us?”

“Mom, what—”

“The way that boy looks at you, there is no way that this is new. How long have the two of you been together that you couldn’t tell me, or any of us?”

She almost lets out a sigh of relief, but her mom’s words register with her. She thinks that they’ve been together for longer than she’s said, because of the way that Nick looks at her? From what she’s been able to tell, he’s looking at her the same way he has since they met. Sure, he’s touching her a little bit more, but that was all part of the plan. Wasn’t it?

“You just met him today, and you think he looks at me like, what?”

Her mom’s look turns wistful. “Like your dad used to look at me.”

The words are a punch to the gut, and not in an entirely bad way. Her parents were deeply in love once upon a time. But she doesn’t think that she and Nick know each other well enough for that to be true. Still, her mom wouldn’t have dragged her out here and said something like this unless she saw something that Harper apparently didn’t.

“Mom, there’s something—”

“Babe,” Nick appears in the hallway, and it’s obvious that he might have overheard something that was said, because he comes over, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Jolly wants me to stop by before we head home, would it be okay if we headed out now? I know things are wrapping up for the night.”

“You two go on, we’ll see you in the morning.” Harper’s mom says, answering for her.

She hugs Harper and gives Nick a polite smile before walking back into the banquet hall. It’s not until they’re in the elevator that Harper finally asks. “Who’s Jolly?”

Nick doesn’t take her home right away, turning the bike the opposite direction that they came. Harper doesn’t question it, she just burrows against him comfortably and lets him take her wherever he wants. She’d been grateful for the rescue while dealing with her mom, but she wonders what’s going to happen after the wedding tomorrow. She assumes that things will just go back to how they were before, the two of them being neighbors. It’s something, at least.

It’s dusk by the time Nick stops the bike, in a secluded little spot overlooking mountains and trees. Harper’s pretty sure she came to this spot with a boy when she was in high school. Nick drops the kickstand and takes off his helmet, and Harper takes hers off too. But he doesn’t get off the bike, and she stays leaning into him, enjoying the quiet and the view.

“I know you heard what my mom said,” she whispers into his jacket, and she feels him tense a little before he relaxes. “I thought it was all pretend.”

“And if I said that I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to ask you out for months and thought this was going to be the best way to do it?”

Harper sits up and pulls herself off the bike, and it’s just like he knows what she’s planning to do because he slides back on the seat, making room for her. He hauls her into his lap, her thighs spread over his as she sits facing him.

“I like you, Nick Folio,” she murmurs, draping her arms over his shoulders.  “I mean, you’re viral on Tik Tok after all.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “I like your grandma.”

“And what about me?”

“Oh, I really like you,” he says, before wrapping one gloved hand around the side of her neck and kissing her. 

Harper kisses him back, fisting her hands in the sides of his jacket, trying to get him closer. But she’s worried that too much motion is going to overturn the bike. It’s probably a miracle that it’s staying upright anyway. She slides her hands beneath his jacket, pulling at the buttons on his shirt. Her eyes widen at the sight of the tattoo on his chest, and she files that away for another time when she can drag this out and trace it with her tongue.

Nick pulls back, long enough to tug off his gloves and shove them in his jacket pocket before shrugging out of the leather and letting it fall behind him. Keeping his eyes on Harper’s face, his hands slide up beneath the skirt of her dress. Her breath hitches in her chest at the feeling of his hot hands on her inner thighs, skimming upwards until they touch the edge of her panties.

It’s not lost on her that they’re out here in the open where anyone could come by and see them. That doesn’t really matter to her though, not when Nick’s scraping his teeth over the column of her throat and pulling her underwear to the side.

“Is this okay?” he asks, voice low.

Harper nods quickly, reaching down to wrap her hand around his wrist and guide his hand where she wants it. His fingers slide between her folds, thumb teasing over her clit. She moans, head falling back and his free hand tugs at the top of her dress, pulling it and the cup of her bra down so he can get one of her nipples between his teeth.

A sharp cry escapes her when he eases first one, then a second finger inside of her, and when his fingers curl upward, she finds herself trying to lean back into the handlebars behind her. Nick’s fingers tangle in her hair and he pulls her mouth back to his. Harper nibbles on his bottom lip, tongue sliding over his as she grinds down against his hand.

Whimpering, she buries her hands in his hair, yanking at the longer strands. She’s already on edge, and she’d be surprised that Nick’s able to work her up so quickly, but she can’t think about anything else but this. His forehead presses into hers, eyes locked on the space between them, watching his fingers rock in and out of her. He moves them faster, adding in a third, and Harper’s lost beneath the orgasm crashing into her. The cry she lets out echoes in the air around them, bouncing off of the trees.

Nick pulls his fingers out slowly, bringing them up to his mouth to lick them clean. The sight and the aftershocks of her orgasm leave her dizzy. She starts to reach for his belt, but Nick catches her wrist, pulling her hand up and kissing her palm.

“Later, I promise. I kinda wanna get you home and into my bed.”

Harper can’t argue with that. They fix their clothes and she moves back behind him. As she’s putting her helmet back on, a thought occurs to her. “What happened to this being the safest thing I’ll ever have between my legs?”

“Honey, you haven’t seen anything yet.” he murmurs before putting on his helmet and starting the bike.

She grabs onto him, unable to keep the smile off of her face as he points the bike in the direction of home.

⇉ taglist:

@circle-with-me @deathblacksmoke @malice-ov-mercy @baddestomens

@ladyveronikawrites @dominuslunae @collapsedglasshouses @collidewiththesavannah

@thatchickwiththecamera

[yallthemwitches]

The Golden Rules

When he slipped up on the house rules they tried to be understanding. Who cares if every once in a while they heard a little breathy, feminine sigh come from the other side of James’ bed curtains? Or sometimes the shower was running for hours with sounds of slippery, awkward movements and muffled laughs floating out from under the door? Lily wasn’t some bird that James wanted to get off with, he was in love— and they knew that because he told them so many many times a day.

Sirius is having a big two days in my Jily universe! Written for @jilytoberfest day 18 Prompt :Neighbors (because bunkmates are like neighbors right?)

This one is rated T/M for one short depiction of sexual activity-nothing too crazy though.

Living side by side with a marauder was somewhat of a balancing act. Each boy had their own idiosyncrasies that needed to be attended to. Each one had a different sleep schedule, grooming habit, general idea of cleanliness…and that wasn’t even getting to the teenage boy of it all. In short, the boys had a deal: when in doubt, use a silencing charm or do it somewhere else.

This had become important to denote early on in third year when Sirius started to think that Adelaide Willow’s body looked too fit to handle. By fourth and fifth, things got even more complicated. With love notes piling up for all parties and snogging the new favorite activity, amendments needed to be added to ensure peace.

They had all been very diplomatic about it. Warn a bloke, don’t take ages, and always remember the golden rule: silencing charm or expect no mercy.

This would be all fine and good if it didn’t involve fuzzy brained, randy teens. Peter would constantly forget his silencing charm when he “felt sleepy” at 19:00 some nights, only to get berated before he did anything too crass to himself. Sirius intentionally or unintentionally forgot a few times with various shagging partners, some of which ended the date rather abruptly when books and quidditch goggles got thrown past the bed curtains. The only two that were pretty consistent were James and Remus—mostly due to the fact that Remus refused to date and James preferred other locations that didn’t involve the intimacy of his bedroom.

That wasn’t to say that either of them were angels: after Hogwarts, Sirius would still laugh about the time James was overheard saying a certain name into his pillow, presumably half asleep and unaware that his hand had wandered below the proverbial belt. But it was all good fun—they were sixteen, who could blame them? The system was working, a bit busted, but continuing the status quo nonetheless.

That is, until Lily entered the equation.

The boys knew they had a big storm coming with the onset of Lily and James’ relationship. The bloke had pined after her for years and they all just assumed he had a backlog of emotion he was going to need to dispel. 

As promised, the two were inseparable. Conjoined at the hip, the hands, the chest, the lips—and that was just when they were in public. James was never a fan of bringing girls back to the dorms because he found it too intimate, but for Lily it was a completely different demon. He wanted her in his personal world, so much so that he would do anything to get her closer to every aspect of his life—his four poster bed being just one example.

 The first night she ever stayed over was a telling moment for the Marauder’s residence. Already tucked in for the night, the equilibrium of the room was knocked off course by a frantic and mussed looking James bursting in the door, tie hanging from one shoulder and a crazed look in his eyes. 

“I love you all, but get the fuck out. Evans agreed to come up here. This is not a drill.”

Sometimes mates had to make sacrifices—like sleeping in the common room. 

The boys were happy for him—really, they were. It was a long time coming and it felt good to see their mate feel really good. So, when he slipped up on the house rules sometimes, they tried to be understanding. Who cares if every once in a while they heard a little breathy, feminine sigh come from the other side of James’ bed curtains? Or sometimes the shower was running for hours with sounds of slippery, awkward movements and muffled laughs floating out from under the door? Lily wasn’t some bird that James wanted to get off with, he was in love— and they knew that because he told them so many many times a day.

But even with love involved, everything had its limits. 

When reflecting on it later, Sirius knew that it was purely karma that led him to the dorms that day. A sacrificial moment, brought on by one too many missteps with the status quo. In many ways he considered himself a martyr.

He should have seen the clues. For one, the room was locked and silenced— but that had never stopped him from entering a room before. It might have been the golden rule, but it was his room after all and he figured anything happening at lunch hour couldn’t possibly be too scarring. 

Clue number two: James was on his knees between Lily’s legs. 

They hadn’t closed the bed curtains. Lily’s head tilted back so she had barely a view of the door, making small languorous noises that reminded him of similar muffled sounds he and the lads had once heard before behind the safety of their own beds and the darkness of night. 

With every slight movement of James’ head, her voice reacted. His hands grasped her thighs apart, head tilted upwards, watching his girlfriend’s expressions like a marker of approval. 

Clearly, neither had heard the door open. 

Sirius was there barely a second before Lily’s head rolled back to the top of her spine, eyes dilating in slow motion. Registering her audience, she let out a shrill cry. 

He relocked the door behind him.

*******

James knew he had fucked up. Did he regret it? No— but he did know it wasn’t his best hour. 

To be fair, he hadn’t intentionally set out to break the golden rules of the dorm. It was just like that with Lily. At one moment they could be listening to records and then the next she could have her hands down his trousers. It was as predictable as a game of chance…if 100% of the time the chances led to some form of snogging. 

He trudged out onto the lawn beside the lake where Sirius was lying with Peter and Remus, face tilted towards the sky. As James’ shadow curled over him, a smile pulled at Sirius’ lips.

“Alright, Let’s get this over with– how long were you standing there?”

Sirius’ grin widened, still basking in the sun.

“Don’t know what you are referring to.”

“C’mon pads, I’m not in the mood–I know you just want to hear me say it.”

His eyes blinked open and James tried to remember a time where he looked more smug.

“Oh, are we talking about you licking out your girlfriend? I’d say I was there about a second longer than either of us would have liked.”

Peter made a choking noise into his parchment, Remus sighed and closed his book. 

“Alright James. Too far—“

James’ hand jumped to his hair.

“I-I locked the door Moony, I swear it! He just came barging in!”

“Didn’t lock it well enough,” Sirius snorted and  Remus lightly kicked his leg into his rib.

“Still James—it’s kind of been escalating…I feel like I know Lily a little bit too well nowadays.”

“Yeah mate, the other day I didn’t even know she was in the room. Scared the living shit out of me when she walked to the loo with only your jersey on.” Peter said, ears turning a bright pink.

James sat down and put his head in his hands.They weren’t that bad… 

“Then there was the time where you two practically fell through the door tearing each other’s clothes off—“

“Oh–and remember the other time after NEWTS –”

Ok, so maybe they were. 

“Fine fine,” James waved his hands in the air, “—so what do you want? Do I need to swear we won’t use the dorms again, because I don’t think I can make that promise.”

Sirius turned himself on his side, sporting a grin so dangerous looking James had the urge to run. They both knew that with Peter and Remus on his side he was the essence of pure power, a rarity to have such an upperhand.  

“I just want to know if our sweet Lily got to finish—“

James' face flushed. Tosser.

“—But I don’t want to take your word for it,” he raised his voice,“Evans darling, would you say you were satisfied with Prongs’ performance today?”

James whipped his head around. Sirius must have seen her coming towards them earlier because she was more than halfway to the boys, stopped in her tracks. From around them, groups of students glanced over, knowing a good show when they saw one.

But if Lily was embarrassed, she didn’t show it. Her eyes sunk into slits.

“Why do you ask, Black? Do you need some lessons? I’ve heard your head is shite.”

[urfavstargirl1]

Here’s a little prompt ig you can call it for you Eddie fluff buttttt Eddie is crushing on shy!reader? Idk if that helps with ideas but yea :)

hey anon, don't think I forgot about you babe. still in the mood for fluff but finally found the time to write

-----------------------------

Talk

"Psst," Eddie hisses from the desk next to you.

You look at him from the corner of your eye, turning your head slightly to the other side.

“Hey," he gently taps your desk, giving you no other choice than to nervously peer up at him, "Do you have a pencil I could borrow?”

Borrow. No amount of stars in his eyes or sweetness in his smile could distract from the fact that this would be the fourth pencil in a row he’s borrowed this week.

You almost want to say something, but it’s not worth the trouble. Why make a big deal out of something as small as a pencil?

“Please,” he whispers as the person in front of him passes a stack of papers to him.

You reluctantly oblige. You always have a stash of pencils in your bag. Eddie seems to have observed as much and was poised to use it to his advantage.

Failing to prepare is preparing to fail. At least that’s what your parents always said.

So, of course, you were always prepared for anything. Having a backpack with extra pencils, a sharpener, mini first aid kit, period products, hair ties, and even a snack or two has come in handier more often than you'd like to admit.

It always astonishes you to see people like Eddie who don't seem to be prepared for anything. At least not that you could see in class.

However, it was just your luck that Eddie Munson would be the one to identify this fact of yours, thanks to the stupid seating chart Ms. O’Donnell had in class forcing Eddie sit to right next to you.

You almost resented her for it. Teachers were always sitting the bad kids or the loud kids next to you, hoping your shy and quiet demeanor would somehow cancel theirs out like some stupid pemdas math equation.

But no, that was not how the laws of the universe worked. Sitting next to Eddie didn't make a difference in his behavior, much to Ms. O'Donnell's dismay.

“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver,” Eddie grinned at you, making your eyes widen and heart constrict in your chest. And perhaps that was one of the few plus sides, not nearly enough to counteract the many downsides to sitting next to Eddie: that thing you couldn't quite put your finger on.

Some could call it charm. Others might call it charisma. You weren't sure what to call it. But all you knew was that before this class, you wouldn't have given much thought to Eddie. If you saw him in the hall, you would either not notice him completely or if you did, you probably wouldn't get any goosebumps or an alarmingly high pulse like you do now.

Whenever he smiled at your or talked to you, even about something as simple as borrowing a pencil, he always said it like you were special, and his smile or words were for you and you only.

No one had ever made you feel that way before.

You could barely admit to yourself how much you liked your minute daily interactions with Eddie, let alone tell him.

So like always, you turned your attention forward, failing to ignore that thump thump, thump thump feeling of your heart beat somehow louder or maybe just faster as a result of that stupid smile and tried desperately to ignore the feeling and instead, get to work on your pop quiz.

****

After you've turned in your pop quiz, waited a mind-numbingly boring amount of minutes between the quiz and the end of class, the bell rings.

The sound of the tinkly metal chime brings you back to life. You organize your things in your bag and get up from your desk.

From the corner of your eye, you see Eddie barely finishing up with his quiz.

Just like yesterday and the day before, you know he's not going to give you your pencil back. For all you know, he'll need it for his other classes. Which makes you wonder how he survived the periods before yours.

But for now, you're just relieved class is over and you can enjoy a much needed break at lunch.

You make your way to the door of the classroom and exit into the hall, thrust into the sea of students making their daily migration to the cafeteria. Before you can even make it to the end of the hall, Eddie catches up to you.

"Hey neighbor," a deep voice reverberates behind you and suddenly, a warm shoulder lightly presses into yours.

You turn your head to the side of the offender and find a wild head of frizzy tousled waves framing the face of none other than Eddie Munson.

Your eyes widen and lips part. Your expression frozen as you process the fact that Eddie is currently standing next to you, and closely enough that you can feel the warmth of his body.

"H-Hi," you say as more of a question than a greeting.

"I believe this belongs to you," he says as though he's handing you some sort of precious gem despite only the wooden pencil being offered from his rough ring clad hand.

"O-oh. Thanks," you say in bewilderment, slowly accepting the pencil from him.

He smiles at you again and it that same heart-wrenching smile that just makes you want to faint into his arms.

"I should be the one thanking you. Can't army crawl my way to a D without the proper equipment," he jokes.

You smile and awkwardly laugh, instantly feeling guilt about being so annoyed by lending him a pencil when he's obviously struggling in class.

You settle into a silence. Something you're usually comfortable with, but as you've somewhat gotten to know Eddie in class, realize he may just be the opposite.

"So, you don't really talk much, huh?" Eddie ask as you both continue walking to the cafeteria.

You guess you and Eddie are walking to lunch together now.

You shrug at his question. This isn't the first time someone has asked you this and it definitely won't be the last. "What's there to say?"

"Lot of things," Eddie shrugs and smiles at you.

How can you talk, when Eddie's stupid smiles send you into a mental frenzy, preventing any sort of coherent speech.

You shake your head and try to find the right words, something you seem especially to have trouble with around Eddie.

"I don't know. Talking's overrated. You can learn way more about a person by listening."

"Gotcha," Eddie nods, "So what have you learned about me?"

"That you never come to class prepared," you say without even thinking.

As soon as the words come out of your mouth, you wish they hadn't. Instantly feeling remorse and embarrassment at the fact that the filter you are usually good at using when speaking to anyone besides your friends has somehow seemed to disappear in the presence of Eddie Munson.

Meanwhile Eddie is doubled over laughing at your blatant response.

"I'm sorry. What I meant was-"

Eddie places a hand on your shoulder and smiles at you with both his mouth and his eyes, "Don't be. It's true."

You face forward and nod, already feeling a warmth crawl to your cheeks.

"Hey," he nudges your shoulder, making you look into his warm brown eyes, "But if you don't talk, how am I ever gonna learn anything about you?"

You gasp as though you got sucker punched in the stomach.

Your brain can barely even scramble to mutter a coherent response.

Your eyebrows raise and your eyelids blink.

This is also why you don't talk a lot. Half the time, the thoughts in your brain don't seem to know how to make it to your mouth, and the other half, well, your mouth just ends up doing all the talking for you.

"Watch where you're going freak," someone shouts near you and Eddie.

Before you've even realized it, you've made it to the cafeteria and got into the lunch line with Eddie.

Eddie scowls and merely flips the student off before turning to you and smiling.

You shyly smile back, but still severely aware of the comment he had made.

Eddie... wants to learn about you?

"Seriously though," he laughs, a certain sort of rasp more pronounced in his voice, "What's a guy gotta do?"

You shrug, not sure how to answer what is a rather loaded question for you.

"I don't know," you answer frankly. "Talk is cheap. A lot of times people are saying things without really saying anything important, you know?"

"So you only talk when you really want to say something, when you mean it?"

"Yeah, I guess you could say that," you nod.

"I see," Eddie nods and gestures for you to go before him as you approach the food station.

As you grab your tray Eddie leans over to you and says, "Why don't you sit with me and my friends today? They can be a bit of a riot but I think you'll like 'em."

On any other occasion, his offer would practically give you a heart attack, but seeing as all your other friends are either in study hall or have a different lunch period leaves you no other choice.

"Um, sure," you nervously smile and let him lead the way to his table.

"Gentlemen, meet Y/N. She'll be sitting with us today so let's give her a warm Hellfire welcome," Eddie announces as he sets his tray down at the end of the table. Two rows of boys sit on either side of the table, letting about six sets of eyes land on you.

You smile nervously and wave awkwardly, "Hi."

There's no empty seats next to Eddie, but before you can find another one by the other end of the table, Eddie shoos some of the boys to his right to scoot down a seat creating an empty one next to his.

You gracefully take a seat and mutter a quick thanks to the closest boy.

"So, what's Hellfire?" You ask nonchalantly. But perhaps it was a naive question because it causes the rest of the boys to go into a full tizzy.

"Eddie!"

"You didn't tell her?"

"It's the only saving grace in this god-forsaken hell hole."

Comments and exclamations come flying at you meanwhile Eddie can only smile and stare at you, simultaneously making your chest feel warm and like you want to crawl under a rock.

Eddie lays a warm palm along your forearm, "Patience, young jedi, you'll soon learn the ways of the Hellfire Club."

You eyes instantly shoot down to look at his limb connected to yours. And instinctively, you look up at the boy across from you, as if to silently ask, "Are you seeing this too?"

And he looks at you with widened blue eyes and eyebrows that almost reach the head of light brown wavy hair as if to say, "Yeah, I'm seeing this too. It's weird, right?"

You subtly nod, because it is weird. Not entirely unwelcome, but definitely unexpected.

Eddie retracts his hand and begins to say something. The table has all eyes on him, but not you. You're still replaying what just happened in your brain over and over again like a carousel projector caught on the same slide.

"Right Y/N?" Eddie asks.

You shake your head and mutter a quick apology. "Huh?"

"Well while you were off in la la land and, trust me, I don't blame you. I do it all the time myself. But we were just talking about tonights Hellfire meeting. You in?"

Oh no, he caught you. Does he have any idea you were thinking about how warm and rough his hand felt on your skin? Or how strong his fingers felt?

Hopefully not.

But the more important thing to worry about now is the fact that Eddie just invited you to Hellfire Club!

What does this mean?

Should you say yes?

You kind of have to say yes right? It'd be rude not to. And it seems like a big enough deal to him and his friends. But you still have no idea what Hellfire is or what's gonna happen tonight. But you guess you're just going to have to find out.

"Um, yeah," you reply with a shy and bright smile.

"Yeah," Eddie fist pumps in the air. "Okay, so I gotta warn you, these guys can get pretty reckless. But I know you can handle it."

You smile with your lips closed and nod. Oh god, what have you gotten yourself into?

"Meet us in the drama room after school, okay?"

"Sure," you nod and shyly smile at the other boys.

After school comes like clockwork and you find yourself nervously approaching the drama room doors. A poster with messy handwriting reads, "Hellfire Club Meeting in Session."

Okay, here goes.

You open the door, and enter the dark space. You wander through the room, guided by the warm stage-lights turned on further inside.

You eyes land on Eddie, who's sitting at a throne prop no doubtedly used by the drama club for the upcoming play. He's seated at the head of the table, just like at lunch.

He goes between reading a piece of paper and adjusting figurines on the table.

As you walk further into the room, you see no one else is here yet. It's just you and Eddie.

And before you can even say anything, your footsteps are enough to announce your presence causing Eddie with a face of concentration adorning his scrunched up brows and pursed lips, to a full on grin and lit up eyes as he sees you.

"Hey neighbor," he gets up from the throne and jogs over to you.

You nervously grin and offer a small squeaky, “Hey.”

He gets closer to you and swiftly encloses you in a bear hug.

Your body tenses and your eyes flinch shut. You didn't expect him to make such a move, much less so casually. But then you take a second to embrace the feeling of his strong arms around you. The warmth of his body against yours. Or the scent of soap and tobacco lingering on his clothes.

And before you can even think to hug him back, he pulls away, but leaves one arm wrapped around your shoulder and guides you to the table, "I'm glad you could make it."

You make a sound adjacent to a nervous laugh, “Yeah.”

Eddie pulls the chair closest to throne out for you to take a seat. Eddie sits on the edge of the table and looks down at you.

“Alright so before everyone else shows up let me fill you in on how things go down in Hellfire.”

The feeling of your surprise and almost fear at the unknown of what will happen must be evident on your face because Eddie leans forward and places a comforting hand on your forearm again.

“Don’t worry okay, it’s gonna be fun,” he says in a voice you find utterly endearing but aren’t poised enough to really appreciate it because all you can focus is on is the feeling of flames at the point where Eddie’s skin and your meets.

“O-Okay,” you force yourself to utter.

You focus as best as you can while Eddie explains the game of Dungeons and Dragons to you, but by god is it easy to get lost in those stars in his eyes.

Soon the rest of the boys start showing up and they help explain a few other things too.

Before you know it, you're in the midst of your first campaign. You have no idea what you're doing half the time, but Eddie was surprisingly right. It is fun.

So much fun in fact that you've lost track of time. And now you really should be heading home before your parents start to worry.

But Eddie has hypnotized you. You don't want this night to ever end. But it has to. And now, all the boys are packing up their things and getting ready to leave. And so should you. So you do.

And as the boys begin to trickle out of the room, Eddie looks at you and says the magic words: "Hey, can I give you a ride home?"

If someone would have told you earlier today that you'd be spending the evening with Eddie Munson at Hellfire Club and would even be getting a ride home from him, you would have never believed them.

But anything could happen.

"Yeah," you nod breathlessly.

The night sweeps you by as you find yourself in the passenger seat of Eddie's large beat up van with loud metal music blaring from the speakers.

But it feels oddly comforting. And you don't mind being the passenger seat princess with Eddie's music and fast paced train of thought filling the space.

You could listen to Eddie talk for hours. Whether it be in that silly medieval accent he does for Hellfire or in his normal voice with just enough rasp and deepness to it that you love.

As Eddie's van crawls along the curb to your front yard, and as he shifts the gear into park, a wave of sadness overcomes you.

You look out the window and over to Eddie. You press you lips together and shrug, pointing out the window with your thumb, "This is me."

Eddie nods and rubs the palm of his hand along the nape of his neck, "Yeah. Listen, uh, I had a lot of fun with you today."

"Me too," you squeak.

Eddie's eyes light up as he looks into yours, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you shyly smile, feeling heat crawl to your cheeks and neck.

"Cool, yeah, I'm glad," Eddie flounders around his words as he lays his palms flat along his thighs and rubs them along the denim, slightly avoiding your gaze.

"Eddie," you ask as you shift your head, looking for his eyes. When he lets you find them, he smiles nervously.

Eddie. Nervous? No way.

"Sorry, uh, I don't usually get like this," Eddie looks away and awkwardly laughs. "Kind of funny how I'm the shy one now."

"It's okay," you reassure him.

He pauses for a moment, and you decide to do something unexpected. You place a gentle hand on his forearm, attempting to comfort him the way he had for you.

He briefly flits his eyes up to yours and lets out a breathless laugh. With his other hand, he guides your hand to move down and interlock with his. He squeezes firmly, grounding himself in your touch.

"You're really cool, you know that?" Eddie smiles at you earnestly.

"No, but thanks," you shyly smile back, feeling about one million butterflies erupting in your stomach.

"Would it be cool if I, um... Could I have your phone number?"

Now, you've officially died and gone to heaven.

You nod giddily and sweetly whisper a soft, "Yeah."

You take out a notebook and pencil from your bag. You tear off a corner from a blank page and write your phone number.

You hand it over to Eddie and you can practically feel the buzz of electric excitement coming from him.

"So, I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah, just don't forget to bring a pencil this time," you tease as you put you things back in your bag and unbuckle your seatbelt.

"Then what excuse will I have to talk to you," Eddie responds.

You laugh at first until you realize he meant it. He was actually doing that just as an excuse to talk to you.

Holy shit.

"Um, I'm sure you'll come up with something," you nervously laugh. "You seemed to work that Munson magic pretty well today."

It was something you said rather off-handedly, but that sort of is what drew you to Eddie. Some sort of magic he seemed to possess. Someone who was rather unsuspecting from the jump, seemingly with magic had you utterly charmed.

"Munson magic, I like that. Guess you'll just have to find out tomorrow then," Eddie said confidently.

"Is that a threat or a promise?"

Eddie laughs and shakes his head, "Whichever one you want it to be."

You rolled your eyes and smiled as you opened the car door and slide out of the seat, "Goodnight Eddie."

Eddie smiled at you as you looked at him one last time.

"Goodnight Y/N," he smirked.

You close the door behind you and giddily walk up the driveway to your house, hoping Eddie nor your parents would be able to tell just how giddy you'd felt.

Or how strange this whole day has been. Or how Eddie's Munson magic has you feeling like the luckiest person in the world.

[fruitymachine]

Hey guys instead of thinking about Curly’s disability as a punishment what if we instead realized that even if you side with an abusive psychopath in any way you will still get hurt in the end and used? As in like being used as a scapegoat and the being an unreliable caretaker by starving you of communication and the humanity you still deserve to be treated with and being used as a simple pawn to further said psycho’s motives even when you tried your best to see the best in said abuser and a lot of the time put them above yourself.

Hey guys can we acknowledge how Curly was kinda a jerk but that doesn’t warrant constant pain from fourth degree burns and being degraded as a person?

Hey guys the nuance and the idea that you can still be a decent person while fucking up massively

Hey guys Anya told Swansea during that meeting in the cockpit and he didn’t kill Jimmy immediately either

Hey guys when you’re in a position in which you have to keep a group together, running over and killing your best friend will not keep people together and it will cause chaos, and not only that but being told your best friend is a “that word” can be shocking and most people need more than a day to process that information, which Curly only got a day

Hey guys this still doesn’t excuse his enabling over years and years but for the love of fucking god please stop equating him to a literal consent-ignoring, narcissistic pos who will kill others to look good, or still be seen in a good light?

I understand having emotions about such heavy topics but one of the main themes of this game is that people are human, and humans do shit sometimes man, nobody is perfect and unfortunately that sometimes leads to Jimmy’s living past the age of three, and I say this as a person who has dealt with some of these “topics” in multiple senses that people are allowed to be imperfect, mistakes do not make you a pos

Being Jimmy is❤️

[defectivehero]

Hi recently found your blog it’s so good! But was wondering if you could one where the hero lost there glasses in a fight maybe or just at home and the villain sees them idk take your pick possibly m x m? Ty even if not have a good day!

your wish is my command! (not really, but this is a great idea and you asked very nicely!) here you go, hope you have a great day <3

The hero has grown accustomed to working late night hours at the agency. He's grown used to being the last person in the office, to shutting the lights off and locking the door behind him once he leaves. The hero always feels guilty leaving right at his scheduled time, especially when his job can determine if a person lives as a bystander to a horrible event or dies as a victim. He begins to stay later and later into the night, and it becomes increasingly hard for him to tear himself away from the agency and his hero mask.

This overtime habit is how the hero finds himself hunched over his desk with rather painful crooked posture as he compulsively checks his computer for messages. His agency is one of the first to adopt a sophisticated messaging system that converts audio from emergency calls to text, which are sent as alerts straight to their inbox. The idea sounded morbid at first—the hero didn't want to equate life-saving to checking his email. But the system grew on him. It's convenient and easy to use, drastically improving the agency’s response time.

He squints at the screen in front of him, rubbing his eyes roughly when his vision begins to blur. He's tired.

Perhaps the hero’s exhaustion is the reason why he fails to notice a figure standing in the corner of the room, watching him. “Your eyesight is terrible.” The hero hears, stiffening in his seat and turning around to find his enemy, the villain, lurking in the shadows. It takes him a few moments to process the statement.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” the hero then huffs, blinking a few times as he realizes his eyes feel incredibly dry. His close-up vision is passable, so he's still able to do his job. His distance vision, on the other hand...

The hero has worn glasses since fourth grade. He experimented with contacts but eventually went back to wearing glasses. He's spent an ungodly amount of time in his life wiping his glasses clean with a cloth or pushing his frames further up his nose.

“I’m serious,” the villain sighs. “How can you even see out of these?” At that, the villain steps forward and holds out his hand, revealing a pair of glasses. The hero immediately recognizes the telltale blue gleam that distinguishes his glasses, and reaches out to his enemy. He almost expects the villain not to hand them over, so when the glasses hit the hero's palm, he raises his eyebrows.

"Thank you," the hero feels the need to say, when the silence stretches on to a painful tension. When he puts on his glasses, the blurriness around his vision clears and he can see the words displayed on his screen in sharp, clean strokes. The hero then stares at the villain, several questions on the tip of his tongue. How did the villain remember the hero had lost his glasses? Did he go back to retrieve them? And if so... why?

"It took me a few days to realize why you hadn't shown your face since our fight," the villain answers, as if reading his mind. The hero has to wonder how he grew so predictable. "After that, it didn't take long for me to remember that blow I dealt you—rather powerful, if I do say so myself—and the ensuing clatter of your glasses falling to the ground. So... I went back to the rooftop and grabbed them."

That answers the hero's first two questions. He is still left with the most important query of all: why?

The villain seems to telepathically understand this question too. He takes a slow breath in and ambles around the office in a carefree manner that makes it seem as if he owns the space.

"A win is more enjoyable if it's a complete victory," the villain drawls, tapping his fingers along a nearby desk. The hero has to wonder if his enemy has his power activated—if charred fingerprints will be left as remnants (as tangible evidence) of their encounter. "That means no cheap advantages or hinderances."

Ah. The villain wanted a fair fight—one unimpeded by the hero's poor vision. He supposes he can understand that. The villain is honorable above all else. The hero knows this about his enemy, has grown to accept it. Perhaps he should've intuited that motivation before bothering to ask.

The villain is still lingering, as if waiting for something. The hero's patience only lasts a few minutes. “Well, was there another reason for your visit, or…?” The hero asks, looking at him with sharpened vision. His glasses now provide him with a glimpse of the nuance written in the villain's form—the minuscule pull to his lips, the faded scars tangled around his hands. The hero is suddenly thankful to have his glasses again—but for entirely different reasons than before.

“That was it,” the villain says, his gaze turning scrutinizing. "Why are you in such a rush? Got a hot date?" The latter statement is spoken with a surprising amount of venom.

The hero raises his eyebrows. "A date?" He hums casually, his heart racing in his chest. He didn't expect the conversation to take such a sharp turn into such a convoluted and confusing subject. "At this hour? Of course not."

Something settles in the villain's expression. "Right," he says, something close to relief coloring his tone. "Then, I'll be seeing you." He remarks, turning on his heel and walking out the door. The hero watches him leave, a multitude of different emotions battling in his chest.

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[pissditching]

I've noticed something in the discussion around Gerard Way and trans identity that I am officially fed the fuck up with. While talking about Gerard's outfits from the second leg of the tour, people love to use use the line "clothes ≠ gender" as a gotcha for those of us who are keen to the fact that they aren't cis. This pisses me off for three main reason plus a fourth mini reason that's more of a history blurb than anything else.

Before we start anything, Gerard has been out as not cis for the better part of 8(!) years now. To not acknowledge that is doing them a disservice. Some of you have purposely chosen to ignore that fact. Right out the gate that's fucked up. Ok now we can proceed.

First off, you're right. Clothes do not, in fact, equal gender. I know this, and it sounds like you'd like me to believe that you know this. So forgive me for being a little confused when you go on anon after they're photographed wearing what you dub to be "masculine clothing" (i.e. anything that's not a skirt/dress with heels) and tell me I'm an idiot for implying that they aren't a cisgender man.

Secondly, the concept that clothes don't equal gender in only true to us very recently. If you think that Gerard Way, a 45 year old ex-Catholic Gen-X'er who grew up in an wildly conservative suburb of north New Jersey doesn't have a different relationship between clothing and gender than you, a 14-to-20-something year old who hasn't closed tiktok in three days and averages 0.3 minutes of critical thinking per week, then you're extremely delusional and self-centered. People are socialized in entirely different ways. As humans, our experiences are not in any way universal. What doesn't mean anything to you means everything to someone else. Maybe you don't equate femininity with skirts and dresses, but I guarantee you a 45 year old who has openly struggled with gender identity their entire life does in some capacity. This is not a bad thing.

Thirdly is that in your attempt to sound as woke and morally upright as possible, you're unintentionally (or intentionally, seeing as a considerable number of you are terfs,) discrediting and invalidating the way someone experiences gender euphoria because you personally don't get it. Gerard Way has only ever said "I don't use labels" in response to people implying that they're cishet. If your first reaction to seeing someone who could even potentially identify under the transfem umbrella experiencing visible gender euphoria in a dress is to say "oh well clothes don't equal gender, so I'm going to assume that he's a man in a dress until he explicitly outs himself", then congratulations! You're transphobic. Because that's the thing. When you use the rhetoric of clothes ≠ gender in that context, it becomes crystal clear you don't actually care about trans people. You just want to sound like the smartest person in the room. And you're willing to throw GNC trans people under the bus in order to achieve that goal.

I think people have forgotten big time that "don't assume my gender" originally meant "don't assume I'm cis", because now the way people interpret the rhetoric (don't assume my gender, clothes ≠ gender, I don't use labels, etc.,) and use it to prove a point only use it as if to say "it's inherently wrong and creepy to identify and acknowledge when people aren't cis. Cis is the default and the only safe assumption. Anything else is offensive and crossing a major boundary" and you can tell it's because they view transness as an insult to someone's character. We have to, collectively, stop viewing transness as an allegation you either have to beat or bear with. Alongside that, we have to stop assuming cisness.

[dapperinsanity]

An aroace-spec’s personal thoughts on Alastor & Representation

This is purely my opinion and I wanted to share it as it’s been highly bugging me.

Personally, Alastor was always bad representation for me. If you feel like he’s good representation that’s fine! This is purely my opinion and I want to discuss some red flags I’ve noticed. It all has to do with the reasons behind why Al is asexual. I’ll make a small list of my main points and I will expand more on the points below later.

According to Viv Alastor is aroace because…

He was made to be a tumblrsexyman and then Viv thought it’d be funny to make him asexual.

While, personally, idgaf about fans shipping Alastor or making smut…Viv’s comment (“I don’t wanna ruin anyone’s fun”) before confirming his identity was just not it.

According to her own words, Alastor is too focused caring about himself (don’t remember if she used the word narcissistic but I remember mentions of narcissism) which is why he wouldn’t be in a relationship.

In the earlier years, we only knew he was asexual. Yet, everyone acted like it meant he was aroace. Which was fine but I need to point out that just being asexual is different from being aroace. This, in itself, isn’t a red flag. It’s how viv talks about his asexuality.

Ok, so I think it was recently confirmed he is aroace after his show va “slipped up” saying he was aroace and not asexual. I’m not sure but if he is, I only see his asexuality discussed amongst viv and other people involved in the show.

Why is the only asexual/aroace character a “villain”? I’m all for aroace villains and queer villains. It’s when you take other things that she has said, I can’t help but be suspicious.

So, why do I think Alastor being made asexual as a tumblrsexyman is a red flag? Well, him being ace and a tumblrsexyman isn’t bad at all. My concern is that Viv thought it’d be funny. Knowing the type of person viv is (bigoted, racist, transphobic, misogynistic, fatphobic, etc.) his asexuality is a joke. Also, let not forget about the fact that she doesn’t actually care about representation in general. If she did care, she wouldn’t be acting the way she is and wouldn’t portray her characters the way she does.

Secondly, her comment before confirming his identity on stream was…dismissive? I can’t find the correct word but her caring more about pleasing the fans, further proves my point in how she doesn’t care about actual representation. You know what she could’ve done? Confirmed it. The fans still could have fun doing whatever they want with Alastor in their fanworks. Its fandom. It’s not canon and fandoms are meant for works that don’t stick to canon. Like, you’re the creator and you decide on what’s canon because it’s your character…Bruh.

Third, she mentions that Alastor is too focused on himself to be in a relationship. First of all, asexuality doesn’t equate to not desiring a romantic relationship. There’s a difference between just being asexual and just aromantic versus aroace. Secondly, why is his asexuality related to his vanity/selfishness? If you don’t desire a relationship because you’re too focused on yourself, that’s not asexuality. Asexuals and aromantics are highly stigmatized and conflating his selfishness with his asexuality perpetuates aroace stereotypes.

Fourth, is the lack of discussion about his aromanticism. If he’s confirmed to be aroace, why do we only talk about his asexuality? Because being asexual doesn’t equal to being aromantic. One can be asexual but be in a romantic relationship and vice versa.

Fifth is the fact that the only aroace character we have is a “villain”. While I’m fine with aroace villains and queer villains, when you observe why Al is aroace, I can’t help but to side eye it. Aroace people are often stigmatized as heartless and cold or treated like a monster due to their lack of attraction. I feel like this only adds to the stigma.

So, yeah that’s why I feel like he’s bad rep.

[pluckyredhead]

It's time for more Fourth World thoughts! Previously I've covered the comics of the 70s, 80s, and 90s. Now let's talk about the 2000s.

Orion (2000): AHHHHHHH. If you read no other Fourth World book (besides Kirby ofc), please read this one. It is so good and it is so epic and Orion makes so many well intentioned bad decisions and suffers so much. I devoured all 25 issues in 2 days and immediately wanted to reread it. Writing and art are both Walt Simonson and he gives this book such tragic grandeur. He also does my favorite thing which is multiple slow-burning subplots, some of which lasted so long that I was afraid they wouldn't be resolved, but no, every loose end is wrapped up in a satisfying (ish) way by the last issue and I love everyone in this bar. And the art! THE ART!!!

So basically, Orion kills Darkseid (again lol) and becomes the new ruler of Apokolips, and decides he is going to drag this planet over to the side of good kicking and screaming, which...doesn't work out so well for him. Ultimately he winds up semi-accidentally in possession of the Anti-Life Equation, which allows him to completely control people, so he uses it to force people to be good, which...baby, no. This series is like 40% Orion whump, 35% Orion being a badass, 5% Lightray and Orion being blatantly in love, 5% Scott and Orion making dramatic gestures of brotherly devotion, and 5% Orion wearing a stupid hat that I unironically wish I could buy and wear.

It looks like his helmet! I NEED IT.

Also, during his Stupid Hat Era, Orion briefly acquires an orphan girl sidekick, and like...look at my icon. This is my GREATEST WEAKNESS. Simonson, why did you come for me like that???

I have only two quibbles with this series:

1. It's the early 2000s so the only female characters of any significance (besides the aforementioned orphan girl sidekick) are femme fatales who are drawn in ludicrously skimpy outfits and sex inch heels. Now to be fair, Darkseid wears a miniskirt, but the degree of cheesecake of these two characters was ridiculous.

2. The last issue reveals that Scott possesses the Anti-Life Equation naturally, and he once accidentally killed dozens of people with it, and he's tormented by both of these things. Which...the actual issue this story is told in is really good, and I think it's a really interesting idea to have Scott possess the Equation, but I don't love the idea of weighing down this optimistic character who values freedom above all with such a traumatic history of, uh, accidental mass murder. He already grew up in a torture orphanage! Hasn't he suffered enough?!

But honestly, the overall series is so good that I'll let it slide. PLEASE READ ORION (2000). THANK YOU.

Seven Soldiers: Mister Miracle (2005): This is part of a set of miniseries Grant Morrison did: there was Seven Soldiers #0, and then 7 4-issue minis, one for each of the Soldiers, and then the whole story concluded in Seven Soldiers #1. I only read Seven Soldiers and the Mister Miracle miniseries because I'm a ridiculous person when it comes to reading comics, but I'm not going to read 24 issues that have nothing to do with the Fourth World.

Anyway, the Mister Miracle mini is actually about Shilo Norman, not Scott, and it's pretty good, even if Shilo should know perfectly well who Darkseid and his entourage are. The surrounding issues were incomprehensible, but maybe they would have made more sense if I had read all the other minis. On the other hand, maybe not...this is Morrison we're talking about, after all. Anyway talk about making comics as inaccessible as possible. Great job, everyone.

Death of the New Gods (2007): I knew right away this comic was going to be dogshit because of a) the title and b) the fact that it's a tie-in to the worst event DC has ever published, Countdown to Final Crisis, but hoo boy, it is DOGSHIT.

Basically, some mysterious being starts murdering New Gods, starting with Lightray and Barda, the latter of whom is murdered in the kitchen - you know, where women belong. Scott then dons a truly idiotic goth version of his costume and the rest of the book is mainly Scott, Orion, and Superman flailing around aimlessly and failing to figure out who the killer is while everyone from New Genesis and Apokolips is slaughtered. It's a truly godawful murder mystery in which implausible suspects are accused at absolute random (the Forever People, the pacifist hippies! Orion, the least sneaky being in existence!) even though Superman deduces the killer (sort of) in #5 and tells the other characters, so there's no reason for them to still be trying to solve it.

Anyway at the risk of ruining this comic for you (impossible, it comes pre-ruined), the killer turns out to be the Infinity Man, but he's actually being piloted by the Source, which is eradicating the New Gods and harvesting their energy in order to create a Fifth World. In #7, a horrified Scott is like "But I've worshiped you all my life! Don't you care about any of us?" and the Source is like, "Eh." The most spiritual and reverent aspect of the Fourth World, and Jim Starlin came along and just dropped a little turd right on top of it (after, of course, blatantly copying Darkseid when he created Thanos).

The art (also by Starlin) is hideous, and the plotting is atrocious, as he desperately tries to stretch six issues of story at best into eight, plus dragging each issue out over 30 pages instead of the normal 22. Everyone is wildly out of character. The only vaguely good thing about the book is that Scott and Orion finally get to spend a significant amount of time together, but given the context, I really don't think it's worth it.

In conclusion: "rocks fall, everyone dies" turns out to not be a good idea for a story! Who knew!

Final Crisis (2008): Well, after 16 years of successfully avoiding this story, I finally read it. You win this one, Morrison.

I have avoided Final Crisis since it came out because it felt so emblematic to me of the worst of late 2000s DC: literally constant crossovers with histrionic stakes, characters being slaughtered left and right, whatever the fuck they did to Mary Marvel in this story. I know it has a good reputation, and if I'm being honest, I do think the first 5 1/2 issues of it are pretty good. On the other hand, if I wasn't very familiar with 2000s DC, I think this would be a very confusing book to read, the final 1 1/2 issues dissolve into incomprehensible, self-indulgent nonsense full of obscure characters and OCs randomly dropped in just to make it all harder for the reader. I'm sorry, I know many people consider Morrison's habit of writing comics that you need a companion volume, twenty Wikipedia tabs, and a Reddit forum to understand to be a feature, not a bug, but it infuriates me. It's like the structure of the Seven Soldiers series(es) up above. Aren't comics impenetrable enough? Must we gatekeep with every page?

Anyway the New Gods stuff: they're all dead, but all the evil ones managed to land on Earth as disembodied souls, and are possessing various humans. The only good one is Orion, who dies at the very beginning when he is shot by Darkseid in the future shooting him with a bullet that travels back in time. I love goofy comics shit but for some reason this one strikes me as real dumb. Also Orion literally died twice in the comic that was about all the New Gods dying, so...hm.

Anyway the evil New Gods take over the planet with the Anti-Life Equation, and again, the pacing and storytelling are actually really good for most of this. But there's also all the worst the late 2000s had to offer, like Mary Marvel in the WORST costume of all time and Supergirl flashing panty shots at the reader while they beat each other up and call each other sluts, or Tawky Tawny being beaten to a pulp before ripping out Kalibak's entrails. Tawky fucking Tawny. SIGH. Also they keep miscoloring Shilo as white. NOT GREAT.

Honestly at this point I'm like begging for the New 52 to happen and put me out of my misery, so...good job, DC? I want to go back to Orion (2000), that was great.

Next up: the 2010s! Which is all the New Gods books, they haven't had a series yet this decade. We're almost done, gang.

[sea-owl]

Have you seen the news about Michaela sterling? What are your thoughts?

I have, and I decided to sit on the information for a couple of hours before answering. Reminder I haven't seen the season yet but it's all over my dash so hard to avoid.

Initially, I was a little disappointed. Franchael is one of my favorites as is their story. I was also kinda hoping we get to explore the soilders more in this world since Michael is the only one of the lord husbands to be part of the army. By the shows own rules we would have to do a major rewrite to Michael's story for Michaela. By the shows own rules Michaela can't inherirt, and the merry rake persona wouldn't be that viable of an option either because of how easy a woman can be ruined. Now do they plan to have Michaela become a spinster as well so we have our third or fourth one or is she going to be a widow like Francesca by the time their season rolls around?

And this also brings up Francesca's infertility storyline. Is that going to continue or are they going to keep that baby with John so Francesca can keep running Kilmartin? Or are they going to go down the Featherington route where John leaves in his will that Michaela's son inheirts. Again that will bring back the question of Michaela getting married.

Now, like I said initially, I was a little disappointed because I was excited to see Michael on screen. Needed some time to process. And for those like me who are disappointed it is OK to feel those feelings and process them. Michael was a pretty beloved lead from the books. I kinda equate this to gender reveal disappointments. Mom and dad are expecting and then the gender of baby isn't what they originally wanted. Are they going to love their kid any less? Or are they less wanted? No. They still love their kid just need a moment to readjust.

Now let me be clear on this as well. Being disappointed is no excuse to attack the actress playing Michaela. Nor is it an excuse to send hate to anyone. Being disappointed and needing time to process is OK. Attacking others is not.

Onto Michaela Stirling, I'm sure Michaela's actress will do a wonderful job. I can see a few potential plot lines for Michaela. And I'm sure this question is gonna pop up eventually, too. For my writing, at least am I going to continue using Michael, or am I going to switch to Michaela?

I'll start by saying this isn't my first rodeo with something like this. I'm a little bit of a gamer and often with RPGs the avatars usually have a male or female option with a gender neutral name or male and female names. Like Tav on Baulder's Gate 3, Byleth on Fire Emblem Three Houses, Robin in Fire Emblem Awakening, the Pokemon franchise. For the fandoms they often just switch to their preferred or whatever the vibe is that day, what story elements they might be using. Another option I see but not used often is they kinda combine the two by making the character either Trans or genderfluid. Or my personal favorite, make them twins.

I'll probably switch depending on story vibes or more than likely make them twins. Francesca can have three Stirlings. Give her a why choose. I mean majority of the fandom agrees that modern day John, Francesca, and Michael would have worked out poly, we can throw Michaela in there too.

[checkoutmybookshelf]

Ok, something has been bugging me about Dain and his signet, and I want to talk about it for a second.

I was thinking back over Fourth Wing and Iron Flame to see if there were any moments where Vi consented to having her memories read, and not only was the answer no, somethig HELLA chilling popped up when I went back to check the text.

When Xaden explains to Vi that Dain has to touch someone's face to read their memories, her response is "...that's how he always touches me" (Fourth Wing, 450). I get that Dain's signet is secret and he can't just TELL Vi what he can do when he catches her immediately after she crosses the parapet, but one of the first things he does in that scene is take her chin (Fourth Wing, 32) in his fingers. He establishes a pattern of behavior, normalizes his touching her face as a habit. And yes, it could be argued that not touching her face would also give away his signet somehow, but as the person with knowledge, Dain is responsible for the ethics of using and setting patterns around his signet. He either had to just...NOT touch her face, which child be justified by not wanting to make her look weak or come clean. But Dain "my heart is a rulebook" Aetos does neither. And what does THAT do? It puts Vi in a vulnerable as hell position with someone she thinks she is safe with.

Even take the rebellion and Athebyne out if the equation for a sec. Vi almost certainly has memories that are just simply private. Not a massive secret, not a liability, just HERS. And for a huge part of the book, she is just letting Dain touch her face, potentially opening up memories she doesn't want him to know about to his signet. That is a power dynamic so absolutely fucky that I don't have words for it. And then we circle back to the reality that Dain did cross the line and try to take memories by force in Fourth Wing--and succeeding the one time we know about got Liam and Deigh killed. And this is just the main example that we know about. I'm not ruling out that there were other examples still to come to light; we have three books to go in this series.

I honestly also wouldn't have put it past Dain to do a quick memory check when he holds Vi's face at threshing before he kisses her (Fourth Wing, 191). He was NOT happy with Xaden for interfering, and I suspect he wanted a look at what happened without Xaden's input. This is purely my theory, there's no real textual evidence, but I am sus. He also cups her face again the day after threshing (Fourth Wing, 203), which is actively a worse choice I'd he slept on it and THEN checked her memories. I also find it wildly suspicious that the next time Vi sees Dain, she is with Tairn, who actively threatens Dains life if he comes within arm's reach of Vi (Fourth Wing, 215). We know Tairn knew things Vi didn't, so was he already preventing rebellion info from sliding to leadership?

Vi herself doesn't put a hard boundary on the face touching until Dain gets offended by Xaden accusing Amber of violating the codex and goes "gimme" (Fourth Wing, 244-245), but she sets it...for a while. The math on the Athebyne thing works out to Xaden telling Vi that's where he goes on page 391, and then Violet Goddamn Sorrengail gets nostalgic for Dain at the celebration with the king and everyone's parents and let's Dain cup her cheek again on page 405. Which is really goddamn tight timing when you think about it, because he touched her face at the beginning of this party, she and Xaden have their little tete a tete on the parapet, sneak off to have great sex for the rest of the night, and the next morning they are assigned to Athebyne. So Dain literally had to corner his Dad at the party and then Colonel Aetos probably spent the rest of the night changing the war game assignments and setting up Xaden's group to be killed.

Dain Aetos likes hard rules, but not ethics. This just gets even more screwy in Iron Flame, once Varrish gets his hooks in Vi.

If one wanted to be more generous than I'm feeling, one could say that Varrish was being polite about trying to get Dain to read Vi's memories in interrogation class (Iron Flame, 228-230), but honestly the motherfucker just saw an opportunity and rolled with it. And here is where Dain having the codex shoved far enough up his ass that it comes out his mouth is actually a win, because he rules-lawyered the spirit of the codex to refuse an order, but goddamn it was a close thing. This man was REACHING FOR VI'S FACE before he stopped himself.

I'm not like...surprised that Varrish isn't teaching our boy ethics, but I'm a little surprised Vi never called Dain's ass out for his lack of ethics regarding his signet. It's possible I read the Arrows of the Queen trilogy a few too many times though.

What Dain noticeably doesn't do the SECOND time Varrish drags him into an interrogation session with Violet is hesitate. Like he so fails to hesitate that VARRISH of all people has to remind Dain that he actually was taught ethics (Iron Flame, 316).

I think he deserves to experience everything Vi shows him, but the fact that it took THAT MUCH to get his head out of his ass? Yeah, no, we are not doing a Dain Aetos redemption arc.

Because when it comes right down to it, Dain was a) a shitty friend, b) absolutely godawful at ethics and morality, c) to married to rules for his own good, and d) knowingly put Violet in a vulnerable situation vis a vis his signet. Like...its a WAR COLLEGE. You're not running around touching people's faces on the regular anyway, just DONT. TOUCH. HER. FACE. Not before she knows about your signet at the very least, and probably not without her explicit consent after that, because here's the thing: at no point in Fourth Wing or Iron Flame did Dain EVER explicitly ask permission to touch Vi. He just DID it. Right from the beginning, after parapet, at threshing, and at the party, he just put hands on her without asking. And then in Iron Flame he's ordered to explicitly against her will, and as much as I love a good rescue, it does not excuse the massive ethical and consent breaches that have become a PATTERN with Dain.

So those are my thoughts about Dain, his signet, and ethics. All I can say is, I am still extremely not here for a Dain Aetos redemption arc.

[valaruakars]

We Have Chemistry (Together)

A bonus chapter/prequel oneshot for Let's Get Physical

Gen || Jayce & Viktor || 3.7k || Modern/College AU || Ao3 Link Tags: Baby frat boy Jayce, developing friendships, misunderstandings, emotional hurt/comfort (shitty), hazing, underage drinking (for us USAmericans), alternating POV, no Beef!Reader today sorry babes

Help is high on the list of what people typically want from Viktor. Usually in class. Sometimes in the elevator beforehand or in the hallway after, or following a light tap on the shoulder in the library. All academic help, strictly speaking. But this wasn't about their lab report.

Sweaty palms, shaky hands—he’s got one shot at this. One phone call. He knows the landline and his mom’s cell by heart, but he can’t call her. Can’t let her see him like this. Can’t think of who the hell else to call—who even memorizes phone numbers anymore?—so maybe he’d better get comfortable with sleeping upright and a permanent wedgie. There are worse things, like the disappointed purse of her lips; the way she sighs and bows her head and makes him wonder if it’s his fault her hair’s already shot through with gray.

Except.

Area code, same as the rest. Dorm number. Cait’s birthday.

He types it out. It looks as familiar on the screen now as the first time he saw that string of numbers, when the coincidences jumped out at him as the patterns in numbers always do. Enough to make an impression, apparently. Just like the person it belongs to.

Who, in all likelihood, won’t be thrilled about this.

But he decides then and there that he’s just desperate enough for normal underwear and his too-firm twin XL bed—and, fuck, there’s a quiz in materials performance first thing in the morning so he really needs the sleep—to hit call.

It rings three times. He feels a hot surge of nausea two in, the rising urge to puke into his purple foam hat. It’s bitter in his throat like those IPAs he didn’t want to drink in the first place, but he’s never been great with peer pressure.

And on the fourth, above the rustling:

“Hello?”

He sounds annoyed.

He usually sounds annoyed, but sometimes Jayce wonders if it’s all in his head, because Viktor’s voice softens when he explains the equations to the girl that sits next to him and snaps her gum too loud and misses every other class. He’s heard it gently ask the professor for a letter of recommendation in the hall after lecture, and lilt into the phone—in what? Russian?—on the bench outside before it. It’s only when Viktor’s talking to him, which is already rare, does it get quick and terse.

But maybe he hears it wrong half the time because there’s part of him that’s been intimidated since day one. That first day of class, when he’d taken the last seat at the front and stuck his hand out to the guy beside him. He was nervous. It felt like the right thing to do. But those egg-yolk eyes had ticked curtly from Jayce’s hand to the professor he’d just introduced himself to, with a detour to his crooked pink bow tie. Maybe it was a little much with the blazer and ironed slacks in sweltering August. And in hindsight, yeah, maybe shaking the professor’s hand and explaining how this class fit into his three year plan was definitely too much, but Jesus fucking Christ *was it also too much to just come out and call him egotistical *for it.

Without even shaking his hand! Who does that?

Really, he’s just trying to make this feel like a good idea. It’s not.

It’s also too late to back out. “Hey—Hi, yeah, it’s Jayce… Your lab partner. From chemistry?” He’s already started running his mouth.

“Ah. I realize.”

He wrings the hat in his lap. The iron-on stars are starting to peel off. Glitter flakes cling in the creases of his wet palms. It’s delusional, isn’t it, to imagine that Viktor doesn’t hate him.

Only with a deep breath can he get himself to say, “I know it’s late…”

“It is.”

“But I really need your help.”

—

Help is high on the list of what people typically want from Viktor.

It’s what he’s good for—all those questions along the lines of, ‘Did you do the homework?’ which means, ‘Can I copy it?’ (No.) Or, ‘Do you know what he’s talking about?’ which means, ‘Can you explain it like I’m five?’ (Yes, but try to keep up.) *Sometimes it’s, *‘Have you taken any of Heimer’s classes?’ which either means, ‘Can you give me the study guides?’ (There aren’t any.) or ‘Can you tutor me, but we somehow hook up and never speak of it again?’ (Depends.)

That’s usually in class. Sometimes in the elevator beforehand, or in the hallway after, or following a light tap on the shoulder in the library. All academic help, strictly speaking.

But this wasn’t about their lab report.

If anything, it should’ve been about their lab report. Because what else could Jayce Talis—who moved seats after the first day of class and made a face like a whipped animal when they were partnered for lab work last week, who pledged a fraternity (abhorrent) and has his pick of pretty friends—possibly want from him?

It feels as though he blinks and thirty five minutes of his life have just dissolved* since he hung up the call, so lost in theoreticals of *why *and *me that curiosity itself must’ve found his pants and his wallet and led him here by the hand. Rumpled, but fully clothed. This is novel and extremely necessary considering he’s standing in a squat, brutalist building at the front desk of campus security.

All because Jayce asked, ‘Can you come pick me up?’

And Viktor simply agreed.

There’s no bail, no paperwork, no real formality here. The only requirement to walk Jayce out is to be over the age of eighteen, and he clears that easily enough. The state ID he hands though the sliding glass window of reception says as much, but he still has to remind the campus cop who flips it over three times like there’s something confusing about it that it’s just as legitimate as a driver’s license, thank you.

“Time to go, Talis,” the man bellows, snapping Viktor’s ID onto the counter with thick fingers and no further acknowledgement. As he pockets it, a metal chair scrapes across the linoleum somewhere out of frame, behind a door with a decades old pin-punch lock.

“You’re a lucky one, kid,” the officer chuckles, deep and phlegmy with the sound of black lung. “If I hadn’t laughed so hard you’d be at county intake right now.”

“Do I… Um, do I need to sign something?” Jayce asks. His voice is world-weary more than ass-kissing.

“You want this on record?”

“No, sir.”

“Then there’s the exit.”

By that point, Viktor’s already tapping his way to it. Jayce will follow, and with his long legged stride, he will catch up easily. Probably to thank him with that performative politeness that drives him to say ma’am or sir *or to *shake the hands of strangers, and then they’ll go their separate ways after has Viktor served his purpose. Like whatever this was never happened.

Behind him, a hydraulic arm shrieks, the intake door claps shut, and Jayce whispers an apology to no one for rattling the lobby’s musty silence as Viktor pushes outside. The tepid night air rushing against his face, and because he’s not rude, he holds the door open for Jayce.

But Viktor gets stuck. Or maybe stunned. Perhaps it’s flummoxed, or even transfixed. There’s no one perfect word to describe why he’s stopped, blocking the door and staring, which is rude, but happens to him with enough regularity that he’s owed a pass or five, and he’s using one now.

He blinks.

Blinks again.

Once more, and yes, Jayce is still standing in the doorway clutching a cheap wizard hat in his hand and a child sized blanket around his body. It strains around the bulk of his arms, stretching, cracking the gold vinyl stars. It matches the purple beneath his eyes, complements the tawny red his face is turning, and does not, in fact, reach low enough to cover his too small speedo.

Or the knee high boots.

A cape, Viktor realizes. Not that he’s just eyed Jayce from top to bottom with enough scrutiny to notice that he’s unnaturally hairless and his thighs are ribbed with stretch marks, or that his own face is set in a hard frown like this is all somehow unsavory. (It’s… not. Definitely not.) No, Viktor simply notices that the starry patterned blanket has a collar, which makes it a cape.

And despite this revelation, the fact that Jayce is mostly naked remains unchanged.

‘Why’ is on the tip of his tongue. It usually is; its natural habitat is in his mouth. But Jayce’s eyes flit from Viktor’s down to his pointy toed boots, then back up again, and he preemptively explains, bitterly, “Nothing in the lost and found fit.” Which actually explains nothing.

Viktor nods as though he understands (he doesn’t), and forces himself to just start walking.

Jayce tails him down the sidewalk in uncomfortable silence. It’s when they pass the parking lot that Jayce picks up the pace, falling into stride side by side. The pieces fall into place too—late night, terrible costume, and now, the acerbic smell of stale beer wafting off him. Frat party.

It’s worse on Jayce’s breath. “So…” A tight, tried sort of impatience undercuts his attempt to sound casual. It’s familiar. Understandable, too, after sitting through a scared straight experience on a weeknight. “Where’d you park?” Jayce asks.

Lack of a car notwithstanding, the implication he’d ever be swindled out of eight hundred dollars a semester to park on campus is a joke. Not a laughable one. “I took the bus,” he flatly answers.

“Oh.”

For a moment, Viktor can ignore the palpable disappointment—that he is disappointing. He can even empathize with the situation. Riding public transit dressed like that isn’t exactly ideal. But then Jayce asks, “They run this late?”

“The city ones do.”

And then Jayce says, “It’s just… I don’t have any money.”

“They’re free to students.”

And then Jayce mutters, “Uh, cool. Good to know,” because he doesn’t have to know, has never had to know. And suddenly Viktor doesn’t feel so bad for him anymore, that he gets to learn tonight that need-based scholarships don’t buy cars or taxis, and that sometimes it’s slightly inconvenient when you fuck up. Perhaps that should be more obvious to someone who just lucked out with a slap on the wrist for flagrant underage drinking.

Except they stop and Jayce takes one look at the bus stop bench; notices—what is hopefully just—dried, congealed soda spilled across one side. He asks, “Do you want to sit?” because he’s ignorant, yes, but not the worst to ever live.

Viktor says, “No, thank you,” knowing what Jayce doesn’t: the bus schedule, and that up and down in short order won’t feel particularly good.

When it grinds to a halt at the curb two minutes later, Jayce pulls his student ID out of his boot and soldiers onboard with his head down. He collapses full bodied onto the seats running parallel down the center aisle the same way he'd collapsed on the bench outside: hunched over with his face in his hands. Luckily, people are sparse at this hour, and there is nobody sitting across from them. Unluckily, someone in the back laughs openly.

With so much space, Viktor leaves an open seat between them. It feels right. But in the awful fluorescence before the lights wink out, Jayce’s skin looks waxy and his shoulders rise and fall with the deep, intentional breaths, and Viktor is struck by how alone he is—how strange it is that he’s alone in this. Where are the drunk friends that should’ve been picked up with him, or the cavalry that should’ve pulled up in a dirty Jeep with Greek letters on the bumper to save him?

He sits up as the dark bus drives on, soberly tucking his cape and forearms over his stomach, and Viktor snatches his eyes away. It doesn’t add up—not really. Jayce* does not particularly like him*, and Jayce has other friends.

He should probably ask which dorm is Jayce’s or if he knows what stop to get off at, but he knows the right question now. “May I ask—?” Viktor tries.

Only to be shot down with a clipped, “No,” which is strange to be on the other side of, but he’ll learn nothing from it.

Viktor nods and sits back quietly, the plexiglass window cool against his skull. The vibrations ghost shifting patterns behind his eyes. The silence is filled with the rumble of the engine accelerating, and the time with drafting a polite, impersonal email in his head to request they not be partnered together in the future.

At the next stop, two people get off, and when the bus drives on the silence is different. It lacks the subtle undertone of whispers and snickering, of other passengers entirely. Viktor opens his eyes to find there’s no one else left but the driver with her headphones in.

“Okay, fine,” Jayce suddenly sighs, like he’s been holding his breath the whole time. “Ask.”

They don’t look at each other. Viktor watches the traffic light ahead tick to green out of the corner of his eye. “Why did you call me?”

Jayce leans back and groans, pained, into his hands. “No, about the outfit. You’re supposed to ask about the outfit, or the night, or how I got caught.” He pulls the tiny cape tightly around himself again. It doesn’t contain how badly he smells of pore-distilled alcohol and nervous sweat. “Any of those.”

He considers, briefly. “Explain the night, then.”

“I went to this pledge party…”

“On a Wednesday?” admonishes Viktor, who is known to stay out at the library until they banish him at close and sleeps the minimal amount to function most days of the week; who smokes and drinks and fucks enough for at least two frat boys, just in a wholly different context. Who is, sometimes, kind of a hypocrite.

“It’s Thursday now,” Jayce corrects as if it matters, stalling for seconds. “It was mandatory, okay?” He’s embarrassed, shrinking in his seat. “They had us drink, then confiscated our phones and gave us these costumes. I was supposed to do magic—” which explains the conical wizard hat, ”—but I wasn’t doing a good enough job, so I had to go out onto campus on a special errand,” he accentuates with limp, one handed air quotes, “to, uh, get something.”

“Is that not considered, eh…?” Viktor forgets the word. It doesn’t have much of a place in his vocabulary; was never really relevant during freshman year orientation.

“Yeah, it’s hazing, but it’s not a big deal,” Jayce snaps, filling it in defensively. He deflates just as quickly, resigning to his lot. “It’s just something that happens.”

But Viktor shrugs, “I see no benefit to the situation.” That’s putting it mildly. He’d rather amputate his own leg than be humiliated and told what to do. “Quit.”

This is, apparently, an offensive suggestion. “It’s—No, it’s about the connections.” Jayce is resolute. “Networking. Knowing the right people who can probably get me in the door at the places I want to be one day.”

One word stands out: “Probably?”

“It’s not exactly guaranteed, but if it means the odds are better…”Jayce is less resolute. Like he’s trying to convince himself, confidence in his own choices waxing and waning fretfully.

“And,” asks Viktor, “you think this is worth it?”

“I don’t know,” Jayce whispers in a small, scratchy, tired voice. He knows what this means. The heinous costume; risking his academic career; having to embarrass himself in front of a classmate he hardly knows or cares about. “I just… I thought it would make it easier to make friends, but I don’t want the whole *parties and drinking and girls and ‘haha, isn’t it funny I failed that test?’ *experience.” For a moment he looks like he wants to put his face into the hat in his lap and scream. Instead, he pinches his eyes shut. “They pushed me harder than anyone else tonight, because they know I don’t belong. My grades just bring up their stupid academic average.”

Viktor doesn’t know what to say. It’s not uncommon, this helpless sensation of floundering when confided in, when faced with the enormity of things outside his ability to change or control. He didn’t know what to say when the girl he was tutoring last year told him she lost her scholarship, or when he caught Heimerdinger’s last TA sitting shell shocked on the bathroom floor after finding out their partner cheated. He didn’t know what to say when his mother told him babička wanted to go home home to die (she’s fine, just dramatic and bitter about getting old), or when she saw him changing his shirt while they were packing up the apartment and cried for how she failed him (she didn’t).

He does know that saying I’m sorry never feels right. That it’s empty, and nobody really feels better hearing it. But Jayce is smart and attractive and also, perhaps, just dramatic too. He belongs somewhere, even if he hasn’t found that place yet. “How valuable could these, eh, connections with stupid people be, hm?”

“I mean,” Jayce mutters, “it’s not that they’re stupid—”

“Don’t argue. I’m aware of nepotism and how it functions,” Viktor huffs, tempered by Jayce’s soft laugh of the same quality. “There are always other avenues to get what or where you want. Find them. Your time is better spent than,” he gestures broadly, “on this.”

“Yeah…” Jayce nods. It’s a kinder resignation this time. The troubled creases in his face start to ease away. “Okay.”

Cars pass. Silence settles, strange in that it’s easy. Or, it starts to. But Jayce takes a breath. Hesitates. Takes another one that turns into, “There was no one I could call.” He crosses his legs. Uncrosses them again. Can’t get comfortable with himself or the admission:* *“Not because they took my phone, there just isn’t anyone else.”

“Your friends?”

“Still in high school, and she’s not even old enough to drive yet.” He finds himself on the receiving end of a curious stare, and gets the why of it wrong. “It’s not like that, I swear,” he cringes. “She’s a lesbian, Viktor.” Which is all fine and good, but has nothing to do with why Jayce is speaking in singular. He asked about the plural.

“Your roommate?” he tries.

“Dropped out two weeks ago, and please don’t suggest my mom next.” Jayce rolls his eyes, and they don’t find their way back. He stares off, down at the floor, canting his head away. There’s glitter in his hair. “Trust me on this. It’s not like I wanted someone who hates me but has an oddly memorable phone number to be my one phone call tonight.”

He would’ve been allowed multiple phone calls is the first thing that Viktor thinks. The second: “I don’t dislike you.”

Another eye roll. “You gave me a look.”

“I look at plenty of people,” Viktor hand waves.

“No, a look,” he insists. “It was this ‘if we were in a Russian prison right now, I would shank you’ kind of look.” Viktor narrows his eyes, so he specifies, “When we got assigned in lab?”

“Why,” Viktor asks slowly, “is the prison Russian in this scenario?”

“Because you’re—”

“No. Do not finish that sentence.” Wildly rude and too common of an assumption, but, “In the spirit of forgiveness, I will let that slide,” he holds up a slender finger, “once.” Jayce mouths sorry as Viktor considers the sort of look his face is being accused of. “I…” But he only remembers reading the clear disappointment on Jayce’s. “Was probably thinking about something at the time,” Viktor shrugs.

“How much you wish I’d switch majors?”

“Mm, no. It was the end of class, so probably how much homework I could accomplish before work study, or how late to my next class I could reasonably be if I showed up with coffee from the dining hall.”

“Yeah, but…” He pivots in his seat. His thighs squeak on the plastic. “But you still called me egotistical on the first day of class!”

Yes, when Jayce made a painful show of ingratiating himself to the professor before class. Jayce throws that in his face like some sort of gotcha; in reality, it ranks one of his top ten social failures. “It was a question.” He was simply asking if, in hindsight, the action could be misconstrued as egotistical. “Not a criticism.”

But Jayce scoffs, “How was I supposed to think that when you wouldn’t even shake my hand?”

“It was stuck.” Viktor lifts up his right hand. Empty, but the cane still comes with it, dangling where it’s looped around his wrist. “You took yours away before I could get it out of the strap.”

“But I didn’t know yet that you—” Jayce scrubs his hand down his face, quiet until he whispers a revelatory, “Fuck.” Then a slightly hysterical, breathy, “Fuck,” and he’s smiling, gap-toothed and too brilliant for the lateness of hour.

“Eh, still a weird thing to do, though,” Viktor shrugs. He’s smiling a little too. It’s a private, wry thing. It’s a start.

And by the time they finish, on the other side of campus, on a sidewalk, at a bus stop much like the one they came from, things are very different.

For instance, Jayce has put the horrible wizard hat on. Ironically, of course.

They meander past the library, its windows tall and dark, cutting across the quad in front of it toward the residence halls. “What was your special errand, anyhow?” Viktor asks. “You never said. I’m curious.”

“Yeah, well, I’m trying to forget the horrors. Y’know, of getting caught trying to break into a building with my entire ass out,” he says sheepishly, catching the hat as it starts to slip. It’s not his entire ass. Only about eighty five percent. “I had to borrow something.”

There’s a word he’s avoiding. “What, exactly, were you trying to steal?”

“Borrow,” Jayce counters. “There’s this paperweight in Heimer’s office. Looks kind of like chalcedony, but it does have these faint striations, so I think it might be agate—

“I’m familiar.”

“Anyways, that. I was supposed to get that. Probably because it was impossible.”

“Mm, no, not impossible,” Viktor hums. “You should’ve called me sooner,” he says, dragging a carabiner from his pocket, stripped of paint and utterly ancient. When he holds it up, the street lights catch on tens of little metal teeth. “I have the key.”

[seeingteacupsindragons]

Thinking about William again (what else) and his flair for the dramatic, and I just really love how it’s done. So often in fiction, things will be dramatic for drama sake, because fiction is drama, and things with drama have more emotional weight to them. It’s…it’s what “Drama” is.

But in Yuukoku no Moriarty, William is not just dramatic because the confines of being a fictional character demand him to be dramatic at times. William is dramatic because he is dramatic.

He knows he is reenacting Shakespeare’s play as a child. He knows he is orchestrating a ridiculous farce and that it will make the best story if he does things the way he does. He knows plays and has them memorized.

He outright compares his Plan to a play and the people in it to characters and roles. He discusses things in terms of plot and story structure: and he does so openly. It’s not even as an authorial mouthpiece. It’s not tongue in cheek. It doesn’t break the fourth wall. It’s what he himself in the story itself is attempting, directly. It’s the way he thinks of his own actions and his own plans.

He is over the top and exciting to watch because he knows it will attract the attention he wants to what he is doing. He is playing with it and aware the entire time of this aspect of what he is doing (and possibly his personality, although I’m not sure he realized it was his personality and not a requirement for his goals).

It’s such an integral part of him to so many aspects. It comes out in the way he talks about things and thinks about things. It comes out in the things he’s read and quotes. It comes out in how he arranges things, and not only how he plans, but what he plans. It’s obviously intentional rather than a silly byproduct of existing in his story. It’s who he is, and who the author wrote him to be.

And it’s so interesting that a trait that could be one note or nothing at all really ends up permeating all the layers of his character and is shown in so many ways: William loves theatre. William loves drama. William loves fiction.

He also loves math, and math also changes the way he thinks about things and plans things and what he plans, what he's read and what he quotes. The way he thinks is ordered around the way fiction works, but also the way math works.

It's easy, you know, to keep a character trait confined to one part of them or one or two specific things they do. But Liam's aren't containable that way: they define him. And instead of trying to deepen his character by throwing in a different hobby or something, the authors simply took his personality traits necessary for the story and bled them through every part of him until they can't be cut out from his fundamental self.

It's a very different kind of character generation than a lot of people attempt, but I think it's one I tend to like more.

Liam is a freaking menace Shakespeare fanboy with theatre brain rot. Liam is a freaking menace mathematician with an obsession for balancing equations and counting numbers and sins.

And we love him.

[t00thpasteface]

I forgot if I've already asked you this question, but who is your number one favorite Fictional Antagonist from Media? Rules are as follows; feel free to ignore:

If you want to choose a recurring villain like Bowser or The Joker, you have to choose a particular incarnation of this character. Like Alan Moore's Joker or Paper Mario 64's Bowser.

Specific Characters/Entities Only. You can't say, "Haunted Houses that aren't haunted by, like, a single ghost or anything in particular" like my mom wanted to. She settled firmly on "The Overlook Hotel" and she's a stronger person for it.

Villainous Duos like Boris & Natasha are accepted.

People have a hard time picking a #1, so you're allowed to list as many runner-ups as you like. Listen to your heart.

Protagonists who are their own worst enemies don't count!

Villainous characters who are protagonists in their story are very begrudgingly accepted. Whether or not George Costanza (A Villainous Protagonist) or Detective Columbo (A Heroic Antagonist) count is beyond the scope of this paper.

Thank you for your time!

hmmmm!! that's a really interesting question to chew on actually.

i'm not usually drawn to villains or villain-driven stories, outside of games that necessitate it as a gameplay mechanic or genre staple a la mario games or your standard JRPGs. and i wouldn't call a glorified game mechanic a character if they really don't do much besides throw barrels at the player to jump over. porky and giygas are exceptions but honestly not much; they aren't very complicated characters, even though they're snappily written, and most of where they shine is just the fact that they're one well-placed load-bearing piece in a larger cohesive narrative. they don't really capture my attention outside of their gameplay role.

i'm overall much more compelled by Romantic with a capital R stories about internal, oftentimes more abstracted struggles. i mean, i don't have to tell you that my favorite books EVER are "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea" and "The Great Gatsby," both of which play with deuteragonists as foils to the narrator that inevitably spiral and leave the reader with something of a thought exercise regarding the intersection of nature versus nurture, intent versus action, past versus future, et cetera. the characters themselves are symbolic of sociological concepts so much larger than themselves, and because of that, they can't truly be classified into "hero" or "villian", because the topics those books grapple with are so incredibly messy and morally-fuzzy that the characters who exemplify them must reflect that same complexity and nuance.

as soon as a story starts to veer towards "all our problems are caused by One Guy who we can remove from the equation forever," it usually loses me, or if nothing else it just makes me zone out when the villain and his evil army of doom is on screen until we're back to introspective character-building moments between the protags, deuterags, etc. i'm the boring guy who likes slow, dialogue-driven things more than flashy show tunes.

ALL THAT BEING SAID......

villains really only shine (for me) if they're funny as fuck. that's the one way they can really get my attention as a character that has, by definition, been written into a unilaterally negative role that must be booed. they get to be FUNNY! and they get to be my favorite kind of funny: insane slapstick funny. i like seeing cartoony villains get absolutely pulverized, thrown around like wet dishrags, set on fire, flung off cliffs, you name it. the zanier the better. so here's my own elite 4 in ascending order:

fourth is 2012 avengers movie Loki. very hammy, very showy, extremely puncheable face, and he takes SO much physical punishment and writhes like a worm the whole time. super fun.

third is pokemon's Archie. emerald is my favorite game but archie SHINES in alpha sapphire. he's such a huge personality and he takes hits with a smile. and then he gets a big fuzzy redemption at the end because this is a game for kids, but even that is so over-the-top cornball that i just laugh and smile the whole time instead of rolling my eyes. a good wholesome time was had by all.

second is Mr. Burns in the simpsons. let me preface this by saying i really don't watch anything after, ehhhh, i'd say season 8 or 9, because that's about where my box sets ended growing up. any episode where Mr. Burns gets some slapstick gags about his incredibly frail body that runs on pure evil is a good episode. i especially love "the springfield files," "homer the smithers," "homer at the bat," and "who shot mr burns" parts 1 and 2.

and my favorite is undoubtedly Sheldon J. Plankton. similar situation as simpsons; i don't watch anything after seasons 1-3 and the first movie. he commands every single scene he's in, which is especially impressive given that he's literally just a single tiny copepod. he's got the best villain laugh EVER. he's even a delight in the game "battle for bikini bottom"... you GOTTA check out BFBB Rehydrated if you like the spirit and snark of the early seasons. i love him in "walking small," "F.U.N.," "the algae's always greener," and of course, the movie. he's evil! he's diabolical!! he's LEMON SCENTED!!!!