#because there’s no actual monologue/dialogue

[starsapphire]

re: prev ask and tim's foot-in-mouth syndrome — i think people make too much out of tim's "it was terrible for me to see your parents die" monologue in alpod because like, yeah it was objectively a little tactless, but the scene is written so bluntly and gravely because marv wolfman was trying to impress upon the reader just how profound an impact the graysons' death made on tim, and how this defines his character; he did this by way of having tim try to impress upon dick how much of an impression the event made on him.

and the thing is, tim isn't just saying this unprompted. he is very much thinking about how even discussing the story will cause dick pain! he literally tells dick he doesn't want to tell him the story because it will hurt him. dick is the one who insists that tim tell him the entire story, and tim still apologizes to dick both before and after he does so:

a lot of people also seem to believe that tim said something along the lines of ''watching your parents die was the worst thing that ever happened to me'' which. is absolutely not what he said. he never centres his own feelings on the event, and he never implies that it was worse for him than for dick. he only said that — understandably — it was frightening and he had nightmares about it:

and also like. what was tim supposed to say instead of "it gave me nightmares"? what do you want him to say here. "oh yeah my first memory was watching your beloved parents fall to their brutal deaths. but it didn't affect me at all and i actually never cared" ???? come on now

the most objectively tactless or foot-in-mouth line tim has in this entire scene is "my parents [...] forgot all about it [...] but for years i kept having having the same nightmare over and over again." and of course we can argue that it was tasteless for tim to essentially be saying he had imagined himself, somewhat positively, in dick's shoes — but again, this was really wolfman using the medium of character dialogue to emphasize that tim idolizes dick! this entire arc is tim's character introduction; there are multiple instances where the "logical" line is altered in favour of exposition and backstory. wolfman is balancing dialogue with the need to introduce tim drake instead of just having it blandly written out in one long block of third-person text.

all this to say, tim drake absolutely Does have an issue with putting his foot directly into his mouth as a kid, but his backstory scene in a lonely place of dying is not at all a good example of this. luckily there are many others. always remember to be accurate with your tim drake hate

[poorlydrawndirk]

We're on air.

More precisely, I was on air when I recorded this, but the details are largely irrelevant. Because I don't really feel like covering fuckin' introductory quantum mechanics and telling you exactly how the influence of the Skaian universe, when applied at the quark level and taken alongside the probabilistic effect of quantum behavior, superposes via particle states and results in the formation of what you might refer to as "overlapping timelines". And that's already getting real abecedarian about this shit.

Yeah, sue me. Try boning up on basic physics while you're at it.

So. I'm sure you'd love to hear about how I managed to rig this sick as hell channel-cum-blog up and get it to straddle the space-time continuum like an antediluvian Olympic gymnast doing mad splits over baby's first toy pony, but that ain't the point of this little exercise. Posting what's effectively a vlog is enough of an onanistic venture without adding Skaian Principles For Dummies: Electric Boogaloo to the schedule.

Where was I?

(Rhetorical question. Don't answer, if it needed to be said.)

The name's Dirk.

Strider. Yeah, that Strider.

I'd be more worried about internet safety, but seeing as there are only up to two people alive around here no matter how far you pull my timeline back, and I'm one of 'em, it doesn't exactly compute. Face it, brosephine: you aren't getting to year 24xx post-hilarocaust, and you sure aren't getting past that. Wasn't shat out of a lab yet when you were committing identity theft and scamming doddering old ladies out of their sadsack pensions.

(If you manage to get pizza delivered out here, I'll tip extra.)

Besides, you already knew my name, didn't you?

Maybe your next question's going to be:

"Why are you calling this a vlog when it's obviously just a blog?"

Or maybe,

"Why is your URL poorlydrawndirk when it's totally malapropos?"

Buckle in, kids. Strap yourself into that convertible toddler-safe harness and keep your ass glued tight to all the prime polyester-lined foam, because this ride's about to pull into the station and vehicular standards are some passé 21st century horseshit.

The first thing you have to understand is that even peering upon the brink of these echelons of irony is a skill that you'll never grasp in your life. But that's fine. I'm around. And if it puts your mind at ease,

I'll be the one pulling the strings here.

(There's the tired callback. It's not wrong, but it's tired. Worn out enough for it to be begging you to take it out back behind the shed and put it out of its misery.)

(I'll leave it at that for now, because self-referencing is one thing, but if I get any more meta, I'll have to start narrating in twelve-point Times New Roman.)

Anyway, I'll be breaking it down, just this once. Magnanimous as hell, I know. I could wax poetic and in doing so obfuscate the actual meaning once more from obtuse minds, thereby adding another strata to irony so layered that it's settled past sedimentary and is ready to unearth some fossil formations, but let's be real. That shit would fly over your head so far it'd be trying to dial ground control at Houston.

Here we go.

Vlogs aren't cool; making one ironically is.

Putting in this much effort into making a multiversal vlog makes it cooler, ironically.

Putting in this much effort to make a multiversal vlog when the doomed timelines are all inherently fuckin' doomed, as the name implies, and therefore functionally useless to communicate with, makes it more ironic.

I have Heart powers and am able to achieve my ultimate self through my alpha timeline. Therefore, not only is this pimped-out vlog functionally useless, but I actually don't need it at all.

Which means this wasn't too hard to set up to begin with. Ironic, considering the complex presupposed conditions necessary for bridging that 'verse gap.

And despite framing this as a vlog, this is obviously a blog.

Even though it's just a blog, all these drawings I've made had you convinced that I really thought I was posting a vlog.

And in a way, I'm still making one. It ain't the traditional format, but the almost videographic mannerisms I've been laying on you more than compensate for the fact that the video part of "vlog" doesn't exist.

Except it does, for me.

And because it does, none of these pictures are drawn to begin with. They're all film stills. Screenshots, if you prefer.

Which makes the qualifier of "poorly drawn" untrue.

But it's also almost true, because you can call them poorly drawn by virtue of them not even being drawn. Ride that definition of "poorly" down the one-way rail and you're here, selfie central, population two, me and you.

Of course, that means we have to cover the quandary of truth itself. What constitutes the truth? Titillate that thought for a second.

If I consider the attached files to be selfies, but you consider them to be illustrations, which is it actually?

An analysis of the "truth" means that we have to start delineating how much of this is subjective, tying us in bed with the concept of knowledge. The Socratic take calls for dialectical conversation and inquiry via questioning; therefore, if I just bequeath my knowledge to you on a pretty little metaphorical platter, it won't mean fuckall. So we have to keep digging. Get your pickaxe ready, 'cause we ain't hitting any diamonds of wisdom any time soon.

In fact, maybe that ain't the right direction. Flip it turnways. We gotta climb a li'l higher for what we need.

Maybe we gotta head to the roof.

now. brought cal.

where making this HAPEN.

Haha.

Just fuckin' with you.

Welcome to my blog, dude.

Want water? Imagine I got you a nice, chilled glass.

Let's get this parasocial relationship pumping.

Questions? Concerns? Misguided pseudo-parental queries about whether or not it's safe for your pipsqueak to be exposed to a full dose of radically Stridered bullshit?

Cool.

Make it all three and drop it in the asks, yeah?

[bombusbombus]

People will say "I love it when you talk about your interests! Go ahead!" And then go radio silent for the next 4 hours

[light-wrath-paradise]

We got another one, lads!

Also I have both the PDF and the audiobook on my Google Drive and I'm more than willing to send you the link.

P.S. if you DO end up reading it, I gotta warn you that the ending sucks. It's no good at all. Imho it renders a whole character completely pointless and massacres like 2 separate themes of the book at once. Literally just because of 5 or so sentences. Personally I like to just ignore those specific sentences and pretend that that particular plot twist did not happen. Because here's the fun part: in the terms of the literal plot, the plot twist is totally pointless. It works perfectly fine without it. If you erase those 5 sentences literally nothing changes. The only thing that changes is the thematic level of the work and it changes for the worse. A parallel just fucking gone. A character is there for no fucking reason now. A whole character arc might as well have not happened. Like two whole themes go up in flames. Several scenes begin to make no sense at all.

Oh also every time someone I know reads it, they make me aware that I forgot to warn them about a fatphobic scene at the start of the book. I keep erasing it from my memory and that's why I keep forgetting to warn people. But I'm warning you about it now. It's there and it sucks.

Other than that I really recommend the book. King wrote it in two or so weeks while having stomach flu and it shows (positive).

enough about the eroticism of cannibalism what about the eroticism of parasitism. this is our body because i live in you.

[shiroselia]

This is spoilering what I'm doing with my fanfic A Quintessential Jorvegian Summer Vacation, like legit what the entire point is, so if u somehow care about spoilers for that, don't click the read more, alright

Centeris' post about Elizabeth's death being fucking meaningless reminded me once again of why I love joking that I'm better than SSE cause while I started QuintSum completely on a whim because Zelda awakened some Mad rattlesnakes in me. That's one of the main reasons I'm committing. Elizabeth is going to become a main character as it stands, she already Is at the point where I'm writing (I'm in the mid 50s writing wise, I just published chapter 15, if you wonder why I still publish once every week it's to allow myself the space to breathe, and to actually utilise the backlog I've got), and it's just so fucking nice to know that I'm going to do what SSE failed at.

I'm not saying that because I'm doing it because I love showing SSE up because that's just the joke that spawns from it. The entire reason I do it is because I fucking hate Elizabeth's death and think it's shit. It exists entirely because nobody expected SSE to do it and they definitely knew that and it's Entirely held up by the player's amount of care. The only reason Elizabeth's death was "good" was because nobody expected it and SSE had never done something so bold before when it dropped, and Liz had existed in the game for like 8-9 years by that point so the older players Cared. But newer players sure as fuck don't because Elizabeth isn't a character and the most interesting part of her character (her backstory) only gets revealed post-death and is arguably weakened because SSE just do not know how to write stories (read: Wynna). And I've always been excessively fucking petty about it, so now that I'm making a main story rewrite fic I'm putting my money where my mouth is and making Elizabeth's death what it was always supposed to be.

Worth it.

(Also I say this as someone who Knows my writing is good, that doesn't mean you have to agree. My writing style especially is Incredibly niche and different and I know it's not for everyone, that also goes for what I'm doing with the story. I believe in it, I like it, and I don't sell myself short. That doesn't mean you have to agree on how much stock I've got tho lmao it's fine if u don't give a shit it exists Purely for me and that's why I make choices I inherently believe very strongly in.)

[homunculus-argument]

A video game where you can move the camera POV around in the cutscenes, but it impacts the gameplay somewhat. If you keep looking at things other than the thing happening at the scene, you might not get the information you needed from the scene, and later on the dialogue options feature you asking about them instead of talking about the things you should have seen, and the NPCs may respond negatively to the fact that you evidently weren't paying attention to the Huge Fucking Demon Explosion because you were too busy looking at a bug.

You might actually die if you get distracted and wiggle the camera too much during certain cutscenes - if you look around too much during the villain's monologue, they'll go LOOK AT ME WHEN I'M FUCKING TALKING TO YOU and just start beating you instead of continuing to ramble through their speech.

[morallysuperiorlips]

10 Ways to Ensure Your Villain's Evil Monologuing Dialogue is as Unsettling as Possible!

1.) Make sure you're mixing body language with the words themselves: You can have your villain saying the most twisted shit, but if they're just standing there like a cardboard cutout, their words probably aren't going to hit as hard. Have them touch your protag. Have them toy with a weapon as if they're going to use it. Have them pace. Have them put together the blood ritual they're ranting about. Keep them moving.

2.) Have them use personal knowledge as a tool: Does your villain have some deep dark dirt on your protag? Don't let that all go in one swoop. Let them hint at it in drops before they open the dam. Maybe they use that knowledge as a bargaining tool to get an upper hand, or use it to send the trapped protag into a frenzy because they love to watch them scream.

3.) When it comes to threats, certainty is key: A threat is a threat, but there's nothing like a threat being spoken as if the villain knows it's going to happen. Whether your villain has already caught your protag, or is in the process of doing so, everything they say they want to see happen to your protag needs to come with absolute certainty. Almost as if it's a certain warning, and not just something they’re saying to be scary.

4.) Contradictions are your friend: Nothing indicates a warped villainous mind more than some juicy contradictions. Your villain might be talking about how they're going to flay your protag's hide after catching them in their dungeon, only to throw in a subtle "but, you're probably safer here with me." Find ways to toss in twisted contradictions that also underline the crazy shit they might be saying.

5.) Mess with syntax: Unsettling dialogue calls for unsettling structure. Incomplete sentences, unforeseen pauses, longwinded explanations broken up by more unforeseen pauses. Whatever it is, keep the rhythm offbeat. Don't give your reader a chance to be able to tell what's coming.

6.) Expectations? Subvert those: Your protag and even your readers might be suspecting one thing from your villain, so throw them a curveball and hit them with the complete opposite. Perhaps you've reached a point in your story where it seems like the villain might kill your protag on sight. But no, have your villain mention exactly why they aren't going to do that, and why they want to wait it out.

7.) Mix quiet confidence and loud assertion: Some might say that the silent seether is scarier, while others might agree that the sudden explosive type takes the bigger unsettling prize. In my opinion, you can really capitalize on the eeriness of villain dialogue by tapping into both. A villain that speaks on with refined confidence before very suddenly exploding, without much warning, can really power up the dread behind their words.

8.) Sometimes, ambiguity is better than being straightforward: Whether it's obvious that your villain has a lot of tricks up their sleeves--or not--leaving things to the imaginations of your protag, and subsequently, your readers is great for building dread. You can use dialogue to make it clear that they're up to something, but never make them fully disclose what that is. They might show it instead of tell it, or it might just never happen. Either way, it'll likely have everyone looking over their shoulders.

9.) There might be times where silence says everything: You might be worried about penning the correct verbiage for your villain's big evil speech, but sometimes, silence speaks wonders. When used correctly, a long pause, or a bout of silence after your protag has said their piece can build a sense of uneasiness more than them actually speaking would have.

10.) Find ways for your villain to mirror the hero: A monologuing villain is better when they're throwing your hero's values and beliefs back in their face. A hero that believes in mercy? Well, have your villain talk about how they'll make them beg for it. A hero that believes in the greater good? Have your villain talk about their idea of a greater good.

As always, GO WRITE SOMETHING TODAY! <3

[elala36]

Okay but what if I actually wake up there tomorrow?

“Yeah no girl I don’t think you will-“ shut up inner elala.

Like bro, I’ll be there, I’ll see THEM, I’ll see HIM.

I know this is gonna sound corny and stupid but what I’m feeling is the same excitement that I felt before my first play (yes I do acting in this reality).

It’s like knowing what’s going to happen, but this time is different because there’s going to be an audience right? Because it’s going to be real, and you can’t back down anymore, maybe you’ll forget that one line of dialogue or you’ll have to improvise some words of that one monologue, but it still feels amazing to know you’re there.

“Yeah no don’t get your hopes up-“

IDC BRO, ILL SHIFT. THIS IS GUARANTEED.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

[foreveia]

take two ⤨ iwaizumi hajime

⨭ genre; fluff, idiots to lovers but like they're actually so dumb

⨭ pairing; iwaizumi x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 5.7k

⨭ descriptions; your boss has been trying to set you up with her son for months, but as it turns out at the holiday party... you've already met him before.

⨭ warnings; explicit language and dialogue, no graphic content tho, alcohol

⨭ a/n; fun little short fic to fill the fix to publish something lolol enjoy this iwa love dump as i work on my next long fic (tell me in the comments if y'all like these better)

song i listened to writing this: 'hold your breath' by chase atlantic

one.

There are exactly three things you know to be true about Iwaizumi Emi:

She is the best divorce attorney in Tohoku, possibly the country.

She is the kind of woman who could negotiate her way out of murder charges and secure the victim’s house in the settlement.

She is, without a doubt, trying to set you up with her son.

You respect her. You admire her. You are, on occasion, lowkey terrified of her.

Which is why you’re currently sitting at your desk, nodding at all the appropriate intervals while she breezes through yet another pitch about why her son and you are, in her professional opinion, a perfect match.

“He’s back from Irvine for the summer,” she says, skimming a property settlement document like it personally offended her. She tosses it onto your pile nonchalantly, and you let out a short sigh because it’s just more backend filing to do and, despite your adoration for your career path and real passion towards legal work, entry jobs in the firm are mostly busy work. “I really think you’ll like him. He’s—”

You tune out. Not in an obvious way, of course—no, you’re a professional. You sprinkle in the occasional mmhmm and sounds great so she doesn’t catch on, but this isn’t your first rodeo. You’ve heard this pitch before—multiple times. Hajime is intelligent, responsible, not an idiot like some of these men out here, blah blah blah.

It’s not that you have anything against him, really. It’s just that you’ve spent months perfecting the art of dodging your boss’s matchmaking attempts, and frankly, you don’t have the energy to entertain her latest scheme.

“You’re finally going to meet him at the firm’s ball this weekend,” Emi continues, finally looking up from her paperwork, her smile entirely too satisfied.

You blink. “Oh.”

“He’s excited to meet you too.”

Now that is new. Usually, these monologues are strictly one-sided—I told him about you! and You two will get along so well! But he’s excited to meet you too? That’s an escalation. That’s a game-changer. That means he knows about you. He has an opinion about you.

You resist the urge to groan. Instead, you summon a polite, professional smile—the same one you use when dealing with particularly insufferable clients. “Looking forward to it,” you say, because what else are you supposed to say to the woman who could single-handedly end your career if she wanted to?

In reality, the only thing you’re looking forward to about the ball is the open bar. Being in your early twenties means being woefully broke, and you’d be lying if you said the thought of unlimited free alcohol wasn’t a strong motivator.

So, you strike a deal with yourself: you’ll put on a fancy dress, endure painful heels, and let Emi parade you in front of her son like a prize show poodle—all in exchange for an endless supply of pinot noir, cocktail shrimp, and, if you play your cards right, an entire bottle of champagne to sneak home in your purse.

It’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make.

two.

Because you’re an adult with an absolutely thriving social life (read: you have two friends who are willing to tolerate your bullshit after 6 PM), you, Yachi, and Kiyoko are now seated at your favorite little izakaya, wedged into a corner booth with plates of karaage and a pitcher of beer between you. 

Kiyoko is talking about wedding venues. Because she’s engaged. To Tanaka. Which is objectively insane because in your head, they’re still in that “grossly obsessed with each other but pretending they’re just friends” phase, even though they’ve been together for years. The whole thing is a crime against single people everywhere, but you are supportive because your already jaw-dropping friend is somehow glowing even brighter now that she has a fat rock on her ring finger. She looks lighter, happier. She deserves it.

Yachi, meanwhile, is explaining—between delicate sips of her beer—that she’s too swamped with work to even think about dating. Which, yeah. Fair. The woman works harder than most people you know, so you respect it.

Then, as the conversation naturally shifts to your love life (as it always does, because you’re the group’s designated mess), you sigh, sinking into your seat dramatically.

“I haven’t had sex in months.”

There’s a beat of silence before Kiyoko and Yachi both roll their eyes in unison, like they rehearsed it.

“Oh my God,” Yachi mutters.

“You cannot still be caught up on GDD,” Kiyoko says flatly, pouring herself another drink.

“Okay, first of all,” you say, holding up a finger, “it is not about him. It’s just a general fact about my current state of being.”

“Uh-huh,” Kiyoko hums, entirely unconvinced.

“Second of all,” you continue, undeterred, “GDD was life-changing, and I feel like I should be allowed to mourn the lack of that level of—of excellence in my life.”

“Life-changing,” Yachi repeats, deadpan. “You hooked up with him once.”

“Yeah, and my life was changed.”

GDD—Good Dick Dude, as he has been dubbed by your dear, unsupportive friends—was a guy you hooked up with in January after a truly legendary New Year’s Eve party.

The night itself had been pure chaos. Hinata had somehow scored an invite to this insane rooftop party—one of those bougie, exclusive, if-you-know-you-know events where you absolutely do not belong but somehow manage to fake it enough to get through the door. He’d gotten a few plus-ones, which is how you ended up there, sipping champagne you definitely couldn’t afford and making out with a guy who, to this day, remains one of the most mind-blowing hookups of your entire life.

Gorgeous, buff, and dangerous with his hands. The kind of guy who knew exactly what he was doing, which, honestly? A rarity these days. You barely remember his name—something short, easy to moan—but you do remember his stupidly perfect smirk and the way he all but ruined you against the nearest flat surface.

But then the party ended, the night faded into a haze, and you never saw him again.

Which is fine. It’s fine. Really.

You’re definitely not still thinking about it.

Kiyoko takes a sip of her beer, unimpressed. “You’ve been on, what? Five Hinge dates since then? Six?”

“Seven,” Yachi corrects.

You point at her. “Exactly.”

Kiyoko gives you a long, slow blink.

“I mean that as proof that I am not hung up on him!” you clarify. “I’ve been trying, okay? But the bar is in hell. Do you know how many ‘we should get drinks’ texts I get from guys who put crypto investor in their bios?”

Kiyoko sighs. “Okay, but let’s be real—are you actually giving any of these guys a chance?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Frown. “I mean… like… conceptually?”

“Right.”

Yachi, forever gentle but devastatingly perceptive, tilts her head at you. “Is it possible,” she says carefully, “that maybe none of these guys are measuring up because you’re subconsciously comparing them to him?”

You scoff. “That’s ridiculous.”

Is it ridiculous?

Because, okay, maybe—just maybe—no one has quite lived up to that night. And maybe you’re being a little unfair to the dating pool by expecting every single guy to have that same kind of chemistry with you. And maybe you do occasionally find yourself staring at random ceilings, wondering where GDD is now and if he even remembers you.

But still. That doesn’t mean anything.

You’re pretty sure.

“I hate you guys,” you grumble, stabbing aggressively at a piece of karaage.

Yachi pats your hand sympathetically. “We know.”

Kiyoko, ever the queen of smooth topic transitions, nudges the conversation in a new direction. “Speaking of your questionable taste in men, your boss is still trying to set you up with her son, correct?”

You groan, letting your head fall back against the booth. “Unfortunately, yes. And now, apparently, he’s excited to meet me.”

Yachi perks up. “Wait, so you are meeting him?”

“At the firm’s ball this weekend,” you say, waving a hand. “It’s fine. I’ll get a little wine drunk, take advantage of the seafood bar.”

Kiyoko raises an eyebrow. “So, you’re not going to entertain the idea of this Hajime guy at all?”

You scoff. “Absolutely not.”

Yachi hums, tilting her head in that way she does when she’s about to say something devastatingly reasonable. “I mean… what if Emi’s right?”

You blink. “What?”

“What if this is it?” she says, half-teasing, half-genuinely curious. “Like, what if you meet him and he’s actually your soulmate? Imagine if this whole time, your boss has been playing the long game, orchestrating your love story like some kind of corporate fairy godmother.”

You snort. Loudly. “Right. Because that’s totally my luck.”

Kiyoko and Yachi exchange a knowing look, but they let it go.

You take another sip of your beer, shaking your head. Hajime Iwaizumi—whoever he is—is not the love of your life.

That would be insane.

three.

You had to pull out your graduate school formal gown from the back of your closet for this, but wow, you really forgot just how good you look in red.

Your day-to-day work attire consists of pantsuits and button-ups, neatly tucked into cautiously ironed trousers, so you’ve honestly forgotten how nice it is to get dressed up once in a while. There’s something about slipping into a gown that fits like a dream, sweeping your hair up just right, and swiping on that perfect shade of lipstick that makes you feel invincible. Like you could negotiate a million-dollar deal, steal the firm’s best clients, and seduce someone’s husband all in the same breath.

Not that you would, obviously.

Probably.

The venue is ridiculous in the way all law firm events are ridiculous—held in a ballroom large enough to house a small country, chandeliers dripping in gold, servers weaving through the crowd with trays of champagne and fancy bruschetta topped with fucking caviar of all things. All this just to celebrate another year of making money off people’s divorces. Incredible the way capitalism works.

You’ve barely made it through your first glass of wine before Emi finds you.

“There she is,” she croons, linking her arm through yours. She looks positively radiant in an emerald gown, diamonds at her ears, and the kind of effortless elegance that comes from winning. You’d respect it more if she weren’t actively dragging you toward your inevitable doom. “Come on, sweetheart. Hajime’s here, and I cannot wait for you two to finally meet.”

You bite back a sigh, because of course. No warm-up period, no buffer—just straight to the matchmaking. “Can’t I get a few more drinks in me first?”

She waves a hand, utterly dismissing your complaints. “You’ll like him. I know you will.”

You doubt it. But you let her lead you anyway, mostly because you know resisting is pointless: your boss has the world’s most spell-blinding smile and enough charm to always get her way. Emi always wins.

She stops near the bar, where a man stands with his back to you, broad shoulders wrapped in a sharp black suit, one hand resting on the counter as he talks with someone just out of view.

Emi squeezes your hand. “Hajime,” she calls, her voice warm.

The man turns.

And every thought in your head immediately ceases to exist.

Because standing before you, looking unfairly good in a tailored suit and sipping from a glass of whiskey like he isn’t single-handedly ruining your life, is GDD.

Good Dick Dude.

Hajime Iwaizumi is Good Dick Dude.

Your brain short-circuits. This is not happening. This is some kind of fever dream, a cruel trick played by the universe to punish you for your sins.

Hajime’s sharp green eyes land on you, recognition flickering behind them, and then—oh no. 

He smirks. Like he knows exactly what’s running through your mind right now. Like he remembers everything.

Emi, completely unaware of your crisis, beams. “Hajime, this is the associate I’ve been telling you about.”

His mischievous, more than just amused smile widens. “Oh, I know who she is.”

Your soul leaves your body.

Because that voice? That voice is the same one that had whispered filth against your neck four months ago. The same voice that had laughed when you moaned his name. The same voice that had ruined you in ways you still haven’t fully recovered from.

You are going to die. Right here, right now, in the middle of this godforsaken gala.

“Hajime Iwaizumi,” he says smoothly, offering a hand. His palm is rough when you take it—calloused, strong, a stark reminder of exactly where those hands have been. His grip is firm, steady, and entirely too knowing.

You swallow, pasting on the best Oh wow, I am totally not spiraling internally smile you can manage. “Yeah,” you say weakly. “We’ve met.”

“Oh!” Emi beams, clasping her hands together like she’s just delighted by this new revelation. “That’s wonderful! I knew you two would get along.”

You let out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a strangled choke. Hajime is still watching you, head tilted slightly, like he’s enjoying this: like he can see the exact moment you realize how deeply, horrifically screwed you are. Because there is no way Emi knows. She’s too composed, too pleased. If she had any inkling that her son and her associate had met four months ago in a completely inappropriate context, she’d have you both buried in litigation faster than you could say conflict of interest.

Which means Hajime is choosing to be a menace.

God, you’re going to kill him.

“Hajime just got back from Irvine a few days ago, for the start of his summer break,” Emi continues, completely oblivious to the absolute war waging behind your polite smile. “I’ve been telling him all about you, of course.”

You almost choke on your drink. “You have?”

“Of course I have!” Emi nods enthusiastically. “She’s one of the brightest associates we have, Hajime. Sharp, diligent, absolutely ruthless in negotiations—she reminds me of myself when I was her age.”

Your lips twitch. You do enjoy being compared to the most terrifying woman you’ve ever met, so it’s really too bad that this entire situation has you currently dying inside.

Hajime hums, eyes still locked on you. “Yeah,” he says, voice dipping just slightly. “She’s definitely memorable.”

Your entire body lights on fire.

Memorable.

Oh, he’s being insufferable on purpose.

Emi sighs happily, taking a sip of her champagne. “I knew you two would hit it off.”

You want to scream. You want to throw your drink in Hajime’s face. You want to rewind time and never step foot into that rooftop party.

Instead, you just smile tightly. “Mm-hmm.”

Hajime grins at your suffering. “So,” he says, tilting his glass in your direction, “how have you been?”

You resist the urge to kick him in the shins. “Busy,” you say, voice clipped. “Working.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding thoughtfully. “Yeah, that does sound like you.”

You stiffen. Hajime, you realize, is having the time of his life watching you squirm. And it’s only going to get worse.

Because Emi suddenly claps her hands together, eyes bright with mischief. “Oh! I should leave you two to chat,” she says. “Get to know each other properly.”

Oh. Oh no. Emi. Emi, please.

But before you can protest, she winks at you—winks, like she’s a fairy godmother orchestrating the perfect romance—and disappears back into the crowd.

And just like that, you are alone with him.

Hajime watches you over the rim of his glass, eyes gleaming with amusement. “So,” he says, smirking, “I see you haven’t forgotten me.”

Your jaw clenches. “You smug little—”

“You look good,” he interrupts smoothly, scanning you from head to toe. His gaze lingers, appreciative but blatantly teasing. “Red suits you.”

God, you want to strangle him. You cross your arms, willing yourself to stay calm. “You knew this whole time, didn’t you?”

He chuckles. “I had a feeling.”

“A feeling?”

He tilts his head, as if contemplating. “Well,” he says, “it wasn’t confirmed until I saw you.”

You glare. “You could’ve warned me.”

“And miss that reaction?” He grins. “Not a chance.”

You hate him. You hate that he looks so effortlessly good in a suit. You hate that his voice is still just as devastating as you remember. You hate that even now, months later, you can still feel the phantom weight of his hands on your hips, the rough scrape of his callouses against your skin, the way he had murmured just like that, baby against your ear—

You inhale sharply. Nope. Absolutely not. We are not thinking about that right now.

Hajime, unfortunately, definitely knows what you’re thinking about. His smirk is downright criminal. “So,” he says, leaning in slightly, voice low, “been a while, hasn’t it?”

You refuse to give him the satisfaction of blushing. “Oh, shut up.”

He laughs, warm and amused, and you are horribly aware that this night is only just beginning.

four.

Hajime happens to actually be a pretty intelligent and funny person, which is making it much, much harder to dodge his attempts at flirting and his mother’s attempts at forced-proximity matchmaking.

It was supposed to be easy. You were supposed to sip your wine, endure some polite small talk, and then fade into the crowd before Emi could corner you into any serious you’d make such a beautiful couple talk. But instead, you’re somehow still here, talking to him, because Hajime Iwaizumi is annoyingly easy to talk to.

Which is not fair. It’s not fair at all, actually.

He makes it look effortless, like this isn’t completely unhinged, like it’s not absolutely deranged that your boss has spent months trying to set you up with a man who has already—

You take a sip of your wine. You are not going to finish that thought.

Hajime watches you over the rim of his whiskey glass, looking entirely too entertained by this whole situation. “You seem tense.”

“Gee, I wonder why.”

His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t argue. “Hey, could be worse,” he says. “At least my mom has good taste.”

You choke on your sip, feeling the bubbles tingle in your nose and really regretting every life decision you’ve made in the last six months. “Oh, my God.”

He laughs, tilting his glass in a mock toast.

You squint at him, wary and slightly annoyed, unable to fathom how he’s not also dying at this situation. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I mean…” He shrugs, all easy amusement. “I’m just saying—this could be a lot worse. Imagine if she was trying to set you up with someone actually terrible.”

“I don’t know,” you mutter, swirling your wine. “You’re already pretty high on my list of worst-case scenarios.”

“See, now that hurts.”

You roll your eyes. “You’ll live.”

Before Hajime can respond—before you can regain any sense of control over this conversation—Emi appears out of nowhere, her eyes shining.

“There you two are!” she says, absolutely beaming. “It’s time for the first dance!”

You freeze.

Hajime—the absolute traitor—just raises an eyebrow. “First dance?”

“Yes! It’s tradition,” Emi says, already ushering you toward the ballroom floor. “Senior partners and their dates open the dance floor—it’s been that way for years.”

You dig your heels into the floor. “But I’m not—”

“Now, sweetheart,” Emi interrupts, entirely ignoring your panic, “you wouldn’t want to break tradition, would you?”

You stare at her, betrayed.

She smiles.

Oh, she planned this.

Hajime, standing beside you, lets out a quiet, amused sigh before draining the last of his whiskey. “Well,” he says, offering you a hand, “guess we should give the people what they want.”

You glare at him. “I hate you.”

“Uh-huh,” he says. “That’s why you’re still holding my hand.”

You drop it immediately.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop him from leading you on to the dance floor. His hand slides around your waist, pulling you gently to the center of the ballroom; you’re struggling to ignore the far too many pairs of eyes on you two as he rearranges your arms around his neck.

And—oh, hell.

You forgot how solid he is.

His grip is firm but steady, his palm warm where it rests against your back. He moves easily, like this isn’t completely ridiculous, like your brain isn’t currently melting out of your ears.

“Relax,” Hajime murmurs.

You scowl. “I am relaxed.”

His lips twitch. “Yeah, totally.”

You hate him. You hate the way he’s looking at you—amused, interested, entirely too smug for someone who has already ruined your life once.

He leads you into a slow, easy step, and goddamn it, of course he’s good at this, too. His movements are effortless, confident. He keeps the rhythm perfectly, and you hate that you match him so well.

He tilts his head, watching you. “You’re thinking really hard about something.”

“No, I’m not.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Right. So you’re definitely not thinking about how good I am at this.”

You promptly step on his foot. He laughs, and it ignites your hatefire even more.

“Asshole,” you mutter.

“I was going to say you look good tonight,” he muses, unfazed. “But now I don’t know if you deserve the compliment.”

You glare at him. “Shut up.”

Hajime smirks. “Touchy.”

He spins you as the music hits a crescendo, dropping you abruptly into a dip that catches you heavily off-guard. It makes you lock your fingers tighter around his neck, and when he lifts you back up, you nearly slam right into his very, very firm chest (what the hell, is this man made entirely of protein?), face first.

“What the fuck?” you huff, a little winded. “You are actually a horrible human being.”

Hajime hums, tilting his head slightly, his eyes flickering with something too smug, too entertained. “You keep saying that,” he muses, voice low enough that it barely carries past the space between you, “but I think you just like having someone to complain about.”

Before you can deliver a scathing reply, he tugs you a fraction closer. It’s subtle, barely noticeable to anyone watching, but you feel it—the shift of his fingers pressing against the small of your back, the way your body slots against his just enough for warmth to pass between you.

Your breath catches, and it’s infuriating how he notices. How his hold tightens, like he can read every single thought running through your head and is thrilled by it.

“You’re such a dick,” you frown, shifting slightly, trying to put some space between you.

Hajime chuckles, and the sound is entirely too satisfied. His mouth is right by your ear, so you practically feel it more than you really hear it, when he murmurs, “And what are you gonna do about it?”

Your brain short-circuits.

Because that—that—is not fair.

That is the kind of thing a man should not be allowed to say in that voice, in that low, teasing rumble, into your ear, while holding you against him like this.

It happens before you can even think about it.

Before you can register that you are, in fact, in the middle of a ballroom at your company’s annual gala. Before you can process the reality that Emi is somewhere in this crowd, and she has already been insufferable about this whole ordeal.

Before any of that can hit you, you grab the lapels of his stupidly well-fitted suit, tilt your chin up, and kiss him.

It’s instant, sharp, devastating. Your hands tighten against his chest as you crash into him, and Hajime—because he is the worst person alive—immediately reacts.

One hand presses firm into your back, the other finding its way to your jaw, fingers curling just slightly as he deepens the kiss without hesitation. His lips are warm, just the right mix of soft and steady, and when he angles his head just so—his nose brushing against yours, his thumb skimming your cheek—you feel yourself sink, like he’s pulling you under and you don’t even mind drowning.

It should not be this good.

It should not set your pulse racing like this, make you forget for a single, damning second that this is the worst possible thing you could be doing right now.

But it does. And for just a moment, nothing else exists. Not the party. Not the music. Not the fact that literally everyone is watching you right now. Just the heat of his mouth, the firm press of his fingers at your back, the way he exhales sharply like he wasn’t expecting this either, but he’s not about to stop it, not for anything in the world. 

And then you remember where you are.

You rip yourself away, blinking rapidly, your brain racing to catch up with what you just did.

And that is the moment you hear it: the loudest, most delighted squeal of your entire existence.

Your stomach plummets.

Because standing at the edge of the ballroom, her hands clasped together in sheer glee, is none other than Emi Iwaizumi herself. And she is positively vibrating with joy.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she gushes, and the way she looks at you is the exact way someone would look at their child who just announced they were getting married. “I knew it! I knew you two would be perfect together!”

Your soul leaves your body. You stare at her, horrified. You slowly turn back to Hajime—who, because he is an absolute menace, is still standing entirely too close, still holding you just slightly like he isn’t ready to let go.

And he is smiling.

The kind of smile that says I win. The kind of smile that says he is absolutely going to remind you of this for the rest of your natural life.

You physically have to stop yourself from shoving him away.

Instead, you inhale, sharp and deep, and will yourself to stay calm. Emi is still talking. She is still gushing. And you cannot deal with whatever she’s about to say next, so before she can so much as breathe, you turn back to Hajime, seize his wrist, and drag him off the dance floor, because if you don’t get away from this immediately, you are actually going to die of secondhand embarrassment and shame.

five.

This is because of your dry spell.

Your dry spell is the reason why your entire sense of self-control and awareness have gone out the window, and the reason why, now that you and Hajime have successfully escaped the ballroom onto the balcony, he is doubled over laughing and you are actually freaking out.

“Jesus fuck,” you groan, pressing your hands to your face. The cool night air does nothing to soothe the absolute catastrophe unfolding inside your brain. “I kissed you. I kissed you in front of everyone.”

Hajime straightens, still grinning like an asshole. “Yeah,” he says, entirely too pleased. “You did.”

You drop your hands, glaring. “Fuck you, dude. You’re not helping.”

He shrugs. “Wasn’t aware I needed to.”

You let out an incoherent noise of distress.

Hajime, because he is insufferable, just leans against the balcony railing, watching you unravel like it’s the best entertainment he’s had all night. His tie is slightly loosened now, his jacket unbuttoned, and somehow, he looks even better like this—a little rumpled, a little amused, looking at you like he already knows how this is going to end. 

That is actually unacceptable.

“This is your fault,” you snap, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You goaded me into it.”

Hajime raises an eyebrow. “Oh, so I made you kiss me?”

“Yes,” you declare, with full conviction, even though you definitely grabbed him first. “You set me up.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “You really can’t handle taking the L, huh?”

“I can handle it,” you insist. “I just don’t want to.”

His lips twitch like he’s trying very hard not to laugh again. “So you kissed me against your will?”

“Yes.”

Hajime tilts his head, amused. “Interesting. Because you seemed pretty into it.”

Your jaw drops. “I—you—shut up.”

He chuckles, and God, his voice is all warm and low and pleased with himself, and you really need to get it together before you do something stupid again.

You exhale sharply, crossing your arms and shifting your focus to the city skyline instead. Sendai stretches out before you in a sea of golden lights, a stark contrast to the absolute nightmare happening in your head. 

This is fine. You can recover from this. You just have to never, ever acknowledge it again.

You square your shoulders, turning back to him. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. We are going to go back inside, pretend this never happened, and move on with our lives.”

Hajime hums, considering. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s gonna work.”

You squint. “What do you mean that’s not gonna work?”

He pushes off the railing, taking a step closer—too close, enough that you feel it again, that ridiculous, stupid warmth that shouldn’t still be there after all this time. “I mean,” he says, slow, deliberate, “you’re acting like that kiss was a mistake.”

You blink. “Because it was.”

He lifts a single eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“Yes,” you say immediately, but it comes out way too defensive, and Hajime knows it.

He grins. You decide that you hate him.

“I’m sure,” you insist, crossing your arms tighter, like that will somehow make this whole situation less insufferable. “It was a heat-of-the-moment thing. A lapse in judgment. That’s it.”

Hajime tilts his head, thoughtful. “Okay. So if I kissed you again right now, you wouldn’t like it.”

Your entire brain short-circuits. The audacity. The unbelievable nerve.

You gape at him. “You wouldn’t.”

His grin widens. “Wouldn’t I?”

You hate how smug he looks. You hate that your stomach flips at the idea of it. You hate that you don’t immediately shut it down.

He watches your expression carefully, like he’s waiting for you to stop him, like he won’t actually do it unless you give him some kind of sign. Which is so much worse, because it means he’s giving you the chance to say no, to walk away, to end this before it can spiral any further.

But you don’t.

And that—more than the kiss itself, more than Emi’s squealing, more than the public spectacle you just made—is what finally sends you into full-blown panic mode.

You do want him to kiss you again.

You stare at him, pulse thrumming, brain caught in a violent tug-of-war between denial and desire. And Hajime? Hajime is watching you with the patience of someone who knows he’s already won.

“Say it,” he murmurs, voice low, steady.

You scowl. “Say what?”

“That you want me to kiss you again.”

Your jaw clenches. He’s baiting you, letting you choose, waiting for you to meet him halfway. You exhale sharply, tilting your chin up. “You’re so full of yourself.”

His mouth twitches. “Not an answer.”

“Fine,” you snap. “I want you to kiss me again.”

Hajime grins. “That’s all I needed.”

And then, he does.

This time, it’s slower, deeper, not rushed by the heat of the moment. He takes his time, like he’s savoring it, like he’s memorizing the way you melt into him. And you? You let him. Because, goddamn it, you were never winning this battle.

When you finally pull away, breathless, he smirks down at you. “See? Not a mistake.”

You groan. “I hate you.”

He laughs, pressing another quick kiss to your forehead that feels far more intimate than a casual pair of friends-with-benefits should. You, scandalized, shove him away, but Hajime just grins, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You’re impossible,” you mutter, pressing your fingers to your forehead, like that will somehow stop the ridiculous heat crawling up your neck.

Hajime hums, smug. “And yet, you’re still standing here.”

You are still standing here. You could have left, could have walked back into that ballroom and pretended this entire thing never happened. But instead, you’re here. On this balcony. With him.

You shift, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “So… what now?”

Hajime leans back against the railing. “Dunno. Guess that depends on you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why do I feel like you already have an answer?”

“Because I do,” he says plainly, in a way so nonchalant and effortless it could only be said like that by him. 

You exhale sharply, tilting your head up to the sky, like the stars might have some kind of solution for this. “You know this is gonna be a thing now, right?”

Hajime raises an eyebrow. “A thing?”

“Yeah,” you say, making a vague gesture between the two of you. “A thing. Emi’s gonna lose her mind. She’s probably already telling the senior partners that her matchmaking career is a success.”

Hajime laughs, the sound easy, effortless. “Yeah. She probably is.”

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face. “I am never going to live this down.”

“Probably not.”

You squint at him. “You could at least pretend to be sympathetic.”

Hajime shrugs, then reaches for your hand, tugging you forward so suddenly that you nearly stumble into him. His hands slide down to your waist, thumbs brushing over the fabric of your dress. “I could,” he murmurs, close, too close, “but we both know I wouldn’t mean it.”

You scowl. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” he says, smug, “you still kissed me. Twice, actually.”

You glare. “Stop counting.”

“No promises.”

You groan, pressing your forehead to his chest in sheer exasperation. “This is my villain origin story.”

Hajime just laughs, wrapping his arms fully around you, and you hate—hate—that it feels nice, that it feels right.

“Hajime,” you say, voice muffled against his suit jacket.

“Yeah?”

You lift your head just enough to meet his gaze. “If we’re doing this, you are legally required to make it up to me with at least two fancy dates. Minimum.”

Hajime smirks, like he was already planning on it. “Deal.”

“And no getting too smug about this, either,” you squint.

He tilts his head. “Define ‘too smug.’”

You groan, shoving at his chest. “God, I hate you.”

Hajime just catches your wrist and grins, pressing a slow, soft kiss to your knuckles. “Sure you do.”

You really don’t. And both of you know that very well, because he has his mother’s spell-blinding smile and you have always been a sucker for them both.

⨭ closing; churned this out over one 3 hour writing sesh bc i got this idea in my head and had to see it through. not proofread and very very hastily written, but i like her anyway. #comment #reblog #lemme know ur thoughts mwah xoxo

[astroismypassion]

Astrology observations from real life 🪷🪷🪷

Credit goes to astrology blog @astroismypassion

A few in my mailbox asked me to post about astrology playing out in real life. I still have to preface that the view is mostly based from the viewpoint of my own individual Natal chart. So it’s coming from a perspective of Taurus Sun, Aries Moon, Scorpio Rising.

🪷 For me 8th house Synastry with Cancer or Taurus, Libra over the 8th house is not the usual “love or hate connection” at all. So this is one thing I definitely didn’t relate. I think love hate dynamic could be perhaps more prominent if you have a malefic, Capricorn, Aquarius etc. over the 8th house. So I have Cancer over the 8th house. And best I could describe 8th house Synastry with Cancer placements is “failed attempts”. I really like them, but nothing ever gets of the ground with them. I had already someone’s Cancer Sun and Mercury in my 8th house and another person’s Cancer Sun, Venus, Mercury and Mars in my Cancer 8th house. Each Cancer was completely different, but there was usually a pattern I noticed, that after 3 years of knowing them, there is usually a breaking point and it’s always after 3 years. They either rejected me, friendzoned me or weren’t looking to enter a committed partnership. So technically, on paper is nothing particularly wrong in the 8th house Synastry, just stagnant and not much happening and the connection just never got of the ground to begin with. So that’s why I don’t really understand the 8th house love or hate thing. I would say we are pretty neutral toward one another and don’t hate each other, but aren’t in love either.

🪷 Aquarius Moon can end up being quite narrow-minded in a way that they have hard time fully accepting the other’s perspective, but only their own. That’s why sometimes having a conversation with them, doesn’t feel like a dialogue, but more so like they are in a monologue with themselves. Some can end up being quite preachy, because of that.

🪷 In my experience Taurus Moons, natives with Taurus IC are some of the most secure individuals. Because they have the needed self-love and most that I have met don’t even feel the need to start a partnership, just because they are just so comfortable on their own.

🪷 Pisces Moon can either be incredibly intuitive, compassionate or really mean “in the name of the truth”. But I feel like you have to know them for years, before it really becomes apparent how blunt, truthful and sometimes mean they actually are. They can kind of be unhealthy towards themselves by not believing they are capable. But also have the ability to negatively influence others with their negative mood as well. They are really observant and good listeners, therefore often times they choose words that know will sting you.

🪷 I noticed that stereotypically labelled as “players” when grown up, Aries Moon men, even Moon aspect Mars natives, appear that way only in adulthood. But what I found, that in childhood/teenage years they were often ignored by women or didn’t receive much romantic attention at all. They were rarely picked or chosen. So later they seem to quite enjoy the attention. I’d say maybe it’s the same for Aries Moon women? I don’t know, but Selena Gomez (Aries Moon) did talk about how boys were never interested in her when she way much younger, that she didn’t receive much romantic attention.

🪷 Libra Chiron people have strange behaviour. They still pursue people who rejected them and fall even deeper in love. Like what?? You guys deserve reciprocal love and not this one-sided thing.

🪷 Scorpio Rising, Pluto in the 1st house native is really one of the realest people you meet out there. They become so open and honest about life with time and in adulthood. They are not pretentious at all and I noticed they even don’t mind if they embarrass themselves a bit, as long as they are being authentic and living their own truth and purpose. A lot of them also went through a major breakthrough in life (dropped out of education, lost an important job etc.) and that launched them in a totally new life direction, career path, where they end up being successful then. They are very artistic, even though they appear logical, excellent problem solvers too.

🪷 Natives with Moon at a Leo degree (5, 17, 29) low key are Cancer Suns. I noticed you have troubled love life, because you get taken advantage of your kindness and you are genuinely so nice. I wouldn’t say this rings true too for Leo Moons or Moon in the 5th house natives (you more so attract rather selfish people).

🪷 Libra Moons probably rarely saw the conflict resolution between parents, so many of them are so conflict avoidant (are even scared to have tension) in a partnership, because deep down they didn’t really learn conflict resolution and don’t know how to solve it.

🪷 Cancer Moon men desire a wife, a housemaker, a best friend, a lover, a wifey in one person. They often secretly wish for a very traditional marriage. But to be fair, they probably had parents that were married for years or married couple goals, so they had role models and want the same for themselves.

🪷 A lot of Scorpio Risings or Pluto in the 1st house native have this idealisation with wealth going on. A lot of them dream of extreme wealth and are very money, financial stability oriented.

🪷 You really get along with someone who has their Rising sign in the same sign of your 11th house. For example: you have Scorpio over the 11th house, you could have a good chance to get along with Scorpio Risings.

🪷 Libra Chiron don’t find themselves attractive. But y’all are models for real. So so many people find you very conventionally attractive.

🪷 Aquarius Eros people can have a tendency to be so random. And you guys love love surprising others. Just not the other way. 😂 You dislike surprises. But I don’t find the stereotypes of being into “group sex, threesomes, kinky af” true at all. Most of them are oddballs with specific humour and often postpone intimacy, because they prefer touching people with their words. They really like hangouts and long talks over physical intimacy or touching. A lot of them also don’t understand why people rush intimacy so much. They like to take their time. However, they are into connection with people that has proved time. The longer they have known you, the more they are likely to consider you an intimate option. They really like people that stick with them or have been in their life for years.

🪷 Pisces Descendants doesn’t come across to me as delusional. Instead quite controlling towards the actions of their partner. They are idealistic about love and want their partner to act accordingly with their wishes. So they get “their way” by presenting themselves as a hopeless romantic.

🪷 Cancer Moon, Moon in the 4th house both men and women often feel like they can’t protect or defend themselves in the world. So they are often attracted to “protector” type of partner. However, the potential downfall of not learning how to protect themselves is falling into a parent child dynamic with their partner (with Cancer Moon, Moon in the 4th house native acting as a child).

Credit goes to astrology blog @astroismypassion

[robot-roadtrip-rants]

No no no no no. These are severely brainwashed, horribly stunted fascists, this is exactly how they should sound. Plus the bathos is top-tier. Centuries-old, 900-pound supersoldiers who are constantly hyped up as the Emperor's Angels, the greatest thing since sliced bread, and they talk like berserking middle schoolers. Peak hilarity, I love it.

Saw this in a review of Space Marine 2 (emphasis added):

However, hulking squadmates Gadriel and Chairon are distrustful of Titus' long absence, while Titus himself is frustratingly standoffish. This translates to a lot of catty snark – space marines are many things, but emotionally literate they are not – but we don't get to explore these tensions in any real depth, which leaves the story a little shallow. Dialogue can be boiled down to 10 hours of the word "brother," while the straightforward yet serviceable story rarely reaches beyond carrying players from one desperate shootout to the next.

So clearly the writers nailed Ultramarine dialogue.

[counting-stars-gayly]

This might be a hot take, but I actually like that Percy figured out Luke was the traitor at the last minute. There were A LOT of clues that would’ve been hard to ignore, and he ignored them for as long as he could. And it’s clear that even after accusing Luke, he’s still surprised and heartbroken at Luke’s confirmation of his suspicions. He was holding out hope, guys!!

Also, the Betrayal Scene flows better as an exchange of dialogue and a swordfight than it did, in the books, as a monologue and a scorpion sting. This also leaves a bigger impact on the viewers and characters because it’s more emotional.

[bonus-links]

MY TIME HAS COME please discuss in great detail the GrooZeLink dynamics in prologue part 5. I am so intrigued by the stark differences between this shot:

And this shot:

The scar on triforce. The hiding. Please tell me everything there is to know

this is 4 u groozelinkers

why did i do text bubbles this way. how did anyone read this comic. god bless.

this is essentially Loft Monologues His Feelings The Update. It was very important to me that the audience understands where Loft's head is at from the get-go. and like listen, sometimes u have to have a bestie debrief even if ur bestie is a dormant sword spirit who can't talk to u. if bonus links was a musical this would be Loft's I want song lol

jokes aside I think Loft comes here to talk to Fi a lot. it makes him feel both better and worse

LOFTS FI IMPRESSION i feel like he used to do this a lot and thought it was so funny and every time Fi would be like. objectively that is not what i sound like. also, peep the textbox pattern!

even though Loft has trouble acclimating to life on the surface, it was important to me to show that it's not all like. angst and doom and gloom. But that's kind of the problem right? things are good, and he feels like this anyway. also I did my best to include most of the young adult skyloft npcs, I feel like the older one have mostly stayed up on Skyloft for now. LAKE TRIP!!

this is a direct reference to this shot from the game. this line of dialogue is an important thing to keep in mind. tbh the entire reason this comic exists is bc i thought too hard about the implications of skyward sword— what if you found out your girlfriend was really your god, who had orchestrated your entire life? wouldn't that make everything feel a little strange, even if you love her more than anything? much to think about

I like the scar through the triforce mark as a kind of symbolic gesture, but there's not really any intended meaning behind the two pieces of the triforce is goes through. feel free to interpret it however u like tho lol

AND THIS SHOT my headcanon is that Loft doesn't actually help much with the early building in Faron. It's partially because he can't- he pushes his body to the limit during his quest, and then completely crashes when it's over, and it takes a loooong time to even start recovering. He spends most of the time sleeping.

But it's also partially because he doesn't actually want to move to the surface. He wants to stay on Skyloft. In my mind it's like. he fought really hard to return to a state of normalcy that doesn't exist anymore, and that's hard to come to terms with. This is Zelda and Groose's project, and while he'll go along with it, he's not that enthusiastic about it. It's a source of tension in their relationship. Combined with Zelda often acting as a mouthpiece for the gods, it starts to grate on Loft that this aspect of his future has also apparently been decided.

tldr groozelink love each other a lot but things are definitely not perfect, and especially not right now

this is actually something I intended to get a little bit more into in ch2, but the chapter kind of. wrote itself away from it. every time I tried to include a scene with it, it felt too much like I was forcing characters to have too many heart-to-hearts too early. we'll get there eventually

this is an important update in the grand scheme of things :-) mystery mouseketool etc etc

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

lecherous

part III

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Fem!Reader

Summary: You have fed The Boys a proper meal, you have told Hughie the truth, and you have retired to your room for the night to read, but Ben? Ben has other plans. And he'll let you read while he acts on them.

Warnings: 18+!, Soldier Boy is kinda his own warning?, language, innocence, corruption/corruption kink, smut (dirty talk, dry humping, fingering, handjob, overstim, biting, marking, p in v, spitting, implied breeding), misogyny, poetry enthusiasm, I may have missed some.

Word Count: 7,414

A/N: AHHHH! Okay, okay I did it. I actually managed to end it all out on part three. Which was harder than I expected because I don't struggle to hear dialogue for Ben... hell, I'm pretty sure my inner monologue is just voiced by Ben. I LOVED this lil series. And I'm pretty proud of it. Not me, sitting in my bedroom, reading poetry, and writing utter filth. <3 Feel free to give any feedback, my loves. I live for it. And keep an eye out, because I've already got another disgusting idea simmering on a spare burner in my brain. All the love.

Without further ado: LECHEROUS

Corruption is a slow, creeping thing.

It does not strike like lightning, does not announce itself with fire and fury.

It is quieter than that, softer. A whisper in the dark. A hand at your throat that never quite tightens. A steady unraveling, thread by thread, until you are something else entirely—something ruined.

Something willing.

The kitchen smelled like butter, garlic, and warm spices, the air thick with the scent of something hearty, something real, something that didn’t come out of a takeout container or a gas station wrapper.

And God, they needed it.

You thought it was a miracle any of them were still functioning at all, considering their idea of sustenance seemed to be black coffee, stale snacks, and the occasional questionable protein bar.

And now they were all bickering at the table, voices overlapping, sharp and easy, full of sarcasm and exasperation.

"This is a terrible idea," Hughie was saying, his voice strained, mildly distressed, but not entirely serious.

"It is a great idea," Frenchie countered, clearly entertained, clearly the cause of Hughie’s distress.

"We are absolutely not doing that," MM cut in, unimpressed, firm, final.

"Oh, come now, mon frère—"

"No."

"You do not even know what I was going to say."

"I know exactly what you were going to say."

You could practically hear Frenchie’s smirk, even without turning around. "What was I going to say?"

"Something stupid."

"That is subjective, mon ami."

"That is a fact."

"The fuck are you even arguin' about?" Butcher cut in, voice gruff, mildly entertained, mostly indifferent.

"Whether or not it would be more efficient to steal a van and turn it into a mobile base instead of keeping safe houses." MM exhaled sharply. "Which is the dumbest fucking thing I’ve heard all week."

"Oh, come on." Frenchie sounded offended. "It is not the dumbest thing. What about when petit Hughie—"

"Okay, nope," Hughie interrupted immediately. "We don’t need to rehash every dumb thing I’ve ever said—"

"But, it is a very long list."

"Jesus Christ," Hughie muttered, rubbing his temples.

You smiled to yourself, stirring the pot in front of you, listening as the conversation continued, voices overlapping, sarcasm flying, banter light but full of warmth.

Because this? This felt good. This felt normal. Or, at least, as normal as things got in a place like this, with people like this.

It had been a couple of days now. A couple of days since you had felt the weight of Ben’s hand around your throat, his voice in your ear, his breath against your lips. A couple of days since he had spat into your mouth and kissed you until you swallowed it. A couple of days since he had made you tremble against him, made you gasp and whimper and melt, made you feel things you weren’t sure you could ever unfeel.

And now? Now the mark on your neck was almost gone.

The deep bruise, once dark and obvious and impossible to ignore, had faded to something faint, something barely there, something that would disappear completely in another day or two.

And that should have been a relief.But instead? It was disappointing.

Because for the last couple of days, whenever you caught your reflection, whenever your fingers brushed against the sore, tender skin—

You liked it.

You liked the way it looked. You liked the way it contrasted against your pale skin. You liked the way it felt, lingering, tangible, undeniable. You liked having evidence of what he did to you. You liked having a reminder that Ben wanted to mark you, wanted to mar you, wanted to leave something behind.

And now it was almost gone.

You swallowed, pushing the thought away, shaking your head slightly as you reached for the salt, giving the pot another stir before glancing toward the table.

Hughie had moved on to complaining about something else, MM looked mildly entertained, Butcher was only half-listening, and Frenchie—

Frenchie was looking at you, and the moment your eyes met, he smirked.

You narrowed your eyes immediately.

"What?"

"Nothing, mon ange."

"No, what?"

"Just noticing something, that is all."

You bristled. "Noticing what?"

Frenchie shrugged, leaning back in his chair, all casual, all smug.

"You seem distracted."

Your pulse jumped.

"I’m not distracted."

"Mm," he hummed, clearly not believing you at all.

"I’m not," you insisted.

Frenchie smirked. Kimiko giggled. Hughie was still oblivious. And Butcher? Butcher was looking at Hughie, like he was considering bringing up the hickey conversation again.

Hughie noticed immediately. "No," he said firmly.

Butcher lifted a brow.

"Didn’t say anything."

"You were going to."

"You don’t fuckin' know that."

"You absolutely were."

"Maybe I just like watchin' you get all worked up about it, sunshine."

Hughie groaned, rubbing his temples again. "I hate all of you."

Frenchie grinned.

"That is fair."

You exhaled slowly, shaking your head, turning back to your cooking, hoping—praying—that this conversation didn’t circle back to you again.

Because the last thing you needed was Hughie, Butcher, or MM asking why you looked like you were lost in thought, fingers occasionally brushing against your barely-there hickey, like you were already missing it.

And the last thing you needed was for Ben to notice. Because if he did? He wouldn’t let you pretend otherwise.

The scent of garlic and butter thickened in the air, warm and rich, curling against the edges of your senses as you leaned down, checking the chicken in the oven, stirring the rice, grounding yourself in the simple, tangible task of cooking.

That was easier.

Easier than thinking. Easier than the way your stomach had twisted just minutes earlier, the way your fingers had unconsciously brushed against your fading hickey. Easier than Frenchie’s smirk, Kimiko’s silent giggles, the lingering amusement written all over Butcher’s face.

Easier than remembering.

And then he walked in. You didn’t see him at first. Didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge, didn’t let yourself react. But you felt it. The second Ben stepped into the kitchen, the second his presence entered the room, something in your gut tightened, twisted, pulled.

And when you finally did glance up, you froze.

Because for once, he wasn’t in sweats. He wasn’t lounging around in worn-out gray fabric, wasn’t stretched out like he owned the place, wasn’t slouched in that lazy, self-assured way that made it seem like he had all the time in the world.

No.

Tonight, Ben was in jeans. Dark, fitted, perfectly worn denim that sat obscenely well on his frame, hugging his thighs, cinching his waist, drawing your attention in places you really, really didn’t need it to go.

And his shirt? White. Clean. Fitted. Something so simple, something so casual, and yet—

He looked fucking good.

So good that your breath caught for a split second, caught somewhere high and tight in your throat, caught before you could suppress the visceral reaction clawing up your spine.

But you buried it. You hid behind the task in front of you, forcing your gaze back to the rice, back to the stovetop, back to anything but him.

Because if you looked at him for too long—

He would notice. And he already noticed too much.

Ben settled into a chair at the table, and the conversation lulled just slightly, just for a beat, just long enough to make you nervous.

And then—

"You know what?" Frenchie’s voice was too easy. Too light. Too deliberate.

Your stomach tightened. You didn’t turn.

"I think we should start taking bets on who gave her the love-bite."

The room shifted. Hughie groaned immediately, head dropping into his hands as he exhaled hard, exasperated, like he had been dreading this exact moment.

"Oh, my God, can we not?"

"Why not?" Butcher cut in, grinning like he was thoroughly enjoying the reaction. "Ain’t like she leaves the safe house. Ain’t like she’s got time to go out and get picked up by some poor bastard at a bar."

Your heart stammered. You straightened up too fast. Your eyes went wide.

"I—" You cleared your throat, too stiff, too quick, already stumbling. "I don’t think discussing my sex life is appropriate table talk."

Butcher waved you off.

"Oh, don’t be so uptight, love." He leaned back in his chair, smirking, entirely too entertained. "We’re all mates here."

"Unfortunately," Frenchie sighed, resting his chin in his palm. "It was not me."

Your scowl was immediate.

"Shut up, Frenchie."

"What? You wound me, mon ange." He pressed a hand to his chest, grinning wide. "I am simply eliminating suspects."

"Sure as fuck weren’t me," Butcher added easily.

Your stomach turned.

"And obviously," Butcher continued, looking pointedly at Hughie, "wasn’t sunshine over there, ‘cause they ain’t from Alabama."

Hughie gagged. "Jesus Christ, will you all shut the fuck up?" He groaned, palms dragging over his face.

"Wasn’t me," MM chimed in, completely straight-faced.

The room fell silent.

Your stomach bottomed out. Your hands felt suddenly useless at your sides, fingers twitching slightly, nerves firing up your spine like a live wire.

Because now? Now, there was only one name left. Now, there was only one suspect still sitting at the table. Now, there was only one man in the room who hadn’t spoken.

Ben.

Your breath hitched. The silence stretched too long. Your pulse pounded at the base of your throat.

"Shit," Butcher muttered, too casual, too easy, too deliberately baiting. "Guess that narrows it down."

Your stomach twisted violently. Your hands curled into fists. Your mouth opened, closed, opened again—words stammering, barely forming.

"I—"

And then—

"Pass the salt, sweetheart."

Your breath stopped.

The request was low, smooth, entirely indifferent—like he wasn’t even listening to the conversation, like he wasn’t even paying attention.

But you knew better.

Slowly, slowly, you turned your head. Ben was leaning back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, utterly relaxed, utterly unfazed, utterly fucking smug.

Like he had been waiting. Like he had been listening to every second of this conversation. Like he had been enjoying every second of your panic.

And when your eyes finally locked with his—

He smirked.

Your pulse jumped violently.

You snatched the salt shaker, shoved it toward him, and spun on your heel, heart hammering, face burning, suddenly desperate to get the hell out of the kitchen.

The scent of chicken and rice hung thick in the air, the low murmur of conversation still circling the room, but the second Hughie started looking between the two of you—you felt it. Each pass of his gaze was like a slow-building storm, narrowing, considering, piecing it together, his expression shifting, morphing, tightening—

And then he said your name.

"No." You muttered, your stomach plummeting. You didn’t look at him. Didn’t react. You just kept moving. Kept pulling the chicken from the oven, kept focusing on the heat blooming from the dish, kept your head down, kept your hands steady.

"Tell me it’s not..."

You swallowed hard. You reached for the knife, and started cutting, slicing, moving—focusing on the repetition, on the task, on the fact that your entire body was burning, burning, burning.

"Tell me it wasn’t Soldier Boy."

Your hands tightened around the knife. The pressure built, a slow, searing wave, spreading from your spine to your cheeks to the tips of your fucking fingers. And then, before you could stop yourself—

"I’m busy cooking, Hughie. Shut up." The words came out too sharp, too clipped, too defensive. A fucking dead giveaway.

And the reaction was immediate. Frenchie let out a mock-horrified gasp, Kimiko giggled behind her hand, and Butcher let out a low, slow whistle, shaking his head.

"Well, shit."

You didn’t look up. Couldn’t. Because you knew exactly what you would see.

You knew Hughie would look devastated, betrayed, vaguely nauseous. You knew Frenchie would look obnoxiously entertained. You knew MM would look exasperated but not entirely surprised.

And Ben? Ben would look like this was the best fucking thing he had ever witnessed.

You didn’t need to see it. Didn’t need to lift your gaze to feel the weight of it pressing against your skin.

And yet—

You did.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to catch the smug, self-satisfied stretch of his mouth, the lazy tilt of his head, the way his arms folded behind it, shoulders relaxed, wide and lounging, like this was the most entertaining thing he had seen in decades.

Like he was saying, Yeah. That’s right. The fuck are you gonna do about it?

Your stomach twisted violently. The room felt too hot. Too small. Too exposed.

"Dinner’s ready." The words came fast, rushed, nearly tripping over themselves as you shoved the plates onto the counter. "Grab one."

And then you turned on your heel, heart hammering, heat crawling up the back of your neck, stomach twisting so violently you thought you might actually be sick—

And you fled.

Straight out of the kitchen. Straight down the hall. Straight into your room, slamming the door shut, heart pounding against your ribs, blood rushing in your ears.

The door clicked shut behind you as you left again, the quiet stillness of your room melting away as you stepped back into the hall, inhaling deep, smoothing out your dress, rolling your shoulders, setting your expression into something calm, composed, unfazed.

Because you weren’t going to hide.

Not from them. Not from him.

You had spent too much time cooking a real goddamn meal for this group of half-starved idiots to just flee and let them laugh at your expense.

And besides—

You were hungry.

And if you avoided that kitchen now, you’d be admitting defeat. So you lifted your chin, exhaled slow, pushed your shoulders back—and stepped back into the room.

The conversation lulled slightly when they saw you, but you didn’t react to it. Didn’t acknowledge the glances, the smirks, the barely contained amusement still lingering at the edges of the table.

You just walked straight to the counter, grabbed the last bowl sitting there, and made your way to the seat beside Kimiko. She was already mid-bite, eyes lighting up as she chewed, nodding enthusiastically before she turned to you, signing quickly.

Frenchie grinned, watching her hands move before translating.

"She says you are a fantastic cook."

A warm rush of satisfaction spread through your chest.

"Thanks, Kimiko."

She signed again, more deliberate this time, gesturing toward MM.

Frenchie smirked.

"She also says MM has not eaten a decent meal in months."

MM sighed heavily, shaking his head. "She ain’t wrong." He scooped up another bite of rice, exhaling through his nose. "This is amazing, kid."

"I try." You shrugged, feeling the tension ease, just slightly, just enough to settle back into something normal.

But across from you—

Hughie wasn’t eating.

He was just pushing his food around his plate, his face drawn tight, expression still a little pale, still a little mortified.

You chewed slowly, watching him, waiting. And then, when it became too much, when the weight of his stare got unbearable—

"Hughie."

He stilled immediately. His eyes snapped up to yours, wide and waiting, like he already knew what was coming.

You sat up straighter, swallowed the bite in your mouth, and said, calm, level, unwavering. "Not that it’s any of your business."

His throat bobbed.

You let your gaze sweep around the table, deliberate, pointed, making sure everyone fucking heard you.

"It’s not anyone’s business."

The message was clear. You weren’t going to be hounded about this.

Not by Hughie. Not by Frenchie, who was already smirking. Not by Butcher, who was still half-grinning like he was waiting for round two.

And definitely not by Ben.

"I’m a grown woman." Your voice didn’t waver. "I make my own decisions."

You leaned forward slightly, gaze sharp, unwavering.

"And you don’t need to act like such a virgin about it."

The reaction was immediate.

Hughie choked. Butcher barked out a laugh. Frenchie, halfway through a sip of water, nearly spit it out. Kimiko giggled, MM sighed, and Hughie struggled to regain control, mouth opening, closing, then opening again like he was searching for something to say, something to argue.

And then, after a beat—

He nodded once, sharp, decisive.

"I get it." The words were resigned, stiff, but honest. "You’re a grown woman."

A pause.

And then—

"Oh, so you don’t mind me stickin’ it to your little sister then, huh?"

The table erupted.

"OH, COME ON!" Hughie practically shouted, throwing his hands up.

Butcher fucking howled, leaning back in his chair, shaking his head, muttering “Jesus Christ.”

Frenchie was already laughing into his palm, Kimiko hiding her giggles behind her sleeve, MM shaking his head like he was officially done with the whole conversation.

And Ben was still leaned back in his chair, grinning, eyes half-lidded, looking like he had been waiting for the perfect moment to drop that bomb.

"Fucking hell," Hughie muttered, palming his forehead.

"What?" Ben shrugged, unbothered, entirely too smug. "Thought we were bein’ honest here. Ain’t that what you said, sweetheart?"

Your stomach flipped. Your face burned.

And Ben just smirked, looking you over slowly, deliberately, dragging his gaze from your flushed face down to your throat, where the last traces of that hickey had almost completely faded.

"Shame it’s almost gone."

Your breath stammered.

"Looked good on you."

The whole table caught that. And if they weren’t sure before? They sure as hell knew now.

The clatter of plates, the scrape of silverware against ceramic, the last few murmurs of conversation filled the kitchen as everyone finished their food, stretching back in their seats, shifting into post-meal satisfaction.

You stood, gathering up the empty dishes, stacking them carefully, taking them to the sink in smooth, practiced motions.

"I am not doing the dishes." You turned, arms folding over your chest, tone firm, unwavering. "I cooked. Someone else can handle it."

Frenchie huffed a laugh, Butcher grunted something amused, MM already looked like he was about to get stuck with the chore.

But you didn’t wait to see who would actually take the job. You just excused yourself, stepped out of the kitchen, and walked down the hall, feeling the weight of the evening still pressing against your ribs, still lingering at the edges of your mind.

You needed a moment. A breath. A break. And you found it on your bed, curling up with a poetry book, letting the words fold around you, trying to lose yourself in the familiar rhythm, the cadence, the softness of it.

And for a few minutes—

It worked. It was quiet. Still. Peaceful.

Until the temperature in the room shifted. A slow, creeping awareness washed over you, an undeniable, unmistakable presence filling the space before you even lifted your gaze from the page.

Your stomach tightened. Because you didn’t have to look up to know who it was. He didn’t knock. Of course, he didn’t knock. He just sauntered in, all slow, all deliberate, all lazy confidence and quiet possession.

And when you finally did glance up, he was leaning against the doorframe. One shoulder pressed into the wood, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted slightly, watching you with something dark, something amused, something like you were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

Your heart rate spiked, because you could feel him. You could feel him in the way the air grew heavier, the way your skin prickled, the way your body reacted before your mind could even fully process it.

You swallowed, forced your eyes back to the book, back to the words, back to the safety of distraction.

"That was some good food."

His voice was low, slow, easy.

You didn’t look at him, but you felt the warmth crawl up your neck, felt your stomach twist, felt something coil tight in your chest.

"Didn’t know you could cook."

You kept your eyes on the page. Kept your fingers steady. Kept your breathing even.

But you knew.

You fucking knew.

He was waiting.

Waiting for a reaction. Waiting for you to slip. Waiting for you to let him in.

The door clicked shut.

"Y’know," he mused, slow, thoughtful, mocking in a way that was almost too soft to be cruel. "Makes me wonder."

Your throat went tight.

"How a sweet little thing like you ain’t been snatched up yet."

The book in your hands felt suddenly too heavy, too clumsy, too fucking useless.

"Pretty little thing." His voice dipped lower, rougher. "Smart. Can cook."

A pause.

A slow, dragging beat.

And then—

"Perfect little housewife."

Your breath hitched. Your grip tightened.

And he caught it. A smirk curled at the edges of his mouth, something knowing, something wrecking, something that felt like it had been waiting to unravel you.

"Yeah." He pushed off the doorway, stepping closer, stepping in, stepping over whatever invisible fucking line you had tried to draw between you. "That gotcha, huh?"

You didn’t react.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t bristle. Didn’t snap back like you should have, like you wanted to.

You just stayed still. Sat there on the bed, fingers curled around the book in your lap, breath even, spine straight, forcing yourself not to look up.

Because you couldn’t. Because if you did, he would see it. See the way your pulse had jumped at those words, at the way he said them, at the low, slow, dragging cadence that curled around your spine like a vice. See the way your thighs pressed just a little closer together. See the way your body had betrayed you before your mind could catch up.

But Ben?

Ben already knew. And he was going to make sure you knew it, too.

"Oh, sweetheart." His voice was soft, dripping with something indulgent, something thick and knowing. "You really think you can fool me?"

You swallowed. Your fingers tensed against the pages, grip tightening just slightly.

"Think you can sit there all pretty, all proper, all quiet—"

A pause. A slow, lazy step forward.

"—like you ain’t sittin’ there so fuckin’ tight your legs are gonna cramp?"

Your stomach flipped. Your breath shook. But you didn’t move. Didn’t react. Didn’t look up.

"C’mon, honey."

Another step. Closer now.

"Ain’t gotta play pretend with me."

Your thighs clenched.

"I see how you get."

Another step. The mattress dipped.

"How you start breathin’ all fast when I talk to you like this."

The warmth in the room curled tighter.

"How you start squeezin’ those little thighs together when I say somethin’ that makes you feel all weak inside."

His knees brushed against the bed frame.

"How you try so hard not to react—"

A beat. A hum. And then—

"—but I still fuckin’ see it."

Your pulse pounded. Because he wasn’t wrong. He did see it. He always saw it.

"Yeah." His voice was closer now, thicker, rich with amusement and indulgence and slow, creeping filth. "You like that, huh?"

You stayed silent.

"You like when I say shit like that."

Your jaw tensed.

"Like when I tell you how sweet you look sittin’ there all stiff, pretendin’ your little pussy ain’t throbbin’ for me."

Your stomach dropped. Heat rushed up your spine, across your chest, down between your thighs.

"Like when I call you my pretty little housewife."

A sharp, shuddering exhale.

"Bet you like the sound of that, huh?"

Your nails dug into the pages.

"Bet you’d like it even better if I said it while I was stuffin’ that pretty little cunt full of my cock."

Your breath stammered. Your whole body felt overheated, overrun, overtaken.

And he knew. Because you weren’t snapping at him. You weren’t telling him to fuck off. You weren’t pushing him away. You were just listening.

"Yeah." His voice dipped even lower, velvet-wrapped sin, filth softened into something coaxing, indulgent, sweet. "Knew that’d getcha."

And then, as if drawn by gravity, by some invisible, undeniable force—

You moved.

Shifted onto your knees, sitting up straighter, book still resting in your lap, hands curled around the edges of the pages. Your eyes dragged up—slow, hesitant, wrecked. And when they finally locked with his—

Ben smirked.

Because now? Now, he had you exactly where he wanted you. And you both fucking knew it.

Ben stood over you, broad and solid, blocking out the low light of your lamp, casting long shadows across the room.

You were still kneeling on the bed, book in your lap, knees pressed together, back straight, head tilted up—

And he was looking at you like he’d already fucking won. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out, fingers trailing toward your face, warm and rough as they tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

Your breath stammered. Your body locked up, too aware, too tight, too hot.

And then—

"I’m gonna."

Your stomach flipped. Your lips parted. Your head tilted just slightly, pulse hammering, voice barely a whisper.

"Gonna what?"

He smirked. That slow, devastating, honey-thick smirk. And then, without moving back, without breaking eye contact, without giving you a single second to brace for it—

He leaned in.

Lips almost against yours. Nose brushing yours. Eyes dark, heavy-lidded, devouring.

"Gonna fuck you."

A sharp, wrecked sound crawled up your throat. A soft, strangled squeak, barely audible, barely there.

And he heard it. Oh, he fucking heard it. His smirk stretched wider, full of something indulgent, something ravenous, something wrecking.

And he pulled back. Just slightly, just enough to let the air between you shift, just enough to watch you wobble, just enough to watch the slow realisation crawl through your body.

Then he tapped the spine of your book, the movement so casual, so nonchalant, so utterly opposite to what he’d just said that your brain stalled completely.

"What’re you readin’ tonight, sweetheart?"

Your breath stuttered. Your brain lagged. Your lips parted, trying to piece together the sudden shift, trying to pull yourself back, trying to steady yourself.

"I—" You swallowed. "Sappho."

Your voice was barely there, breathless, shaken.

And he grinned.

"Again, huh?" He exhaled slow, easy, stepping forward, towering over you, letting his fingertips graze over the hem of your nightdress. "Y’know, sweetheart, I think I’m startin’ to get a taste for poetry."

And then he moved you. Hands gripping your thighs, strong, warm, spreading them apart, shifting you effortlessly so your legs hung open at the edge of the bed.

You gasped, hands catching yourself against the mattress, book slipping from your lap.

And Ben knelt.

He sank to his knees, settling between your legs, hands dragging slow over your thighs, stroking up, up, up, teasing over your skin, pushing beneath the hem of your dress, fingertips brushing the lace of your panties.

Your whole body shook.

"Read somethin’ for me, baby."

Your breath hitched.

"C’mon." His thumbs brushed soft circles against your inner thighs, slow, lazy, patient. "Lemme hear it."

The book had fallen from your lap, pages fanned out against the floor, the words lost in the weight of the moment, in the heat curling through your body. But Ben just reached down, scooped it up with lazy ease, brushing off the cover before pressing it back into your trembling hands.

"Don’t lose your place now, sweetheart."

And then—

His fingers brushed over your clit. A slow, lazy pass over the thin fabric of your panties, teasing, coaxing, not nearly enough.

Your breath hitched. Your spine straightened. Your thighs twitched, but he caught them, thumbs stroking soft over the insides of them, holding them open, keeping you there.

And then, lower.

His touch slid down, pressing against the damp fabric, dragging slow, deliberate, feeling the heat, the slick, the evidence of how fucking ruined you already were.

He hummed, low, approving, smug.

"Always so fuckin’ wet for me."

Your stomach dropped. Your face burned. And before you could react—

He moved. Stood suddenly, pulling you up with him like you weighed nothing, like you were his to move, his to hold, his to do whatever the fuck he wanted with.

A startled gasp slipped from your lips, hands catching against his chest, book clutching tight in your grip as he dropped back down onto the bed, pulling you with him, pulling you into his lap, pulling you against him.

You were breathless, wide-eyed, straddling his thighs, held firm in his grasp, his hands smoothing slow over your waist, your hips, your thighs.

"Read to me."

Your stomach flipped. Your pulse stammered.

"Again?" Your voice was smaller now, breathless, uncertain.

His grin stretched wider, eyes heavy, dark, devouring.

"Liked it last time."

You swallowed. You nodded. And then, slowly, you looked down. The pages in your lap blurred slightly at the edges, your hands still trembling, your breath uneven. But you found the words. And you started to read.

"He's equal with the Gods, that man—"

His lips brushed against your throat.

Your voice hitched.

"Who sits across from you, face to face—"

His mouth dragged over your jaw, slow, soft, warm.

"Close enough, to sip your voice’s sweetness—"

A kiss, just beneath your ear. Your fingers trembled against the pages.

"And what excites my mind, your laughter, glittering. So—"

His lips found yours. Soft, coaxing, tasting the words as they slipped from your tongue.

"When I see you, for a moment, my voice goes—"

His thumb traced slow, lazy circles against your thigh, slipping just beneath the hem of your dress. Your breath shuddered.

"My tongue freezes. Fire, delicate fire, in the flesh—"

His fingers pressed against you again, warm, firm, teasing, coaxing.

"Blind, stunned, the sound of thunder, in my ears—"

His tongue traced the seam of your lips, parting them effortlessly, drinking in the shaky breath that tumbled from your mouth.

"Shivering with sweat, cold tremors over the skin—"

Your whole body shook.

"I turn the colour of dead grass—"

His teeth caught your bottom lip, a slow, indulgent pull, breaking only to murmur against your mouth—

"Yeah, sweetheart." His hands tightened on your thighs, fingers teasing at the lace of your panties, thumbs stroking against the heat of your skin. "Think you’re feelin’ it now, huh?"

Your breath stammered. Your spine curved. Your head tipped back.

And then—

"I’m an inch from dying."

The book slipped from your hands. Your whole body burned. And Ben just smirked. Because now? Now, he had you exactly where he wanted you.

The book had fallen from your lap, forgotten, abandoned. Your hands were shaking, trembling, weak as they slid down his chest, fisting the fabric of his shirt, nails scraping lightly over the muscle underneath, pressing, searching.

Ben chuckled, low, indulgent, watching you with something slow-burning, something wrecking, something like he had known all along that this was exactly how it would happen.

"That’s it, sweetheart." His voice was like whiskey and honey, thick and warm, sinking into your skin. "Knew you’d get there eventually."

Your fingers fumbled at his belt, struggling with the buckle, heart hammering, pulse quickening as he shifted, letting you. Letting you fall deeper. Letting you give yourself to him completely.

"Never thought a sweet little thing like you would be so goddamn eager."

His fingers dragged slow over your panties, teasing, pressing, feeling how wet you were for him. You whined. High and soft, breath stuttering, body arching, desperate for more, for him, for everything. And he was eating it up.

"Goddamn." He groaned, grinning wide, wrecked, indulgent. "You were fuckin’ made for this, huh?"

Your breath shook. Your hands grasped at him, pulling, pulling, needing more, needing him. And then you nipped at his lip. A small, instinctual thing, sharp and fleeting, a barely-there bite—

And he lost it.

"Fuck—"

A rough, low groan, a quick, sharp inhale, then, suddenly, he had you pinned tighter against him, hands gripping, anchoring, locking you against his chest.

"Good girl." His voice was lower now, thicker, reverent and wrecking all at once. "That’s my good fuckin' girl."

His hands slid down, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, two fingers, deep, stretching, filling. Sinking in with zero resistance, aided by the slick mess between your legs. Entirely his doing.

Your whole body jerked. A sharp, wrecked gasp tore from your throat, high and soft, muffled against his mouth.

And Ben just groaned.

"Shit."

His free hand gripped at your hip, holding you still as his fingers pressed in deeper, curling slow, deliberate, seeking that gummy spot he knew you liked, until—

"There she is."

Your back arched violently. A broken, breathless whimper slipped from your lips, spine curving, thighs twitching as he found it, that perfect, spongey spot inside you, pressing, coaxing, pulling you apart.

"There she fuckin' is." His voice was softer now, sweet and filthy all at once, the perfect fucking juxtaposition, his lips brushing yours, drinking in every single sound you gave him. "Knew you’d feel so fuckin’ good like this."

Your hands were shaking, gripping onto his belt, onto his shirt, onto anything, but nothing was enough.

"That’s my fuckin' girl."

His fingers pumped slow, lazy, stroking deep, pulling back just to press in again, dragging against that spot that made your whole body go tight and weak all at once.

"Knew you’d fall for me eventually."

Your breath caught. Your thighs clenched around his hips.

His fingers curled inside you again, stroking, pressing, coaxing, dragging you closer and closer, making you shake against him.

Your hands grasped at his chest, at his belt, at anything, mind spinning, breath stammering, the heat curling up your spine making it impossible to think, impossible to do anything but want.

And Ben? Ben was watching you fall apart like it was the most fun he’d had in decades.

"You wanna come, baby?"

You nodded. A frantic, desperate little nod, teeth catching your bottom lip, thighs tight around his hips.

"Yeah?"

His free hand slipped to your waist, gripping, anchoring you down against him.

"My sweet little thing wants to come on my fingers, huh?"

You whined. Pressed closer. Kept stroking over the thick outline of his cock, palming him through his jeans, feeling the heat, the weight of him.

And he just groaned.

"Fuckin’ hell."

He was grinning now, indulgent, wrecked, soaking in every desperate little movement, every sound, every way your body responded to him.

"So goddamn eager."

His fingers slipped deeper, pressing right against that perfect, wrecking spot, pushing, pushing, pushing—

And then?

Riiiip.

A sharp, rough tear of fabric—

And suddenly, you were bare.

The middle seam of your panties was gone, split right down the centre, the ruined lace still sitting around your hips like some kind of harness, some kind of reminder that he could tear you open any fucking way he wanted.

You gasped. Your whole body jerked. And you shattered. A wrecked, high whimper caught in your throat, back arching, legs trembling, pleasure rushing through you like a violent, unstoppable flood.

Ben just laughed, a low, rough chuckle, pleased, indulgent, so fucking smug you could feel it radiating off of him.

"There you go, there you fuckin' go."

His hands tightened on you, holding you through it, watching you fall apart in his lap, soaking his fingers, making a mess of him.

"Mine."

Your breath shuddered, body still twitching, thighs still shaking, but he wasn’t done. Not even close. He shifted—lifting you slightly, shoving his jeans down just enough to free his cock, groaning deep as the thick, aching weight of it slapped against his stomach.

And then he pulled you back down. Not inside you—

Not yet. But close. Too close.

"Fuck, baby—" His voice was wrecked, heavy, soaked in something filthy and reverent all at once.

His hands gripped your thighs, pulling you against him, using the slick mess you had just made to rut himself against you, dragging his cock through your folds, coating himself in you.

You choked on a gasp. The heat of him, the weight of him, the feel of his cock dragging over your swollen clit, the way he was gripping you like he’d been waiting years for this—it was too much.

And his mouth was running.

"Fuck, look at you."

A sharp, rough thrust against you, a groan catching in his throat.

"So goddamn sweet."

Another grind, another filthy drag of his cock over your soaked cunt, slick coating him, making him groan deep, grip tightening.

"So soft."

A slow, deliberate roll of his hips, teasing, wrecking, making you twitch, making you whimper.

"Fuckin' knew you’d take me like this."

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, trying to ground yourself, trying to hold onto something—

"Always knew you’d be my perfect little thing."

A low, dragging groan, his mouth brushing your jaw, your throat, your lips.

"Gonna let me fuck you now, baby?"

Your nod was barely there, barely a movement, barely enough—but for Ben? It was everything. Because the second you gave him that little signal?

You were gone.

And he fucking knew it.

He moved fast, too fast, flipping you beneath him, pressing you into the mattress before you even had a chance to breathe, to think, to do anything but gasp as the air shifted around you.

Your back hit the sheets, a sharp, startled yelp slipping from your lips—

And then he was there.

Between your legs. Caging you in. Looming over you.

His hands braced at either side of your head, his body settling against yours, the thick, heavy weight of his cock dragging through your slick folds, coating himself in the mess he’d already pulled from you.

And when you looked up, he was grinning. That slow, wolfish, cocky fucking grin.

"Ain’t backin’ out now, sweetheart."

You shook your head. A shaky, breathless, desperate little shake.

Ben just chuckled. "Yeah." His hand slid down, gripping your hip, holding you still, keeping you open. "Didn’t think so."

And then he pushed inside.

Your breath caught. Your whole body went tense, burning, stretching, aching, feeling every single inch of him as he sank deeper, deeper, deeper—

"Jesus fuckin’ Christ—"

His voice was wrecked, strained, groaning low as he pushed further, sinking slow, letting himself feel every tight, wet inch of you around him.

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, hard, too hard, trying to keep quiet, trying to brace yourself—but Ben wasn’t having that.

"Nah." His thumb brushed against your mouth, catching your lip, pulling it free. "None of that, baby."

He sank deeper, pressing in until there was nowhere left to go, until he was fully seated inside you, until he had stretched you open completely.

"Holy fuck—"

His head tipped back, a sharp, ragged breath ripping through him, his fingers gripping tight at your waist, holding you there, keeping you full.

"You’re so goddamn tight."

His hips flexed, his cock twitching inside you, a low, reverent groan slipping from his lips.

"So wet. Jesus Christ, doll—"

He shifted, rocking forward just slightly, making you feel every thick inch of him, making sure you knew exactly what you had taken.

"Think I'm gonna break you, baby."

His grin was wrecked now, breathless, his mouth running, running, running.

"Never felt a cunt like this."

Your fingers dug into his biceps, nails scraping over muscle, body trembling under him.

"Gonna lose my fuckin’ mind."

His hips rolled slow, just a little, just enough to make you whimper, just enough to feel the way your walls clenched around him, the way your body took him so perfectly.

"Gonna bruise your insides, baby."

A low, growling sound, his mouth dragging over your jaw, your throat, kissing, sucking, biting—

"Gonna make sure you feel me for days."

His teeth scraped against your pulse point, tongue smoothing over it, sucking, tasting, claiming.

"Gonna leave you so fuckin’ full, you won’t even be able to think straight."

Your breath hitched. Your back arched. His grip tightened.

"Gonna leave my marks all over you, sweetheart."

A sharp nip at your collarbone, another, another, his mouth dragging over your skin, his tongue soothing over each bite.

"Gonna make this pretty skin all purple and red."

Your hands were shaking now, grasping at his shoulders, at his back, at anything, at everything.

"Gonna ruin you."

His lips found yours, hot, hungry, devouring, kissing you like he was already lost in you.

"And you’re gonna let me."

Ben was gone. The slow, teasing restraint, the smug, indulgent control? Gone.

All that was left was instinct. All that was left was hunger. All that was left was the sheer, unhinged need to claim, to wreck, to fucking own.

"Fuck, sweetheart—" His voice was rough, guttural, lost, groaning deep as his hips snapped into yours, thrusts hitting deeper, harder, dragging wrecked sounds from your throat. "Knew you had some good fuckin’ sounds bottled up."

His teeth scraped over your jaw, your throat, sucking at the mark he had left days before, deepening it, making sure it was there to fucking stay.

"Knew you’d sound so fuckin’ sweet once I got my cock in you."

You were a mess now, panting, gasping, moaning breathless and desperate as he ruined you, tore you apart, made sure there was nothing left untouched, nothing left unstained.

And then—

He moved you.

A sharp, strong grip on your thigh, pressing it up against your chest, holding it there, using it, fucking you deeper, harder, the new angle making your whole body tremble beneath him.

"Jesus fuckin’ Christ—"

A low, wrecked growl, his hands gripping, his body pressing, his thrusts sharp and punishing, dragging sounds from your throat that you’d never heard before.

"You feel that, baby?"

You whimpered.

"Feel how fuckin’ deep I am?"

Your head tipped back, mouth open, breath stolen.

"You’re gonna fuckin’ milk me, sweetheart."

A sharp, wrecked groan, his pace stuttering, hips slamming, his hold on you tightening.

"Gonna make it fuckin’ stick."

Your stomach clenched, thighs trembling, body tightening around him, pleasure clawing up your spine, wrecking you from the inside out.

"Shit, baby—"

His mouth was back on yours, hot, wet, consuming, licking into you like he was already devouring you completely. And then he leaned back. A rough exhale, a sharp drag of his gaze over your face, your swollen lips, your wrecked expression.

"Open."

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t hesitate. You just obeyed. Mouth parting, lips wet, swollen, breathless, waiting.

And Ben groaned. A deep, wrecked, low sound, eyes rolling back just slightly, his grip on your thigh tightening like he was about to fucking lose it.

"Fuckin' angel, shit—"

He spat into your mouth. A slow, thick drop, messy and filthy and perfect. And you swallowed.

Without question. Without hesitation. Without him even having to ask.

And Ben just stared. Eyes dark, blown wide, breath ragged, his hips snapping rough, sharp, his control completely unraveling.

"Christ on a fuckin' cross, fuckin' sweet, little—" A low, growling sound, his whole body shaking, his thrusts turning brutal, desperate, frenzied. "That’s my fuckin’ girl."

And you weren’t coming back from this. You were his now. It was too much. The way he was pressing you down, the way his hips were slamming into yours, the way his hand was gripping your thigh tight against your chest, his thrusts brutal, unrelenting, deep. The way he was talking to you, fucking you through every wrecked sound, every desperate little whimper, every gasp that slipped past your swollen lips.

And the pleasure?

The pleasure was so sharp, so overwhelming, so good that you started sobbing. Little shaky, breathless sobs, spilling past your lips, unable to hold them back, unable to stop them.

"Feels so good—" A high, broken whimper, head tipping back against the pillows, body trembling, thighs shaking. "Gonna come again—"

Ben groaned, rough and deep, hips snapping forward, fingers digging into your thigh, grip tightening like he could already feel it, like he could already feel you tightening around him, dragging him down with you.

"I know, baby." His voice was wrecked, strained, slurring low against your jaw, lips dragging over your pulse, teeth scraping over the bruised, marked skin. "Can feel you, sweetheart."

Another harsh thrust, dragging a sob from your throat, making you arch, making you clench tighter around him.

"Fuckin’ milkin’ my cock, ain’t you?"

Your breath stammered, words catching, body tightening.

"Say it, baby."

You whimpered.

"C’mon, sweetheart, say it back."

His voice was low, coaxing, sinful, filth dripping from every syllable as he pushed harder, deeper, making sure you couldn’t focus on anything but him.

"Tell me how bad you want it."

Your fingers clawed at his back, nails digging in, legs trembling around his waist, stomach tightening.

"Tell me who’s fuckin’ you this good."

"You," you sobbed, breathless, desperate, wrecked.

Ben groaned. "Yeah, baby."

Another sharp thrust, deep, so deep, hitting that spot that had you shaking, had you falling, had you right on the edge.

"That’s my girl, my fuckin' girl. Mine." He pushed further. "Say it, baby. Say it all."

His mouth was against your jaw, your ear, his breath hot and heavy and wrecked.

"Tell me who’s makin’ this pretty little pussy come."

Your breath caught, stomach twisting, pleasure blinding, fogging up your brain, making it impossible to think.

"You—"

"Tell me you’re mine."

A wrecked moan, his voice rough, desperate, demanding.

"Yours—"

"Tell me who you belong to, baby."

"You, Ben—"

And that?

That broke him.

A sharp, guttural groan ripped through him, something primal, something wrecked, something utterly fucking feral.

"That’s my fuckin’ housewife."

Your stomach clenched. Your whole body went tight, breath breaking, everything spiralling—

"You’re mine, sweetheart."

His hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt, grinding deep, grinding filthy, his cock twitching, his whole body shuddering.

"Keeping you."

Your eyes rolled back, mouth falling open, thighs clenching around him, pleasure ripping through you.

"Gonna fill you up, baby."

A wrecked, needy whimper, body trembling, shaking, legs locking around his waist.

"Gonna fuckin’ breed you."

You came so hard you nearly blacked out.

A sharp, wrecked sob tore from your throat, back arching, thighs clenching tight, walls tightening around him so hard it knocked the air from his lungs.

And Ben lost it. A rough, wrecked growl, his hips jerking, his cock twitching, a sharp gasp cutting through his teeth—he buried himself deep. Holding you tight, body pressing firm, cock twitching as he spilled inside you, groaning low and ruined against your jaw, pressing his lips hard to your neck.

Filling you. Marking you. Claiming you.

The weight of him crushed you into the mattress. Heavy, solid, sweat-damp and burning, pressing down over every inch of you, keeping you pinned beneath him, holding you there.

And you sighed.

Content. Achey. Buzzing all over.

Your fingers threaded through his damp hair, combing slow, scratching soft at his scalp. And he didn’t stop you. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t mock you for it.

Instead? He almost leaned into it. Just a little. Like he liked it. Like he could get used to it. His breath fanned hot against your neck, lips still barely brushing over the bruised skin.

"Meant what I fuckin' said."

Your eyes flickered open, still hazy, still buzzing, still high off him.

"What?"

A slow, lazy inhale, his chest rising and falling against yours, pressing warm into you.

"Meant it when I said I’m keepin’ you."

Your stomach flipped. Your breath caught.

"Ain’t goin’ nowhere now, sweetheart." His voice was low, scratchy, tired, but so fucking sure, so fucking certain. "And your pussy brother can deal with it."

A small, breathless chuckle slipped past your lips. The first real sound since he’d wrecked you.

"As long as you let me teach you all about poetry—" Your fingers dragged slow through his hair again, smoothing the damp strands. "I’ll be yours for as long as you want."

Ben just grunted. A rough, pleased sound, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss against the bruise he’d just sucked into your neck.

"Sounds like a fair fuckin' deal to me, honey."

Corruption does not feel like ruin.

Not when it happens like this—slow, creeping, inevitable.

Not when it is whispered against your skin in the dark, not when it is coaxed from your lips between kisses, not when it presses deep inside you and stays there.

Not when you welcome it.

Because corruption is not fire and fury.

It is quieter than that. Softer. A hand that holds instead of strangles. A mouth that bruises instead of bites. A body that cages instead of crushes.

A steady unraveling, thread by thread—until there is nothing left to unravel, until you are something else entirely. Something ruined.

Something claimed.

@mostlymarvelgirl <3 @lunaleah <3

[funnyscienceman]

"Where did that come from??" the saga

(or: everytime [off the top of my head] Arcane took me out of it because a line of dialogue came with no setup/confused me greatly when it happened)

"Nothing feels impossible when I'm with you."

"We're having the exact same day."

"He'll come back to us."

Viktor's fucking monologue in s2e6. What are you going on about

whatever tf ekko said in s2e7 about not believing in or having hope for zaun or smth

"You are no Medarda."

"You always wanted to cure what you thought were weaknesses. Your leg. Your disease. But you were never broken, Viktor. Your imperfections made you who you are."

Honorable Mentions:

Jayce and Viktor's """break up""" in s2e2 (viktor sleepwalked through it and both their dialogue felt more like someone reading the draft outline of the scene rather than the event in actuality)

"You really are a—" "Big fat hero!" (didnt know riot was disney now :/)

Ambessa proposing to work with Viktor. ...like in general. ...Ambessa in season 2, really, there's a world of difference between ambessa in s1 and ambessa in s2

Mel and Jayce's scenes together in s2e8 (slightly less egregious but Only Slightly. by like 1 millimeter)

And if you noticed the distinct lack of the caitvi-jinx-warwick side of things thats because i found their s2 story the stupidest of them all. my brain has wiped it completely. i will not subject myself to them again 👍

[justanotherabbystan]

Episode two left me with so much to unpack, I'm not even sure where to start. I've been holding back my thoughts on the show for a while now, but this episode brought up some things that really bothered me. And while I understand this is an adaptation and not a direct remake, I still wanted to share my perspective.

• Why was Abby’s flashback cut short? I was hoping the show would have included the moment in Abby's flashback where she finds her father's body. In the game, that moment, especially her cries for him, is incredibly impactful and it shows the immense trauma she experienced. Including that scene in the show, I believe, would have deepened the audience's understanding of her tragedy.

• No Ellie and Dina smoking scene? The absence of that scene between Ellie and Dina feels like a missed opportunity in developing their personal connection. It's in that moment that Ellie finds the comfort and trust to reveal her bite mark to Dina. Even though Dina initially doubts her, this vulnerability shows the depth of Ellie's trust in Dina with such a big secret, something she's kept hidden from almost everyone.

• Why was Abby’s monologue so long in Joel’s death scene? Abby is a woman of few words; she shows, she doesn’t tell, and I’m sure that all of us die-hard Abby fans know that. I appreciate that she actually called out Joel for what he did, explicitly stating that he killed her father, which forces him to feel some degree of guilt, if he’s even capable of feeling guilt to begin with. It was about time someone held Joel accountable for his actions. In episode 1, Joel constantly acts as if he is innocent, pretending he didn’t murder hundreds of people in cold blood, and he maintains the facade of being a good man. I understand that he may have tried to redeem himself in his old age, but that doesn’t erase his past actions. I personally feel like it was very out of character for Abby to have so much dialogue in the tv show.

• Dina being sedated? What was that about? Yes, maybe they just wanted to highlight the fact that Mel is a medic, but was it really necessary for them to sedate her?

• Abby telling Mel, ‘if you don’t do it, I’m gonna smash her in the fuckin head’ ??? Umm, no. Abby wouldn’t say something like that. As I previously said, she is a woman of few words and never expressed a desire to hurt Ellie or Tommy in the game, in fact, she chose to let them live, so it was very out of character for tv show Abby to say that. That portrayal doesn’t sit right with me at all. Abby already faces so much unnecessary hate, let’s not make her seem like someone who finds joy in inflicting pain on others, yeah? Yes, Neil Druckmann and Craig Maizin, I’m talking about you.

• Please explain to me why Abby called Joel handsome TWICE. Once in the first episode, and another time in the second episode. What does that have to do with the story? It literally makes zero sense to me.

• This is what really made my blood boil. In the game, Abby is a strong, muscular woman who takes down infected and people with her bare fists. In the game, she kills Joel with a golf club, never even punching him once. But in the TV show, they portray Abby as a petite woman who starts punching Joel to death? It just doesn’t make sense. Neil has stated that Abby’s physique doesn’t play an important role in this version of the story, which is already infuriating considering that her muscularity in the game comes from years of training and pushing herself to her limits after her dad was killed. Then, they have TV show Abby punch Joel almost to death before stabbing him in the neck with a broken golf club. This doesn’t add up because, in the game, she never even broke the golf club despite her incredible strength. So how does TV show Abby manage to break it so easily?

• In the game, Abby is clearly conflicted after she kills Joel, and it’s evident that it doesn’t make her feel any better. Her nightmares continue, indicating that she doesn’t find solace in his death. It would have been nice to see the same remorse on Abby’s face in the TV show, emphasizing that she didn’t find joy in killing Joel, as many people claim she did.

These are just my opinions, and everyone has the right to their own.