#but i don't think i'm in danger of that happening

[vanagold]

The fact that Anya went to medical school so many times so she has probably studied the symptoms of pregnancy which means she probably knew she was pregnant in the first couple of weeks and then that pulled the last string for her to realize her suspicions of Jimmy raping her was right, I don't think she knew Jimmy raped her because I think she was drugged. Jimmy knows how to make a spiked cocktail and knew that Swansea would not die and just be passed out and "forget everything once he wakes up". That seems really suspicious, and definitely persecutes the idea of Jimmy drugging Anya and raping her while she's unconscious/sleeping in her sleeping quarter. Which is also why she asks curly, "Why do you think Pony Express put a lock on the medical bay but not on the sleeping quarters?" She was trying to hint to Curly what was happening to her because she had her suspicions but didn't have full fledged evidence to show. Her knowing she was pregnant fully cleared her suspicions of her being raped multiple times at night in her bed and hear me out but; I'm pretty sure she had a few miscarriages, think about it, she was stressed in a spaceship with her abuser, only men, and in the vast emptiness of space. Heavy amounts of stress causes miscarriages in women so she might've been pregnant multiple times but had miscarriages, until she didn't, until she actually had a fetus growing inside of her. She's a nurse, and I think she know's about abortions but she's in the emptiness of space, a ship full of men, and her abuser which if he founds out about this child who knows what Jimmy might do. (Crashes the ship) She had no one to go to and performing an abortion on herself is vastly dangerous and just puts her and the child at risk. If she were to give birth on the ship it would be horrible for the child and her. The child wouldn't have basic necessities for their survival so that's an automatic no-go for labor, plus Jimmy being the father and knowing he has power to the ship is just way too much for the child and Anya. Her killing herself with pills gave her one last freedom of choice to make it out of this hell and free her baby and herself.

take care of it

[doberbutts]

My would-be rapist died earlier this week and I have been having a lot of Complicated Feelings about it since being told. Long story short he died because he was once again being a creep and someone intervened and ended up cracking open his skull and he died from a brain bleed two days later. And I'm just thinking about how 18 years ago this guy was actively attempting to groom me in the middle of church and bible study and only stopped because my parents believed me when they pried the truth out of me. And how that stopped him from pursuing me but not from just switching to Someone Else until it became multiple Someone Else's and the above situation happened.

Truthfully I don't really know what to feel, or think. I am not sad that he is dead. I'm not really happy either. I think he is an excellent example of the multiple failures we have as a society to protect our most vulnerable populations. He is who I think of when I ask what we do with repeat offenders who do not seem to be getting the message that they are making bad choices, and how we're supposed to protect vulnerable people from predators like him.

I do think, for the most part, that prison reform and prison abolition is a good thing. I do think that the death penalty sets a dangerous precedent.

But what do we do with a man who has hurt person after person after person, who even when confined to a facility for the rest of his life (ie, effectively a prison) continues to prey upon patients and staff alike, until he is sent to an all-male facility and even then tries it with a female CNA before another male patient witnesses it and does something about it?

I don't even know if the other guy realizes what a service he's done to this dude's victims, or the collective sigh of relief his victims took upon the news of his demise.

I will not light a candle for you, Joel. Not even your own family is attending your funeral, or pressing charges against the facility or the man who killed you. But it does make me think about how this could have been better resolved, if it could have been, if a better outcome than a long string of sexual assaults and rapes ultimately ending in a violent death could have been had.

He never did manage to get me. But he would have, if my parents hadn't stepped in on my behalf. He was bold enough to try it while they were just downstairs, reading and discussing from religious texts. Bold enough to put his hands on me in the middle of church as the pastor spoke and everyone could see. To my knowledge, I was his first- or was I? Was he bold because he was inexperienced in doing this, or because he was riding the high of having gotten away with it before? Clearly getting caught just taught him to be more subtle, rather than that he shouldn't have been doing it in the first place.

I think if he had succeeded with me, I would currently be very glad to hear about his death.

But he didn't, so now I am thinking about these things. And feeling a little, play stupid games win stupid prizes.

[thewertsearch]

pipefan413: The children pledged to each other that one day they would run away together. pipefan413: They followed in the footsteps of the dear colonel, in defiance of the old batterwitch. They studied his every jape, and practiced them in secret!

She could have left, then. Planned to leave, even. Grandpa didn’t abandon her, like I'd originally assumed – he always intended to flee alongside her.

pipefan413: But as they grew older, their interests drifted apart. The boy developed a passion for adventure and put aside his study of practical jokes. He dreamed of wealth and fame and discovery and swore he would wander the world. pipefan413: One day he decided to run away with the loyal dog he inherited from their father. He asked the girl if she would come along, but she was too scared of the retribution that might follow.

But I guess the adolescent Nanna didn’t have Grandpa’s confidence, nor his fearlessness. Left alone with a witch of a woman, her childhood was probably not dissimilar to many other children in this sad saga.

pipefan413: The boy scoffed at the danger, and assured his sister there was nothing to worry about. But he had not seen first hand what the baroness was capable of!

It sounds like Nanna directly witnessed some specific evil act. The woman did run a corporation, though, so that was probably just a typical Tuesday for Betty Crocker.

pipefan413: He told his sister that he believed in her, and that she could handle whatever the witch could throw at her. [...]

Those are some pretty harsh words for a girl destined for a lifetime of abuse - but at the same time, he did openly ask her to run away with him, and she couldn't do it. What was he meant to do, kidnap her?

I don't blame him for leaving alone, either. Grandpa was also an abused child, and it would be asking a lot of him to remain in an abusive household to defend another child. He needed to leave that situation for his sake, just as Nanna needed to leave it for hers.

Pipefan413: [...] And with that, he was off, and she would never see him again.

But, all that said, he should have come back eventually. He didn’t need to abandon her for an entire lifetime.

Whatever extenuating circumstances there may have been, it can't be denied that he started his life as an adventurer the same way he ended it - by leaving someone who loved him behind.

pipefan413: One day, the girl was able to gather enough bravery to mention her brother to the baroness, and her desire to see him again. With contempt, she guaranteed that this could never happen. When the girl asked why, that is when the baroness began to reveal to her more than just her baking secrets. pipefan413: [...] The colonel was not their father, nor was the baroness their mother. They in fact had no father or mother at all, nor were they ever actually born. They had both fallen from the sky! They were not actually brother and sister as they had been told either. Again like in many fairy tales, the truth was that they were always destined to become married one day. They were to have two children, a son and a daughter, and these children were meant to save the world! […]

Wait, what? Betty Crocker knew Sburb lore?

...I think it says quite a lot about the Homestuck experience that I'm not even particularly surprised. Of course Betty Crocker knew Sburb lore.

It’s clear that she didn't know everything, though. She was aware that John and Jade would eventually happen, but assumed they’d be born naturally - which makes it sound like she was just getting fragments of future events, much like a Prospit dreamer’s visions.

...or, like a wielder of the Cueball, which we already know was in her family’s possession. It’s sounding a lot like even Betty fucking Crocker was a Scratch pawn all along.

[weirdmarioenemies]

Name: Corori

Debut: Kirby's Dream Land 3

A penguin! What's more Christmas than a penguin? Many things. Many, many things. But they're still moderately Christmas. That's just your lot in life when you're an inherently whimsical creature living in a world of ice and snow!

While real Antarctic penguins are constantly fighting for their lives in a freezing polar desert, Corori is having a whole lot of fun! Instead of huddling with anyone else for warmth, it is playing with a snowball, rolling it up and pushing it down a slope. Yippee! What allows it to be unaffected by the elements? Clearly, the answer is its cute little hat. And the fact that its feet are so close to its blubbery little body. I know you don't see any, but they're there, I promise!

Corori's snowball is dangerous! What did you expect? This is a big rolling ball in a platformer! One must wonder, though, how much harm it actually intends, especially because I doubt it can see around that thing to know if anyone is in the way. Maybe it is just trying to get the snowball bigger to make the biggest damned snowman anyone's ever seen... don't tell Corori about Snowman's Land, please. It would be rather disheartened. After it pushes the snowball... that's it! It only had the one. I hope you liked it!

So, Corori is pretty "cool", huh? I think it's very n"ice"! There's "snow" doubt about that! If you don't like Corori, I might just have to give you the "cold" shoulder. If I ever saw one in real life, I would hope to have a "polar"oid camera on me! "Antarctic Krill"

Anyway, Corori gives no ability in this game. And it sort of makes sense, I suppose? Previous (and future) games would have penguin enemies with the Ice ability, but these are typically ones that have intrinsic Ice Powers, while Corori, as far as we know, is just playing with the snow. I could do that! But it doesn't make me able to produce ice from my body. With my unique biological abilities, I would yield the Pee ability!

After Kirby's Dream Land 3, Corori was gone. No one had any contact with them. They left no note. We did not know what happened, and resigned ourselves to a world where we would never see Corori again...

Until, after 25 years, Corori returned! "I'm back," said Corori, "and more powerful than ever." Indeed, in Kirby and the Forgotten Land, Corori can now make multiple snowballs, getting to work on a new one right after pushing the previous away! You will also now notice its little orange feet, no longer hidden within its body. Enhanced snowball craft? Increased cold resistance? Could it be? Yes! Corori is now a source of the Ice ability! And its hat is so realistic now! I feel like I could wear that! But I won't. It's not mine.

[fromchaostocosmos]

who is the They.

I hate this. I really fucking hate this.

There is no ethical or moral way to become a billionaire or multi-multi millionaire. (I'm not talking about someone who might have a 5 million or even 20 million I'm talking hundreds of millions here)

I've been pretty consistent in that I don't think capitalism is ethical and that the only for the capitalistic system to stay is with it being highly regulated, with lots of oversight, and fair amount merged with socialism i.e public healthcare, public schools, public works, etc.

I've also been very honest about the rampant antisemitism in anti-capitalism rhetoric. I've pointed it out and warned about it. I've begged, I've demanded, I've pleaded that antisemitism be rooted out.

I've warned about what happens when it is not. I've shown historic examples and modern examples of what happens when it is not and what that antisemitism in these spaces look like.

I am Jewish, my family is Jewish. My family lives in large religious Jewish community and large religious Jewish communities are the first ones that get attacked because they are the most obviously Jewish ones and the most visible ones.

Every time I speak with the first thing I ask them is "Is everyone safe, has there been attacks, did anything happen" and the last thing I say "please stay safe, be careful, be cautious, keep an eye on your surroundings, on Shabbat make sure aren't walking by yourself" I'm saying this my older siblings, to my dad.

If you are not Jewish you might be asking why am I bringing any of this up here on this post.

And I'll tell you why. It is because the wording of this post by OP terrifies me.

I have been called a leech for being Jewish. My people have been called leeches for being Jewish.

We have called some ominous They time and again who come and sow division and strife to divide the people and cause trouble.

You want to point out the problems with the current system great, do it. I do it too.

But instead of They maybe just say who you are talking about. Maybe instead of using classic antisemitic rhetoric just speak honestly and frankly about who you are talking about and the problems with the current system.

Because using this way of speaking doesn't hurt the extremely wealthy and it doesn't help everyone else.

No what is does is endanger Jewish lives, further promulgates and perpetuates antisemitic lies and stereotypes about Jewish and money adding fuel and new eyes to antisemitic conspiracy theories.

So stop it. Because right now antisemitism it at the worst it has been in decades and antisemitic hates crimes are at the worst they have ever been since they been counted as a hate crime.

Stop putting my life at in danger, stop putting my family's lives in danger, and stop putting my people's lives in danger.

Stop it. Do better.

Fuckin gottem boys

[genderqueerdykes]

Thanks for being pro endo. I think I might be traumagenic but I do NOT feel safe in anti-endo spaces because they are constantly looking for "proof" that you are a faker. It makes me on edge in so-called "safe spaces."

Also, I really don't like to disclose to just anyone that I have trauma. It's nobody's business what happened to me when I was a child.

you should NEVER have to disclose your trauma- that leaves you vulnerable for people leveraging that knowledge against you and being re-traumatized or encountering new trauma. that is dangerous and honestly, i am raising my eyebrow at every single person who demands someone divulge their trauma and triggers. why exactly do you need that information? it's sketchy. it's going to be used as ammunition. it has nothing to do with "proving" that ur plural, this is clearly someone who wants to collect this information so they can knowingly use it against you and abuse you.

like, it's extremely obvious. it's not about "proving" that you're traumatized. it's about having blackmail against you. you're on the right track here, this goes to EVERYONE: DO NOT DETAIL YOUR TRAUMA AND TRIGGERS TO INTERNET STRANGERS. DON'T EVEN DO IT FOR YOUR FRIENDS. THIS LEAVES YOU EXTREMELY VULNERABLE.

it sucks. i'm sorry that you've had to deal with this. i barely interact with online plural communities anymore because the fighting is literally so fucking pointless. we're not having conversations about plurality anymore. people like this don't give a singular fuck about the plural experience and sharing how diverse plurality is. all they care about is controlling other people. if you come across people like anon detailed in plural spaces: they do not give a singular shit about spreading correct information on plurality and literally just want to control people.

take care of yourself, try to stay safe out there as best as you can. there are good plurals out there who get you. it's just a very vocal minority who decide that they get to use their 5 minutes of research into dissociative plurality against people who have real world experiences. like the vast majority of the time the people who do this don't actually know shit about dissociative plurality itself, let alone. i'll have people try to offer me "sources" on the matter, but i know that they haven't done research outside of being able to pull up a few papers to look smug and smart. it's old. it's hurting people. all this is accomplishing is hurting people. it's not about helping people understand dissociative plurality. it's about controlling and hurting people on purpose.

[ohisms]

✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐈 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 . ( a collection of dialogue prompts from the film the hobbit : the desolation of smaug . adjust phrasing as necessary . )

this is no chance meeting , is it , [ name ] ?

take back your homeland .

what if i were to help you reclaim it ?

that's not the worst of it .

we have another problem .

what did i tell you ? quiet as a mouse .

will you just listen ? i'm trying to tell you there's something else out there .

the bear is unpredictable , the man can be reasoned with .

come away from there , it's not natural . none of it .

it's obvious , he's under some dark spell .

you'll be safe here tonight ... i hope .

we grow in number , we grow in strength .

death will come to all .

there are others like you ?

you're running out of time .

a darkness lies upon that forest .

i would not venture there except in great need .

go now while you have the light .

this forest feels ... sick . as if a disease lies upon it .

something moves in the shadows unseen , hidden from our sight .

if our enemy has returned , we must know .

i would not do this unless i had to .

you've changed , [ name ] .

you must stay on the path . do not leave it . if you do , you'll never find it again .

is there no end to this accursed forest ?

we're going around in circles , we are lost .

the sun . we have to find the sun .

we're being watched .

they're growing bolder .

not just a thief , but a liar as well .

i myself suspect a more prosaic motive .

i have seen how you treat your friends .

you turned away from the suffering of my people .

a hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an elf . i'm patient . i can wait .

did he offer you a deal ?

shh ! there are guards nearby .

you were supposed to be leading us out , not further back in !

are you mad ? they'll find us .

please . please , you must trust me .

this is not a nice place to meet .

why now , [ name ] ? i don't understand .

a human sorcerer could not summon such evil .

in our blindness , the enemy has returned .

the enemy is preparing for war .

i started this . i cannot forsake them , they are in grave danger .

you want me to cast my friends aside ?

i think we've outrun the orcs .

we've no weapons to defend ourselves .

do it again , and you're dead .

what makes you think i would help you ?

no doubt you have some hungry mouths to feed .

oh , come on - enough of the niceties .

i would like to know who you are . and what you're doing in these lands .

we need food , supplies ... weapons . can you help us ?

i'd wager there are ways to enter that town unseen .

for that , you'd need a smuggler .

there was more he could have told us .

i don't care what he calls himself , i don't like him .

we don't have to like him , we just have to pay him .

i've been bled dry by this adventure ! and what have i seen for my investment ?

if you value your freedom , you'll do as i say .

folk in this town are suffering .

you'd do well to remember ; we know where you live .

it's a small town , [ name ] , everyone knows where everyone lives .

who would have the nerve to question my authority ?

you promised us weapons .

death ! that is what you'll bring upon us .

have you forgotten what happened to [ name / location ] ?

let us not be so quick to lay blame .

join us when you're healed .

[ name ] , you belong with the company .

i belong with my brother .

we have no time to wait , we're on our own .

the evil that is hidden here ... i command it reveal itself .

you have keen eyes , [ name ] .

let all those who doubted us rue this day !

i know these walls ... these halls , this stone .

i do not know what you'll find down there .

it never ceases to amaze me . the courage of hobbits .

if there is in fact a live dragon down there , don't waken it .

come , now ... don't be shy . step into the light .

there is something about you , something you carry .

there you are , thief in the shadows .

i did not come to steal from you .

do you think flattery will keep you alive ?

what else do you claim to be ?

truly , you are mistaken .

you have nice manners , for a thief and a liar .

i know the smell and taste of dwarf .

they are drawn to treasure like flies to dead flesh .

did you think i did not know this day would come ?

you should leave us .

and go where ? there is nowhere to go .

the dragon , it's going to kill us .

i kill where i wish , when i wish .

my armor is iron , no blade can pierce me .

i need you to distract the guards .

time to do what , to get killed ?

yes , i'm afraid . i'm afraid for you .

you're not yourself .

the darkness is coming ... it will spread to every corner of the land .

you were only ever a means to an end .

i will not part with a single coin . not one piece of it .

your reputation precedes you .

you have no equal on this earth .

i think our little game ends here .

so tell me , thief ... how do you choose to die ?

we've given him the slip .

there may be a way out .

it's our only chance , we have to try .

i've heard tales of the wonders of elvish medicine .

that was a privilege to witness .

i will not die like this . cowering . gasping for breath .

if this is to end in fire , then we will all burn together .

perhaps it is time i paid them a visit .

this isn't their fault !

you care about them , do you ? good . then you can watch them die .

i am taking back what you stole .

you will take nothing from me .

i laid low your warriors of old . i instilled terror in the hearts of men .

this is not your kingdom . these are dwarf lands .

revenge ? revenge ?! i will show you revenge !

i am fire . i am death .

what have we done ?

[the-lonelybarricade]

Rain Check? - Feysand Oneshot

Summary: 5 times Rhysand didn't take his shot, and the one time Feyre took too many

@carrieeve It's me! Hi! I'm your santa, it's me!

For the @acotargiftexchange, you told me you'd like an AU oneshot that was Feysand focused with a friends to lovers plot - I deliberated a long time over how best to bring that vision to life, and then after some light blog stalking, I saw that you're a fan of Jim/Pam from the Office! I started binging the show for research purproses, and a Feysand office romance was born! 🥰

I really hope you enjoy it! It's been such a joy quietly stalking your blog for these last many months, and I look forward getting to know you even more now that our identities are revealed! 💕

Words: 12k

Read on AO3

-

The first time Rhysand saw Feyre, he thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on.

Only problem—so did every other man in the office. And they didn't exactly disguise their interest in the young, cute receptionist working on the fifth floor of their London skyrise.

After being propositioned by just about every single man in the office, including the ones who fell alarmingly outside her age range—a category which Rhys wasn't confident he was excluded from—he thought the last thing she needed on her first day was another colleague making a pass at her.

He offered a polite hello and welcome, but he intentionally waited until she survived her first week to strike up any further conversation. The chance opened for him when she walked into the break room at the precise moment he was filling up the kettle.

"Hey," he said, tipping the spout to gesture his hello. "Fancy a tea?"

"Oh." She glanced at the kettle, her bow-shaped lips popping open in what he could only assume was surprise. As if she'd walked into the break room expecting anything other than an electric kettle and a pod coffee machine. "I… didn't bring a mug."

"Well, Feyre, I'm not sure how they treated you at your last place, but here, corporate spoils us rotten with communal company branded mugs." Setting the kettle down on the base, Rhys flipped the overhead cabinet open, gesturing to its contents as if he'd unveiled a trove.

The dramatic flair earned him a polite laugh. It was cute, if a little forced. And he craved the chance to learn what her laugh sounded like when it wasn't given out of pity.

He gestured to the middle shelf, which deviated from the monotony of blue logo mugs. "If you do end up bringing a mug in, this is where you can keep it. Though I'll warn you, conversation gets stale here and that almost ensures you'll be asked for its backstory. I recommend bringing in something interesting, unless you want to end up like poor old Drakon."

"What happened to Drakon?"

Rhys gave a hearty sigh as he withdrew two mugs from the cupboard, shaking his head as he said, with the utmost solemnity, "He's known as the guy with a boring mug."

Her lips twitched. He thought that was a genuine smile she might have been fighting.

"If all I'm known for is having a boring mug, I think that's fine by me."

"Oh, believe me, you are far from the danger of that fate, Feyre darling—" the endearment slipped out before he could think better of it. He winced inwardly, trying to monitor her reaction in his periphery. Her brows lifted, and he continued on, hoping he could recover through the theatrics of setting the mugs in front of her, proclaiming proudly, "Because I'm gracious enough to let you use one of mine. Go on, take your pick."

The distraction paid off. Slip-up now forgotten, or so he hoped, Feyre leaned forward to read the print.

Then snorted. "This says Office Wanker."

He grinned. "That was my secret santa gift from last year."

Feyre lifted the other mug by its rather phallic shaped handle. The ceramic was dark green, with small white spikes pinched throughout to mimic a cactus. Feyre grinned as she read the white print on its side: Don't be a Prick.

"I'm sensing a theme."

"That was another gift." Rhys pitched his voice low. "Do you think they're trying to tell me something?"

"I think…" she bit her lip, her eyes gleaming with a mischief that told him she was purposefully building anticipation. "They might be mugging you off."

"That couldn't be it," he said, knowing his deadpan delivery was ruined. He could feel the stupid grin already plastered over his face and he couldn't help it. "My mother is adamant that I'm a delight. She says everyone likes me."

"I'm sure she's right," she whispered, with just the right amounts of sympathy and derision that Rhysand might have fallen in love with her right then and there.

He nodded to the two choices on the counter. "So which mug are you going with?"

"Oh—dear. Hmm. They're both such strong contenders." Feyre lifted the mugs, tilting and examining each with exaggerated scrutiny. Then she shoved the one with the phallic cactus towards him. "I think Prick fits you better. I'll go with Wanker."

"That's quite the statement to make in your second week," he said, eyes locking with hers as he accepted the mug, their fingers brushing just briefly enough to pass as accidental.

Pride warmed his chest when he noticed her cheeks turn the softest shade of pink. It was a similar shade to her lips, he thought. Which was a mistake, because he immediately needed to fight the temptation to stare at her mouth.

"Well," she said, withdrawing her hand, the movement a little stiff. A little uncertain. "At least I won't be known as a girl with a boring mug."

"That you most certainly will not," he purred.

The kettle clicked, steam billowing from its spout, and he was privately grateful for the excuse to pull his attention away lest he do—or more likely say—something stupid and inappropriate.

The entire office was flirting with her. If he escalated this beyond anything other than playful, inane small talk, she would think he was just another jerk trying his luck on the new girl. And really, isn't that exactly what he was?

Rhys lifted the kettle in offering. "So," he said. "Did you want tea?"

"Oh," she repeated. He would have teased her for it, this copy and paste exchange. Why did it keep surprising her that they were in the break room for tea? "No," she said finally, pointing toward the coffee machine. "I'm more of a coffee drinker."

"Ah," he said, pouring the water into his mug and tried to keep his cool as steam crowded his face. This whole time, he thought she was waiting for the kettle to boil. She could have been in and out of there in a minute if she just put the damn pod in.

But she lingered, watching him stir in sugar—which wasn't how he preferred his tea, but it offered an excuse for him to stay in the break room just a little longer.

"Do you—" he cleared his throat— "Do you know how to use the machine?"

"Yeah," Feyre said, waving the offer away. "I've got one like it at home."

"Ah, good."

He set his teaspoon in the sink, not in any rush to leave but faltering for a reason to stay.

If he could go back and do anything differently, Rhys would have chosen that moment to ask her out. Just for a coffee, to get to know each other. To explore what was already an obvious chemistry.

Instead he pinched the handle of his mug and nodded. "See you around then, Office Wanker."

Feyre waved. "Bye, Prick."

-

The bi-weekly sales team meeting was the bane of Rhysand's existence.

While he was being forced to sit and listen to Tamlin Spring stroke his own ego in front of the executives, Rhys knew his unattended inbox and phone line was being inundated with client inquiries that would prove a much better investment of his and the company's time.

Instead, he was trapped in an hour-long posturing session where each member of the team needed to prove to corporate that they were making enough money to justify their payslip. Something which Tamlin had been struggling with this month, though he was giving quite the performance about the value he had in the pipeline with his "nurturing prospects".

The door clicked open, and every head in the room swiveled towards the interruption.

Feyre stood there, one arm propping open the door, the other fidgeting with a sticky note. "Sorry to interrupt," she said with a wince. "I just have a note for Mr. Night. One of his clients is on line 6."

She waited until one of the executives gave her a nod of approval before scurrying to Rhys, her head ducked down. She didn't linger, pressing the sticky note into his hands, then disappearing as quickly as she'd come. He clenched his jaw when he noticed the trail of eyes that followed her.

Tamlin's gaze, in particular, dipped beneath her skirt-line, then back up. Twice. He shared a lazy grin to his left, not even trying to hide what he'd been doing. Worse, reveling in it.

"I should take this," Rhys said tightly, staring at the note in Feyre's hasty scrawl.

Office wanker,

Hope you're prepared to pay up.

"It's from my contact at Hybern," Rhys explained to the room. "I'm on the verge of closing this deal."

The executive gave Rhys a stiff nod of approval. Hybern had been a prospecting account for upwards of a year, until Rhys had taken over the lead two months ago. It was a big account, one he knew the execs were antsy to close.

Rhys had been waiting for Tamlin to finish fumbling his update to announce Hybern officially signed this morning. The choice had been purely strategic, an attempt to highlight the contrast between their performances after Tamlin tried to undermine him in the last meeting. And, admitedly, he'd been looking forward to the gratification of seeing Tamlin flounder in front of the execs he was trying so hard to brown-nose.

This was far more gratifying, though.

Rhys strolled out of the confrence room and returned to his seat, where he promptly picked up his desk phone and dialed line 6.

"Rhysand speaking."

"You thought I wouldn't do it," Feyre said in sing-song triumph. "You really thought I'd be too scared to do my job because of a bunch of serious old men in suits?"

Rhys blew out a stung breath. "Ouch, Feyre. Old?"

"Sorry, what was that? I can't hear you over your creaking bones."

"I didn't take you as a sore winner," he said, grinning.

"Doesn't matter what you took me as, because you know where you'll be taking me now? To lunch. And I'll be ordering something expensive."

He hoped she would. "Order whatever you want. A deal's a deal."

"Oh, I'm getting a side and a dessert."

"Better yet, why don't I take you to dinner? You can have the full course and drinks."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. One that prompted him to glance towards her reception desk, where he could see her pink lips part open. Her head swiveled towards him, brows merging to assess his meaning.

"Are you asking me on a date?"

"We're celebrating," he said, evading the question. "I closed the deal with Hybern, you won our wager. Let's get drinks."

"Okay," she said. Her smile was shy. "Let's go to dinner."

"Tonight?"

She hesitated. "I… have nothing to wear."

"Blimey, Feyre. I didn't realize you'd come to work nude. A bit bold, don't you think?"

"Shut up," she said, giving an exaggerated eye roll to be sure he could see it across the room.

It was, perhaps, with too much severity that he rushed to add, "You look perfect."

The admission hung a second too long. Rhys cleared his throat before she could mull over the gravity with which he said it—meant it.

"Anyway, we'll leave together after work, yeah? I know just the place."

Feyre bit her lip. It wasn't the immediate agreement he was hoping for, but the pink flush rising over her cheeks was an encouraging sign.

"Okay," she whispered. "I'll wait by the lift."

"Don't want them to see us leaving together?" He teased.

"Are you kidding?" She sounded horrified. "If they see us leave together, tomorrow there will be rumors that we're shagging."

"In rumor only?"

"See how well dinner goes first, Prick."

"That's not a no," he crooned, to which Feyre slammed the phone back onto the receiver.

He couldn't keep the dumb grin off his face, even once the sales team got out of their meetings and Tamlin plunked into the seat beside Rhys.

Tamlin scowled. "What are you so happy about?"

His voice was sour, even for Tamlin. Rhys figured the meeting must have gone south after he left. Ass kissing could only go so far when there's no money to be shown for it.

"I closed the deal with Hybern," Rhys said, deciding to capitalize on what was shaping up to be a superb day by rubbing it in Tamlin's face just a little bit. "Sending it through for approval right…" Click. "Now."

"Congrats," Tamlin muttered, mustering as minimal enthusiasm into the word as possible.

Rhys would have felt bad for the guy. When Tamlin first joined, Rhys had tried to take him under his wing, taking him on sales calls and feeding him solid leads that just needed a bit of nurturing. He'd thought they were something like friends until he'd caught Tam trying to poach his clients six months ago. When Rhys asked him to back off, Tamlin had gotten upper management involved, and things had gotten messy.

Since then, their relationship had regressed into this—Tamlin slumping back in his chair, frowning at his screen as Rhysand's closed deal started making the rounds in their sales channels.

The door to the CRO's office snicked open. "Hey, Rhysand. Can we talk?"

"Of course. I'll join you in a moment."

As Rhys slid out of his chair, he couldn't resist sneaking a glance towards Feyre. He was just doing his job at the end of the day, but he was good at it, and some juvenile part of his brain wanted her to notice.

Their eyes met. It always zapped through him, the sight of those bright eyes, like dragging his feet on carpet and touching something metal.

Feyre ducked her head, smiling shyly at her computer.

When he turned back, he saw Tamlin staring at him. Hard.

"What?" Rhys asked, straightening.

"The quirky little receptionist?" He snorted. "I didn't realize that was your type."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Tamlin shrugged. "I'm only trying to warn you. I hear she's fucked half this office."

Rhys slid his hands into his pockets, obscuring the fingers he curled into fists. He shouldn't let Tamlin rile him. He knew it was untrue, and even if it was, he wouldn't care. But Feyre would be upset if she knew that's what people were saying about her.

"Watch your mouth," Rhys said. "This is a workplace, not a locker room."

"Could've fooled me. I thought it was brothel when I first walked in."

Tamlin's head turned deliberately to Feyre, who's desk was positioned directly in front of the entrance. She was leaning over now, scribbling a note on her desk. At the angle, the cut of her top sloped low enough to show the tops of her breasts. The observation felt like stepping into Tamlin's mind, seeing Feyre the way he saw Feyre.

It was truly a shock to the system to feel repulsed by a sight of breasts—by Feyre's no less, which were magnificent in any other context. Rhys felted trapped between defending her, which would only validate Tamlin's suspicions and make her more of a target, or to let it slide and hope the bastard moved on.

"Each to their own, I suppose," Rhys said, brushing past Tamlin's desk. He slipped a hand out of his pocket to thrum his finger across the wood. "Hey—think they'll give me that promotion for the Hybern deal?"

The deflection worked. Like dangling car keys in front of a toddler, Tamlin's focus shifted back to the CRO's office.

He sneered. "Let me get back to work, Rhysand."

"Right. Right. That Adriata account, huh? Heard it's not going to well."

"Fuck off."

"So touchy," Rhys said, clicking his tongue. "I'm just trying to help. Maybe I'll give you some tips after my meeting."

Tamlin made a low grunt in the back of his throat, a sign that he was retreating into what Rhys and Feyre had dubbed 'beast mode'. Rhys actually preferred it when Tamlin was in beast mode. It meant kept his mouth shut and communicated through nods and grunts until his temper subsided—which, Rhys would argue, was much more effective communication than when his colleague attempted to use words.

It was a shame those sacred moments of Tamlin's silence would be wasted in the CRO's office. Rhys wasn't sure what to expect as he pushed the door open and poked his head inside.

"Come in," the CRO said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. "I heard you closed the deal with Hybern. Many congratulations—I know that was hard won."

"They made me work for it," Rhys acknowledged, lowering onto the alabaster seat. "But I knew we'd close them in the end."

The CRO nodded. "You did good work."

"Thank you," Rhys said, bracing himself for the pitch. He knew he wasn't called in here for a congrats.

"You're a strong salesman," the CRO continued. "You have excellent people skills, and you're good at getting clients on your side."

Rhysand's brows rose. He didn't think he'd ever heard this much praise come from upper management before. He was still waiting for the catch.

"The deal with Adriata has fallen through," the CRO went on. That was corporate speak for: Tamlin wet the bed.

"That's a shame," Rhys said mildly. It wasn't his deal, and he wasn't exactly heartbroken to hear Tamlin fumbled a big sale.

"I know you have a contact there—Tarquin. You used to work with each other at your previous role. Do you think you could leverage that to recover the sale?"

Rhys paused. Adriata was one of the leads he'd fed to Tamlin through that acquaintance. He could have taken the deal himself, but he thought the new guy could use an easy win. It shouldn't have taken this long—nearly a year—to close the deal and it certainly shouldn't have fallen through.

"Adriata is Tamlin's client," Rhys said slowly. "If I helped close the sale…"

"You'd get the commission," the CRO said, hearing the question that went unspoken. "And the account will be yours. I just want this closed before fiscal."

In other words, before Monday.

Rhys glanced at the digital clock on the CRO's desk, calculating the time difference in his head. "Tarquin's based in L.A. Latest I can get him on a call is five."

"If you stay late and get this done, you can take Monday off."

It wasn't Monday he cared about. It was the date he envisioned with the pretty blue-eyed receptionist. He thought he would finally have the chance to take her somewhere nice and give this chemistry between them a solid chance.

Rhys bit the inside of his cheek. Feyre would understand, wouldn't she? With the commission he'd get from Hybern and Adriata, he could take her somewhere even nicer. Hell, he could take her out of London. Fly to Paris for the weekend. Amsterdam. Art museums. Anywhere she wanted.

"Okay," Rhys said, nodding. "I'll see what I can do."

After that, he returned to his desk. Tamlin was still in beast mode, ignoring Rhysand's existence and probably nursing his ego about the ruined Adriata deal. It offered Rhys the privacy to slip a sticky note from his desk and pass it to reception on the way to the break room.

Have to stay late tonight. Rain check on dinner?

-

The following Monday, Rhys took the day off.

And later that morning, he was waiting to meet his family for breakfast when he received a call from the police.

His mother, father, and younger sister had all died in a car accident on their way to meet him.

Rhys took the rest of the week off.

-

It was the day of the funeral.

He was sitting on a bench, staring absently at a flock of ducks wading through The Serpentine at Hyde Park.

He'd just gotten back to London and couldn't bear the thought of going home. So he'd come here, though it was a miserable, foggy day and he could feel the cold burning his nose, cheeks, and ears.

In some ways, the cold felt grounding. This pain was real. Fixable. So much easier to process than the intangible grief he was drowning in.

"Here I thought I was the only person in London mad enough to be out on a day like this."

It was just his luck to run into Feyre on today of all days.

Rhys knew he looked a mess. He wasn't trying to hide it. And he knew it was inevitable she would see him in his grief. Their company only offered five days of bereavement, after all. He'd be back at work on Monday, and he didn't anticipate being any less of mess than he was now.

When she appeared before him, hands settled on her hips, he wondered if this was how it felt to see a mirage in the desert. To glimpse salvation and know it was impossible to reach.

In the dull grey backdrop of English winter, she was a smear of vibrant color. She was wearing a sky-blue overcoat, buttoned over a cream turtleneck and brown suede trousers. Her cheeks and nose were frostbitten, like his own, and it made him feel strangely envious of the cold.

"You look like you're freezing."

Unlike Feyre, bundled in her coat and scarf and mittens, he wasn't dressed for the weather. He was wearing a black suit and tie, and though he'd brought an overcoat with him to the funeral, he was fairly certain he'd left it at the wake.

"I'm fine," he said.

A blatant lie. Usually he was better at those.

"Here." Feyre began unwinding her red knit scarf.

"No." Rhys held up his hands to stop her. "Really, Feyre, I'm—"

Dodging his weak attempts to deter her, Feyre unraveled her scarf and wasted no time hooking it around Rhysand's neck. The scent of lilac and pear coiled around him, constricting like the vise of a serpent.

"Keep it," she said. "It didn't really match this outfit anyway."

"I'm not sure it matches mine," he said, glancing down at the shock of red against his black suit.

"I don't know." Feyre leaned back to admire his outfit with a level of interest that had Rhys reconsidering his whole wardrobe. "I think you look nice with a bit of color."

"It's warm," he granted, pressing his palm to the soft fabric. The heat of her body was still there, though leeching by the second. "Thank you for lending it to me."

"Keep it," she said, taking the seat next to him. "Like I said, it looks good on you."

He could see what she was doing. She even raised her brows, practically taunting him for a response. Something like Clothes tend to look better off me, or it looked better on you.

The mask was in reaching distance. He knew the script. He just didn't have the energy to don the part.

Feyre tried to keep the concern off her face. The only problem was, he'd spent the better part of a year trying to learn how to read her. He knew her tells, and if he didn't, he could still see the crease of concern forming between her brows.

"Where have you been?" She asked, trying to sound casual. "The rumors are crazy, you know. You close the two biggest sales of the year on the same day and then disappear for a week."

Rhys offered her his best imitation of a grin. "Is that your way of saying you were worried about me?"

"You know as a receptionist, it's part of my duty to know all the latest office gossip."

"No gossip here, Feyre." He shrugged. "Just taking some time off."

Feyre frowned. Her voice was soft and devastatingly gentle as she said, "Rhys. It looks like you just came from a funeral."

"Didn't know them that well."

It wasn't that he didn't want her to know. It was that Feyre was one of his last shreds of brightness and he wanted to keep her firmly compartmentalized from this grief.

If he told her, she would worry for him. Every exchange in the office would be weighted. Different. He couldn't stand the thought of her holding him like shattered glass, the way everyone else in his life was doing.

And, most of all, he couldn't stand the thought of burdening her.

"I'm sorry," she said, placing her hand on his shoulder. Her fingers dug into the fabric, as if trying to instill the depth of her conviction. "Even if you hardly knew them, I'm sorry if today was difficult for you."

"Difficult?" He said, the word strained. "No day where I get to see you is difficult, Feyre."

"Do you want to get a drink? You still owe me lunch, remember?"

Rhys pressed his hand over hers, squeezing tighter than he should. But in that moment, it felt like she was all he had to hold on to.

"Not today," he said. His eyes stung and he knew it wasn't from the cold. "Rain check?"

Feyre nodded. "Rain check."

-

Rhys went back to the office the following Monday.

Things returned to normal. Almost.

The equilibrium of his life had shifted, and normal looked a bit different. Less like living, and more like survival.

He didn't go up to the receptionist counter like he used to, armed with a hundred excuses just to talk to Feyre. He made his own copies. He scheduled his own appointments. He stopped playing mental games with Tamlin.

He just… stopped.

And everything else kept going.

That was the most overwhelming part. The constant, distinct sensation that he was being left behind because he didn't know how to keep up.

Feyre found new people to talk to in the office. Tamlin made different enemies. Corporate started taking an interest in other high performers. He felt like a shadow, an apparition haunting his own mundane life. And he only woke up once they were already burying him.

That was how it felt, anyway, when the news broke the office. Like handfuls of dirt tossed on top of his lifeless body.

Feyre and Tamlin are engaged.

He couldn't breathe. The weight was too much to claw through. Engaged? He didn't even know they'd been dating.

"I hear congratulations are in order," Rhys said to her in passing later that day.

"Oh." Feyre cheeks turned the same red as the scarf he kept in his bedside drawer. He supposed it was inappropriate to keep hold of it now. "Thank you."

"How long have you two been…?"

He was too much of a coward to even finish the question.

Feyre managed to fill in the rest, though. "About four months."

That was all? Christ, he could have been married to her four times over by now. If he'd been brave enough to ask her out on that first day.

But he sensed the way she braced herself for his response, and guessed people hadn't been holding back commentary about their hastiness to get down the aisle.

"Sometimes when you know, you know," Rhys said, reserving his own less-than-complimentary thoughts.

He could think of only one reason Tamlin was in such a rush, and the suspicion was too ego-centric to lend any merit to.

Feyre was a treasure. Anyone with eyes could see that. Even Tamlin.

When Feyre gave him one of her forced smiles, he felt it like another clump of dirt landing on his chest. There were many ways he'd describe his relationship with Feyre, but something it had never been was forced.

He'd hurt her, he realized. When he withdrew into his grief without explaining himself. He should have told her what was going on.

And now he'd lost her.

Rhys thrummed his fingers on the countertop. "Well, I should let you go back to work."

Feyre's solemn nod was the eulogy that finally sent him sputtering, wondering what on earth he was doing buried in this hole.

Tamlin was obnoxious, sure, but at least he was alive.

Maybe it was time to move on. Not just from his grief, but from Feyre, too. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd tried going on a date.

Not since she first started here.

With a heavy sigh, Rhys pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to his cousin.

Rhys: Drinks tonight? x

Mor: I already made plans with a friend. Unless you want to join us??? 👀 xxx

Rhys considered. He snuck a glance at Feyre, catching her in the act of tucking her unruly hair behind her ear.

The sight of her struck him like a punch in the gut.

Rhys: Is she single? x

Mor: I thought you'd never ask 😌 x

-

It was his first night out in… god knew how long.

He hadn't left his house much in the last few months, and truthfully it had felt good to fall back into the routine of caring about his appearance. Taking a shower, shaving, picking a nice cologne, styling his hair so it wasn't just a sad mop of curls.

He felt… good wasn't quite the right word. He wasn't there yet. But his head felt clearer, and the air felt crisp, and he didn't feel like he was on the verge of suffocating in his own dread.

It was progress.

"Rhys!"

He barely had time to turn before his cousin vaulted into his chest, knocking him back a few steps from the sheer force of her hug.

"You look good!" Mor pulled back, her eyes brighter than the last time they'd met. He could see her relief in them. "Really."

"You do, too."

"You have no idea how many times I nearly sent Az and Cass on a kidnapping mission." She slapped his shoulder lightly in admonishment. "We've been worried sick!"

"I've just been busy," he said, knowing it was a lame excuse but lacking any other armor. "I'm sorry."

Mor sniffed. "You'll only be forgiven if you buy me and my friend a drink."

Rhys scanned the crowd. "Is she here?"

"Yeah. She just went to the bathroom. Asked me to order her a G&T."

"Coming up," Rhys said. "Go find us some seats."

"I haven't told you what I want," Mor pointed out.

"House red. Biggest glass they have."

She grinned, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "I missed you—"

"No touching the hair," he said, batting her hand away. "Seats. Now."

"Okay, bossy."

Rhys rolled his eyes, but there was a smile twitching the corner of his lips. It was nice. The normalcy of bickering with Mor.

It was a busy night, despite being a weekday, so it took a while for the bar to make their drinks. Longer still, for Rhys to take up the precarious task of balancing all three drinks in his hands as he searched for the table.

He caught a flash blonde hair poking over the seat of a leather booth and grinned. There was another girl sitting beside Mor, a brunette, both of their backs turned as he rounded the corner.

And nearly dropped the glasses on the floor.

Bright blue eyes stared at him, wide and achingly familiar. Her mouth parted open into a gasp.

"Rhys?"

He was equally dumbfounded. "Feyre?"

Mor said her friend was single. It shouldn't have been the first thought to bubble up through his shock. But it was.

"How do you two know each other?" Mor said, the question nearly accusational.

"We work together," Rhys said, recovering enough to set the drinks on the table.

Mor's eyes widened. "Oh my god," she said, whipping her head to gape at Feyre, who was dropping her head into her hands. "Oh my god, Feyre!"

"Is something the matter?" Rhys asked, unable to pry his eyes away from the red stain burning along the dainty curve of Feyre's ears. She kept her hands over the rest of her face, but he could see peeks of blushing skin through the gaps in her fingers. How was it possible that she was the one mortified about this?

He could see the mischief spreading over Mor's face, and it made him nervous. "Oh," his cousin said, drawing out the vowel as she plucked her wine glass from the table. "It's just that Feyre darling here has told me all about the people she works with in her office. Neglected to mention names, of course, but I'm starting to put two and two together."

Feyre darling. Smug satisfactions coursed through him at the realization that Feyre had been telling Mor about him. Not Tamlin—or at least, not exclusively Tamlin.

Feyre retreated from her hands just enough to glower at Mor. She wasn't meeting Rhysand's eyes, which likely had something to do with her scarlet coloring. He'd made her blush before, but never like this—never the kind that spread over her throat and collarbones, too. For a distracted second, he let himself imagine dragging his lips across every inch of red skin, just to see how long he could make the color linger.

"Let me guess," Rhys said, knowing he should keep the purr from his voice—she was engaged, for Christ's sake—but his eyes never lifted from her face. "She told you about a devilishly handsome salesman who sits at the desk across from her?"

"Hmm." Mor feigned an expression of deep thought. "That doesn't ring any bells, no. Though I'm pretty certain she mentioned something about a giant prick?"

Feyre's lips twitched, the making's of a smile.

Until Rhys interjected, "I suppose I do wear tight pants."

"You're disgusting," Mor said, wrinkling her nose. Feyre made a sound like she was inclined to agree.

And it was starting to drive him crazy that she wasn't saying anything. Was still refusing to look at him.

He tried to tempt her gaze by dragging her gin and tonic across the table, pushing it towards her as he asked, "What else have you been telling my cousin about me, Feyre darling?"

Finally. Finally she looked at him. Those blue eyes were more wary than he was used to seeing, but still full of challenge. More so, as they narrowed.

"I didn't know you two are cousins," she said, artfully evading the subject.

"Would have kept the finer details to yourself, if you'd known?"

Feyre lifted her chin. "It's not nice to speak ill of someone's family."

"Oh, I'm sure your descriptions were scathing." He smirked. "Do you have a code name for me?"

"Yeah, Prick."

"I know you're more imaginative than that, Feyre. You probably gave her a physical description, too, hmm? Tall, dreamy eyes, dark-haired—"

"Swaggering, insufferable arrogance," Feyre filled in.

Mor shook her head in disbelief. "I should have known it was Rhys from that alone."

"You wound me," Rhys said, clutching his chest. "Both of you."

His cousin rolled her eyes. "I think you'll manage to recover." She turned to Feyre and tapped her half full glass. "Where's the bathroom? There's a cute brunette at the bar and I need to make sure my lipstick hasn't smeared."

Feyre studied Mor's makeup. "You're fine."

"Liar. You just don't want me to leave you alone with Rhys." She slid out of the booth, her white teeth on full display. "I think you two can play nice for five minutes."

"Your judgment is questionable as always, Mor," Rhys said, though it did nothing to deter his cousin from gathering her purse and striding towards the restrooms.

Leaving him alone with Feyre.

He reminded himself to take deep, steady breaths—a task which escalated in difficulty once he noticed the scent of her perfume. Lilac and pear, the same she was wearing the day of his family's funeral. The same scent which had long since faded from the scarf she'd wrapped around his neck.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry for crashing your girl's night."

Feyre shook her head. "Don't be sorry. I knew you were coming. I just… didn't know you were coming."

"And that makes it worse?" He said, ignoring the pang in his chest that she would prefer a stranger's company to his own.

"It makes it… complicated."

"Complicated?" Rhys raised his brows. "Like how Mor asked me to come here to meet her single friend kind of complicated?"

Feyre sat up straighter. "Mor said what?"

Rhys winced. He hadn't meant to throw Mor under the bus. "Just for my own clarity, you are engaged to Tamlin, right?"

"That's also…. complicated."

"Complicated how, Feyre?"

She chewed on her lower lip. A habit he'd noticed at the office, and had sent him walking stiffly to the men's room more times than he'd care to admit.

"Tamlin asked me to marry him last night," Feyre said, her voice so soft that he needed to lean over the table to hear her over the loud atmosphere. "I didn't say yes. I didn't say no, either. I just… I wanted more time to think about it, I guess. But he announced it to everyone in the office today."

Rhysand's grip tightened around his whiskey glass. "That bastard."

"I don't know what to do about it," Feyre said, all in one exhale. Her shoulder slumped. "I feel trapped. If I back out now, it will be this whole big thing. We'll have to walk it back in front of the entire office and it will be so uncomfortable."

The last thing Feyre needed was a big reaction. He could see it in the way she braced herself across from him, holding her body taut as if she was a passenger in some unbridled vehicle, expecting to crash at any moment.

He managed to keep his voice calm as he said, "This isn't the kind of decision that you should feel pressured into. You should marry someone because you want to, not because you feel obligated."

Feyre shrugged. The gesture was resigned, like he wasn't saying anything she hadn't already said to herself.

"I don't know what I want," she admitted.

"Then I think that's your answer. If it's not a resounding, unwavering yes, then you shouldn't do it."

"Will it ever be like that, though?" Her voice was strained. "Do people ever actually fall in love and know that they want to be with that person forever? Without any question?"

Rhys needed to take a deep swallow of his whiskey before he could answer. "Yes," he said, feeling it burn down his throat—the admission and the alcohol and the words he just couldn't bring himself to say. "If it's the right person, you know. Without any question."

Her eyes bored into his, so deep he swore she could see straight to the quick of his soul, where he was still raw and healing and afraid to tell her what he should be telling her.

Don't marry him.

I love you.

Please, don't marry him.

He didn't know what he would do—he didn't know if he would survive—if he unmasked himself completely, revealing every gnarled, jagged edge of jealousy and love and fear, and she still walked away.

"You came here wanting to meet one of Mor's single friends?" Feyre's voice trembled a bit, as if she was also holding back too much, waning beneath the weight. "Like, to be set up on a date?"

"Yeah," he said, shame drying the roof of his mouth. It felt like a betrayal, though he couldn't explain why or how. "It's been a while since I've put myself out there."

Feyre looked down at her drink. "Sorry you got me instead."

If there was one thing Rhys couldn't stand, it was hearing Feyre apologize for something outside of her control. She was always doing that in the office—apologizing for delays due to broken printers and out-of-order lifts.

"I owed you a drink though, didn't I?" He forced himself to wink. To grin. To play the smug arrogance he knew she expected from him. "This is a much better twist of fate."

Feyre opened her mouth, as if she was about to say something else, when Mor saddled back into the booth, lipstick freshly re-applied. "So," she said, tossing a lock of curls over her shoulder. "What did I miss?"

-

Feyre did, eventually, call off her engagement with Tamlin.

It happened months after Mor's failed setup attempt. Months of listening to Feyre go back and forth with Tamlin in the office about wedding plans, holding his tongue while she was strong-armed through every decision. Months of watching her steadily grow thinner, quieter, duller.

Months of watching Feyre Archeron wilt before his very eyes.

He didn't know what the catalyst was, in the end. All he knew was that one day, he walked into the office armed with a stupid joke to try to make her smile, since she was doing less and less of it these days. And instead he'd met the stern face of their new receptionist, Alis.

So when Mor told him that she'd invited Feyre on their annual trip to their family cabin in the Alps, he'd had conflicting feelings.

One hand, he'd get to spend a week of uninterrupted time with Feyre, where they could deviate from their usual script of jammed printers and pleasant weather. And more importantly, he could finally, finally, enjoy her company without the threat of her impending engagement looming over their shoulders.

On the other hand, what was the appropriate buffer to give the love of your life time to grieve her relationship with the worst man you've ever met? Mor had told him, very sternly he would add, that all topic surrounding Tamlin were strictly off limits.

Did that include topics concerning the absence of Tamlin, and if or when she'd be ready for someone to fill that void?

He ached to tell her how he felt. Now that the Tamlin-shaped dam was finally removed, he was drowning from the weight of holding back years of confessions and unrequited feelings.

Their burden became impossible to carry the closer the trip became, to the point where he considered bailing simply out of fear that he wouldn't be able to control himself. Feyre deserved better than that. After all this time, they both did.

But his fears were unfounded when she walked through the door.

Rhys had long associated Feyre's presence with joy. Even during those agonizing months he'd loved her and believed she would be marrying another man. The sight of her walking into a room still filled him with joy.

Now, he was flooded with distress.

She was thin. He noticed she'd been losing weight in the months leading up to her resignation. But this was drastic.

Feyre looked as if her dread and grief were eating her alive.

He wanted to weep at the sight of what Tamlin had done to her. Weep, then take Cass and Az and three of their best baseball bats and—

"Feyre darling," he greeted, lifting from the sofa with a broad smile. "Look at you, out of work clothes."

"I'm surprised you recognize me in something other than a blouse."

"Well, I wasn't certain at first," he intoned, strolling closer to the doorway. Until he could see the snowflakes on her long eyelashes and every adorable freckle smattered over her nose and cheeks. "But that smear of paint always gives you away."

Feyre turned her head to Mor, her eyes widening as if to confirm, Do I really have paint on my face?

"Oh, ignore him," Mor grumbled. But she did lick her thumb and lean in to rub Feyre's cheekbone, which resulted in sputtered protest that his cousin happily ignored.

Rhys watched Feyre thrash against Mor's hold, a familiar fondness stirring in his chest. "It is nice to see you again, Feyre. I've missed you at the office."

"Why?" She snorted. "Because I was the only sane person there?"

"Precisely for that reason."

He opened his arms to her, and he was relieved that she didn't hesitate for a second to throw her arms around him. Rhys held her tight, trying and failing not to marvel at how fragile she felt. Some delicate, breakable thing.

What happened to the girl who proudly drank from an office wanker mug on her second week? Rhys knew she was still there, hidden behind layers of guilt and sorrow and what he suspected was the subconscious voice of a man who'd tried everything in his power to whittle her down.

"How is… everyone?" She asked, her diction stilted just enough that he knew who she was truly asking after.

He shot a help me glance to Mor, who immediately jumped in and admonished, "You both promised me no office talk!"

Rhys held up his hands. "Okay, okay. How about wine talk?"

"Why dear cousin of mine, how did you know that's my favorite topic?"

"Lucky guess," he said flatly.

He recognized Feyre's laugh. That hollow, polite sound that she used during her first week in the office, when she felt obligated to laugh at every bland, unfunny joke. Including his own.

It was enough that she was laughing—that she was trying to laugh again. And he resolved that if he could do one thing for her on this trip, it would be getting her to laugh. A genuine, shoulder-shaking, clutching-her-stomach-because-she-can't-breathe laugh.

Rhys turned his gaze to her, failing not to notice the dark circles under her eyes. "What about you, darling? Are you drinking wine these days?"

She grinned, though it didn't quite meet her eyes. "I'm drinking anything these days."

That seemed like too much to unpack when she was still standing in the entryway, the open door blowing a gust of cold air at her back.

It was instinct, the way he reached for her scarf to unravel her in the direction of the overstuffed armchair. If he was overstepping, Feyre didn't seem to mind. Her laughter was more breath than anything, but she indulged him by twirling on her toes, helping him to unwrap the rest of the scarf as if it were a choreographed dance. Though, with the way her balance wobbled at the end, Rhys didn't suspect they'd be competing on any dance shows in the near future.

"Careful," he said, bracing her elbow. "The nearest hospital is an hour away and in the next thirty minutes, none of us will be sober enough to drive you."

"You could always bundle me up on a sled," Feyre mused. He let go once she regained her balance and tried not to look disappointed when she retreated from his touch to curl up on the arm chair. "At least if I didn't reach the bottom, I'd be going out in style."

"Sledding!" Mor squealed, clapping her hands together. "Oh, yes, we should absolutely do that this year!"

Rhys shot his cousin an incredulous look. "If I recall correctly, our last emergency hospital visit was the result of sledding."

Mor poked her tongue at him. "Whatever. Cass probably thought it was as worth it for the photos alone."

Rhys explained to Feyre, "Last year, Cass face-planted a rock. Fucked up both his front teeth."

"He was so drunk he didn't even notice until he saw the blood," Mor added, rolling her eyes. "Az took a picture and Cassian made it his screensaver for like six months."

Feyre shuddered. "I think I'll pass on the sledding."

If he was honest, Rhys hoped she stayed exactly where she was for the rest of the trip. Safe, in that oversized chair, in front of the crackling fire, where he could already see some color returning to her expression.

His eyes swiveled to the basket of blankets tucked beneath the coffee table. He knew if he grabbed one for her, he'd be accused of coddling. And maybe he was.

Even so, he couldn't help praising, "Wise decision."

"Lame decision," said a deep voice, striding out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped far too precariously around his hips.

The cabin had four bedrooms, two on each side of the hall, with only one bathroom nestled in the center. No one was exactly thrilled to be sharing a single bathroom between five adults, though Cassian argued half the fun was trying to catch a glimpse of Azriel naked.

"Cassian I presume?" Feyre said from the armchair.

Cass grinned, striding forward on wet, slapping feet. The only thing that dissuaded him from dripping onto the carpet to go shake Feyre's hand—or offer some other, far less appropriate greeting—was Rhysand's sharp glare

"And you must be the renown Feyre Archeron." He slid Rhys a knowing grin that was begging for a punch. "I'll go get dry before the hall monitor gives me a detention for getting his precious carpet wet. But then, you and I have much to talk about."

Rhys couldn't give two shits about the carpet, though it was his parents' and it was cashmere. But he would prefer if Cassian could avoid flashing Feyre when she was only a few weeks post-break-up.

He needed things to go well so that Feyre would consider coming back next year. And the year after. And however many holidays it would take for her to consider that she might like to be part of this group.

And if that was all she ever wanted, that would be good enough. As long as she was happy again.

"Should I be scared?" Feyre asked.

"Of Cassian?" Mor laughed. "No more than you would be afraid of a big, slobbery puppy."

"It's Az people usually find scary," Rhys said, wandering in the kitchen to fetch the girls their wine. "But that's just 'cause he's quiet. Truth is, he's a big softie."

"More like he's got a big softie," Mor muttered.

Rhys straightened. "Pardon?"

"Are we talking about Az's dick?" Cassian called, scrambling back into the room. "Without me?"

The front door shut, diverting everyone's attention to where Azriel stood, a gloved hand still pressing the handle. He blinked at them, sighed, and then walked back out the front door.

"Wait, Az!" Cassian called, cackling as he vaulted over the sofa to get to the front door faster, narrowly recovering from flashing them by fisting the towel at his groin. He managed to catch the door before it closed, sprinting outside with his feet and chest still bare.

"Are they…" Feyre hesitated. "Together?"

It was a terrible time to have handed Mor her wine glass. She sputtered, choking on a mixture of wine and laughter that erupted over her clothes, the sofa, and the coffee table.

Feyre leapt to her feet to help. "Oh my god, are you okay?" She thumped a fist behind Mor's back as his cousin's laughter fizzled into a coughing fit.

Rhys, meanwhile, set Feyre's wine glass on a clean corner of the coffee table and returned to the kitchen to grab some paper towels.

"I'm sorry for—all of them, really," he called to her.

Mor, still wheezing, could only lift her middle finger broadly on his direction.

"To answer your question," Rhys said, coming back to Mor's side to divide layers of paper towel among the three of them. "No, Cassian and Azriel are not dating."

His cousin shrieked at the reminder, launching into another coughing fit.

"Thanks," Feyre said, balling up her collection of towels to dab them gingerly into the carpet. Red wine. His parents were rolling in their graves. "I, uh, think I put that one together."

"Cass just likes to push buttons. And Azriel's the most private among us, which leads to a lot of speculation," he sent Mor a pointed look, "among our group."

Mor, having mostly recovered from her fit, tapped her chest and croaked, "It's the greatest tragedy of Cassian's life that he'll never know if his dick is bigger than Az's."

"We spend every year naked together in a sauna," Rhys reminded her, raising his brows as if to say, what are you up to? Mor didn't usually indulge conversations about naked men to this degree. "Believe me, he knows."

"And?"

Rhys jerked his head, just to be sure he'd heard the question right. Feyre was looking at him with a glint in her eye. She was biting her lip, restraining a laugh just like she'd done on the first day they'd spoken to each other in the break room.

A habit she'd never broken, after all these years.

His lips twitched. "And, what, Feyre darling?"

"What's the outcome of this annual dick measuring contest you three apparently have in the sauna?"

"Why don't you join us this year and find out?"

"Am I allowed to bring my strap?" Mor asked.

The front door shut, revealing cold-flushed yet grinning Cassian and a bewildered looking Azriel.

"I don't know what conversation we just walked in on," Cassian said, "but count me in."

This was a nightmare. At least, Rhys thought it was a nightmare. Feyre, strangely, seemed to be enjoying herself and he thanked the gods that she had a good sense of humor about all this chaos.

"You must be Azriel," Feyre said, beaming at the dark haired male becoming a shadow at Cassian's back. "I've heard so much about you."

Azriel glanced toward the door. Rhys knew he was debating the merits of trying to make another escape. He'd probably already started his car by the time Cassian caught up and dragged his ass back.

"All good things," Feyre assured quickly.

Rhys didn't think he'd ever seen Azriel blush before.

"What happened here?" Cassian said with a low whistle, taking in the mess of wine-soaked paper towels. "It's too early in the evening for you to have forgotten where your mouth is, Morrigan."

"Har har." Mor stood up from the sofa. "Just for that, I'm stealing one of your hoodies."

"Didn't you bring your own clothes?" He complained.

"It wouldn't be a punishment if I wore my own."

"I only brought like two hoodies!"

"You should have thought about that before you opened your big, dumb mouth."

"At least steal one of Az's. He smells better than me."

"If you think so, maybe you should wear one of his hoodies."

"Mor—" Cassian groaned as she strode off into his room. "Mor!"

"I should have warned you they were going to bicker like this," Rhys said apologetically, perching himself against the armrest of Feyre's chair to, at last, hand her a wine glass.

"Oh trust me, bickering over sharing clothes is a staple of sisterhood. I'm used to it."

"That's right, you have two sisters don't you? Nesta and Elain." She looked surprised he remembered. "How are they doing?"

"Well. Nesta is this scary, big shot lawyer who eats suited men for breakfast and Elain is living the dream cottage core life with her husband, Lucien. You remember him, right? He was Tam's—" she winced. Like that name was a bruise she didn't mean to press.

"I remember him," Rhys said, trying to help her past the slip-up. "Redhead, right? Snarky?"

She snorted. "You could say that again."

"Does he treat her right?"

"Oh, like a princess." She rolled her eyes. "You wouldn't believe the way she has him wrapped around her little finger."

"I believe it," Rhy said. He wondered if he had that stupid grin on his face again, the one that proved just how wound he was around Feyre's little finger.

Feyre didn't seem to know how to respond to that, but she shrugged and said, "They're happy."

Rhys didn't doubt for a second Feyre was happy for her sister, but he could see the discomfort on her face at that admission. It couldn't have been easy to have a brother-in-law who was close to her ex fiancé. And he knew first hand how difficult it was to see someone else happy and have that reality feel so distant it was foreign.

"I'm glad," he said. "And I'm glad you could join us this year. It will be a relief to have someone sane in our entourage."

"I don't think that's fair to Azriel," Feyre said. "So far, he's been the most well behaved."

Az smiled. "The night is still young."

Rhys chuckled at Feyre's look of betrayal. "Like I said, darling. You're the most sane person here."

"Maybe that's what I'd like you to think."

He liked seeing something other than resignation in her eyes again. So much that he couldn't resist leaning forward, his voice ripe with challenge as he purred, "Then I look forward to being proved otherwise."

-

Despite his best efforts, Rhys couldn't convince Mor that it was a bad idea to take everyone sledding the next morning.

They were all nursing hangovers from a concoction of liquors that they'd made the mistake of letting Cassian combine into what he called 'Solstice Punch'. Rhysand had a blistering headache, which wasn't helped by Cassian's noisy attempt to make breakfast. With only four rooms, Rhys had drawn the short straw for who had to sleep on the couch.

Rhys groaned, burying his head beneath a pillow. "There is no way in hell that you're getting me onto a sled today."

"Even if you get to share one with Feyre?" Cassian teased. "You'll get to wrap your arms around her and—"

"Shut up."

"I guess Az and I will just get to enjoy her company instead," Cassian said smugly.

It nearly convinced Rhys to go, until Mor strode into the living room. "Feyre isn't coming," she announced. "She's not feeling good."

Rhys sat up way too fast. "Is she okay?" He asked, blinking away the black spots that burst in his vision.

"Calm down, white knight. She's just hungover like the rest of us." Mor looked at Cassian, frowning. "Maybe we should take it easy today."

"Fuck that. Az is already loading the car. You coming?"

Mor sighed. "I can't leave Feyre."

"Sure you can," Cassian said, grinning over her shoulder at Rhys. "Lover boy will take perfect care of her."

Rhys slumped back into the sofa, ignoring the jab. "You go, Mor. We'll take it easy today."

Mor pressed her lips together, consternation pulling at her brows as she flicked her eyes between Rhys and Cassian. "Fine," she said with a sigh. "I'll go. Someone needs to babysit the idiots. You sure you'll be okay, Rhys?"

"Peachy," he grumbled, squeezing his eyes shut. "Now get the hell out of here so I can go back to sleep."

-

Rhys couldn't say how much longer he slept for. When he woke up, the cabin was silent. Someone had graciously left the curtains drawn, keeping the living room subdued in darkness and by the same virtue, making it impossible to guess how late in the day it was.

The heating had kicked on at some point, leaving him sweating beneath the pile of blankets. He kicked them off and shuffled into the hall.

"Feyre?" He called, stopping to listen outside her door. When there was no answer, he assumed she must still be asleep.

Rhys pushed into the bathroom, intent on washing off his sweat even if the bright fluroscents felt like a thousand needles shoved into his eye sockets. He groaned, fumbling half-blind as he jerked the shower curtain open and turned on the water.

It was only once he was under the water, steam billowing around him, that he felt his head begin to clear. And that was when he realized he left his clothes in the living room.

Rhys fell forward with a groan, resting his head against the damp tile as he debated the merits of retrieving his clothes now or waiting until he finished his shower. There was no telling if Feyre would still be asleep by the time he finished. At least if he left now, he could evade a potentially awkward encounter.

It took all of his willpower to step out of the warm embrace of water. More, to grab a towel and wrap it around his waist.

He opened the door gradually, peering through the crack to ensure the coast was clear before he hurried with wet, slapping footprints to where his bag rested beside the sofa.

As he crouched to unzip the top, he heard the unmistakable sound of the front door handle turning. He froze.

The door pushed open. He knew he was doomed because whoever stepped through was far too silent to be a member of his family.

Rhys hovered in place, clutching his towel tight around the hips, internally debating whether it was better to let her know he was there or try to flee behind the kitchen counter before she realized.

"Rhys?" Feyre called.

Shit. It was fine, right? She'd seen Cassian in a towel yesterday and hardly reacted.

Slowly, he rose from behind the couch, prepared to play this off with a flirty comment. But as soon as he saw her, his brain deserted every word of the linguistic tongue.

"Oh!" She jumped, faltering to quickly re-secure the towel she had wrapped around her torso.

Rhys decided a Christmas deity must be trying to punish him. There was no other explanation for the ridiculous towel she was wearing, so short her breasts spilled over the top and if she bent, even the slightest, he would be able to see her entire ass.

Where on Earth had she found a towel like that?

Rhys needed to finish mentally reeling his tongue back in before he was able to shape coherent words. And once he did, they came out entirely too rough, like he was scraping them over sandpaper.

"Well, one of us is going to have to change."

A familiar blush was spreading over her chest, but Feyre did a good job keep in her expression composed as she quirked a brow. "I think that depends on who wore it better."

"I won't make any argument on that front," Rhys said. It was taking every ounce of restraint not to drink her in like this. "I'm just grabbing some clothes and I'll head into the shower."

"Or—"

How could such a soft, breathy word strike with enough momentum to take him off his feet? Rhys clenched his hand tighter around the handle of his bag, trying to will his blood flow back into his head.

"You could come join me?"

Fuck. Fuck. He'd never heard Feyre use the voice before—at least anywhere outside of his own fantasies. It was just rough enough to scrape him raw, wondering if he'd imagined the sultry undertone or if he was letting his own ego get to his head.

"Join you where, exactly, darling?"

"The sauna," she said. "I've just warmed it up, and seeing as you're already dressed for the occasion…"

This was how it must have felt to be ensnared by a siren. To see your every desire brought to life, just in reaching distance, and to know it would be your undoing.

There wasn't any scenario where he could go into a sauna with Feyre, alone, and keep hold of the careful distance he was putting between them. He couldn't think of a single outcome that wouldn't end with Feyre in his lap, panting beneath his touch. And he wanted it. So badly he would crash his ship to shore and gladly drown in the wreckage.

But he wanted her to be ready, too. He didn't want to be another man pressuring her into say yes, making her feel trapped. If he was going to kiss her, touch her, do anything more than flirt with her, he needed to do it in a neutral space, where she could leave if it became too much.

Rhys was careful not to let the pain show on in his face. He released his breath through his nose, quiet, measured.

"I think we should wait until we're better hydrated," he said. "I wouldn't want you passing out. Rain check?"

Feyre's smiled dropped. Rhys was starting to feel nauseous again, and it had nothing to do with the alcohol sitting heavy in his stomach.

"Oh." Feyre said. He could hear her disappointment. "Okay. Maybe later, then."

Rhys held himself still as she hurried past, fleeing into her room. His chest pinched at the sound of the door snicking shut, as if a piece of his heart was caught in the doorjamb, begging for it to open.

With a sigh, he gathered his clothes and went back to his shower.

Feyre

Azriel, Cassian, and Mor had returned at some point in the late afternoon with a few nicks and bruises, but no broken teeth. Feyre was assured that meant it was a successful sledding trip. Which was more than she could say about her lazy day at the cabin.

She'd spent most of it in her room, with the exception of her brief attempt to coax Rhys into the sauna. After his mortifyingly polite rejection, she'd spent the rest of the day in her room until Mor came knocking.

"You okay?" She asked, finding Feyre buried beneath a pile of blankets.

This was ordinarily Rhysand's room. Which meant that everything in here smelled like him. Citrus and a dark, churning sea, threatening to swallow her whole beneath warm, chunky-knit blankets.

"Doesyercznlkmm?"

"What?" Mor stepped further into the room, shutting the door behind her.

Feyre pulled her head out from beneath the blankets. "Does your cousin like me?"

"Rhys?" Mor frowned. "Of course he likes you."

"No, that's not what I mean. You know how I feel about him, Mor. Sometimes I think he feels the same way, but then he just pulls away from me."

Mor glanced towards the door, her expression wary. She always grew a little evasive whenever their conversation skewed towards Rhys, and Feyre felt a little guilty for putting her in the middle.

"My cousin can be pretty guarded," Mor said. "He keeps his cards close to his chest, especially after his family died. But… Look in that box, under the bed."

Feyre's eyes followed Mor's gesture to the small gap under Rhysand's bed. Curious, Feyre extracted herself from the bed to fish out a small shoebox. She pushed the lid open, frowning when she saw a red scarf carefully folded inside.

"He took that here last year. Wore it everywhere. It was the first Christmas since his family died and I think it brought him a lot of comfort." Mor shrugged. "He wouldn't say where it was from but I have my suspicions."

Feyre ran her fingers over the soft wool, recalling the anguish on his face when she'd given it to him. She'd always half-heartedly wondered what happened to the scarf, but she'd assumed he'd thrown it out or otherwise forgotten about it.

Mor said, "If you want to know how he feels, you should just ask him. But I think you mean a lot to him, Feyre. Maybe he's just waiting for you to tell him how you feel."

Easier said than done. The last two years was a montage of chances where she could have told Rhys how she felt and didn't. It was always never the right time. He was working late or she was rushing out the door or he was grieving or she was dating Tamlin—or it was just safer to stay in this soft, liminal space between friendship and something more.

Walking away from Tamlin had been easy. Complicated, yes, but emotionally… All she'd felt was relief.

If it's the right person, you know. Without any question.

"Right," Feyre breathed, nodding to herself. "Tell him how I feel. That should be…" Nerve wracking. "I can do that."

-

Rhys

When Rhys felt something soft wrapping around his neck, his first suspicion was that Az and Cass were pulling a prank on him. It wasn't uncommon to wake up from a drunken stupor in this cabin with a marker mustache and a few drawn-on dicks.

He was convinced when he felt the weight of a body settle over him.

"C'mon Cass," he mumbled. "Not now."

The body above him giggled. Light. Feminine.

"Does that imply Cass usually climbs into bed with you?"

Rhys opened his eyes to find Feyre's face hovering inches over his, her hair cascading around his head like a canopy. Her hands were at his chest, tugging a red scarf around his neck.

"What's going on?" He asked, not convinced he was awake. He didn't even remember going to bed, but the lights were off, so it had to be late. "What time is it?"

"You never gave my scarf back," she said, as if that was a perfectly reasonable answer to his question. "But you kept it all this time."

She was straddling his lap, her ass settled just above his groin. If he moved even the slightest bit, he would grind against her, and he couldn't deny the temptation crossed his mind.

"Are you drunk?" He asked. Which, as he thought about it, was a stupid question. They'd all been drinking—Feyre more than anyone. He had a vague memory of half guiding, half stumbling with her into his bedroom.

Which, as he sat up, was where he realized they still were. Not on the sofa. Christ, he must have crashed trying to get her to bed.

"Not any more than you," she argued. "At least I managed to stay awake. Pussy."

He laughed. "Did you really just call me a pussy?"

"Do you prefer it to Prick?"

"Not really. Though I'll admit, I am fascinated to learn what other filthy words you'd like to call me."

Feyre tugged at the scarf, drawing his face closer to hers. He could feel her breath against his lips as she whispered, "You'll have to earn them."

He fought a shiver at the invitation in her voice. "How?"

"Kiss me," she said, eyes fixing on his mouth.

He wanted to. More than he wanted to breathe. "We're drunk, Feyre."

Her eyes lifted to his. "Pussy," she said again, before grabbing both ends of the scarf and yanking it upwards, crashing her mouth to his.

Rhys shut his eyes, a guttural sound forming in the back of his throat as he slipped his arms around her back, pulling her tighter. It wasn't the kind of first kiss he'd imagined giving her. That had always been soft and sweet, an admission in itself.

This kiss was clumsy and urgent—two people latching to each other as if terrified the other would let go. Feyre wound her fingers into his hair, pulling with a grip he likened to someone hanging from a precipice, where every digit, every ounce of surface area, could be the difference between life or death.

"Feyre," he groaned, trying to pull away. She chased him, mouth crashing back to his, swallowing his protests, and he was simulatenously in heaven and hell. "Feyre," he said again, pushing lightly at her shoulders.

Slowly, reluctantly, she pulled away. He could feel her body trembling.

"Don't push me away, Rhys." Her voice was so small. "Please, don't push me away. Not again."

She might as well have reached into his chest and ripped his heart straight out.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, securing an arm around her back to keep her pressed where she was, her fluttering heart beating against his. "I'll sleep here. Just—let's wait until the morning, okay? I promise to kiss you stupid once you're sober."

Feyre tugged at her scarf as she thought about it. He knew she made her decision when she sighed softly and slumped into his body, resting her head against his chest.

"Rain check?" She asked, with a small yawn.

Rhys had never been happier to say those two stupid words. "Rain check."

[ecto-american]

I work in electrical substations, and I'm fourth generation doing this kind of work. So I wanna give more information.

There is an unbelievable amount of safety systems in place, and honestly, it's akin to how an electrical substation works. But to be honest, the safety around the portal in my opinion really depends on how much electrical knowledge FentonWorks has.

This is primarily a ramble honestly with no real point besides providing some more information and insight related to electrical safety so I'll readmore.

Overall, we don't really know what kind of electrical engineering background the Fentons have have. It's never clearly stated. Electricity is insanely dangerous. It's incredibly easy to fuck up. All of our safety protocols are written in ashes, not blood, because electricity can so easily literally burn you into ashes. Especially at high voltage.

The kind of project the Fentons work on would require an indepth knowledge, so I'd assume that they have electrical background to some degree beyond the basics.

This is the blueprints we see for the portal in the theme song.

Obviously, this is just for the actual construction of the ghost portal itself. This isn't related to the electrical parts at all. Those prints are set up completely different. My point here is NOT that they don't know how to set up an electrical print; the point is that this is just not an electrical print for context.

For a 66kv/111kv electrical substation

For a household water heater

Basically, if you're working with electricity, this is the kind of blueprints you're looking at. This is the kind of diagram that tells you how to properly wire the devices. And this has been the standard since at least the 50s. I work in substations built as early as the 40s, and the prints are the exact same format. We can also assume cartoon logic as most people know what blueprints look like. I doubt the average viewer would know what these are.

I'm stating this too because it's another way of saying that like. We honestly genuinely cannot tell for sure how the Fenton Portal is wired since we don't see the diagrams, and we're not able to be there physically in person to determine how and why. It's impossible to truly tell what the actual purpose of that button is. It definitely looks like a safety stop button, and I think the OP provides a super good case for it. Based on the image the OP provided, I'm assuming OP took this from a gas or water utility company, which is similar to electrical but electrical is a bit different.

But from an electrical substation perspective, there's no real safety on/off switch. If you're needing to remove power, you're not often turning a switch off. You're adding a grounding wire or you're pulling fuses. Safety switches aren't really a thing (or at least, I've never seen one in a substation before), but this is also a private household and NOT an electrical substation, so I'd assume that the Fentons WOULD have one. And if so, I definitely think that they'd have one similarly to what OP noted.

An important but unrelated thing I also wanna note to is like. You guys do realize that people are human who make mistakes? A lot of people talk about the Fenton Portal under the assumption that Jack and Maddie were completely ignoring safety standards.

Wiring a huge project like a Fenton Portal would be a long, tedious, difficult process. It takes my job months to do install a new piece of equipment at the substation, because it's a slow process. You have to be careful. Every step has to be checked after completion. Troubleshooting has to happen. Certain parts have to be fully depowered in order to work on it safely, and sometimes you have to find a way to keep power going so you can work on it so it's a process to figure out how to jump power for safe working.

There's literally thousands of wires, hundreds of terminals, tens of panels. A single bad wire can stump a crew, and it could be that the guy wired it to the wrong spot, that the connection is bad. If the wire itself it bad, depending on the wire, it's a whole working day process to pull it out and run a new one because of how complex, tight, dangerous, etc, it is. We get (mildly) shocked all the time because it's just the nature of the job.

We specifically see that the FentonWorks Portal wasn't working, and they took a break when Danny decided to investigate. Any number of thing could be wrong. I don't think that the Fentons specifically forgot about the emergency off button, but that they didn't know what the issue was. There could be hundreds of things that went wrong, and they hadn't gotten to the point of troubleshooting this yet. Literally a singular wire could be bad because it's a bad wire, bad connection from the wire to the lug, bad connection from the lug to the terminal, bad terminal connection, bad terminal, etc.

Also additionally, just for some lowkey fun: We all see shots of the inside of the portal looking like this (all from Memory Blank)

Do you know what this kind of looks like to me? Kind of reminds me a lot of how the outside of electrical substation control panels look and operate.

Depending on what level of knowledge they have and experience, I could see some of the lines not just being cool technology showcases, but a common electrical substation practice: we use markers or tape to basically copy the electrical print line diagram on the outside of the panels to help visually identify what's going on and where/how things are connected.

Even the kind of cable that's being run looks exactly like the kind of cable used in most substations.

It was a safety switch

So I'm actually obsessed with the idea that the "on" button Danny hit going into the portal wasn't actually an on button like one you get in a computer.

In basically any legally compliant workspace where I am (and I think in the western world broadly) you get these big red EMERGENCY STOP buttons that tend to be every few feet and on every machine so if something goes wrong people don't have to run far to make what ever's going wrong stop going wrong

Now to me that thing looks pretty much exactly like this thing

With a different layout, but the big red button is the subject of interest

Jack and Maddie seem to have cartoon consistency in their lab safety protocols, which checks out honestly given that's what they are, but It makes sense to me that they didn't so much put the ON button on the inside of the portal as that they flipped the power off to finish the final checks on the portal and then

Forgot About The Emergency Stop

(Incase people dont know, emergency stop buttons stop all the machinery it's attatched to. This can be anything from Only One Machine to literally an entire floor or building depending on the levels of "oh shit everything needs to stop RIGHT NOW." They're usually 'released' at a seperate point which can be anything from the keys in the panel above to a seperate button/keypad. Or, like the ones we had in our high school, the original red button that was pushed but you had to twist it to get it to pop back up. Kind of like a weird child lock)

So I'm proposing that the Fenton Parents, instead of being idiots in their planning and putting the on switch somewhere insane when they were drawing the schematics, actually built in a safety feature they forgot they tripped

Essentially, the Fenton parents were EXTRA safe in their lab and it half killed Danny

[mllemaenad]

To clarify about bringing down the Veil: I did say, and I did mean, that I don't think we should just let Solas do whatever. He's clearly having some sort of Mythal-related nervous breakdown and is intent on going it alone. This is stupid, and we really need to have an actual plan for this.

But.

Primary issue seems to be demons. Demons are often created by being pulled through the Fade, so bringing it down actually solves a problem. Demons can be complex people who aren't necessarily a problem to have around. When demons are problems, we have: the Avvar, the Chasind, the Rivaini, the Nevarrans and whatever spirit allies Solas has as experts who could line up to deal with this. This feels like the same argument the game would make about Circles and possessed mages. I want to get rid of the Veil like I used to want to get rid of Circles.

Secondary issue is Blight. Blight was contained prior to the Veil going up, so we've definitely got methods for doing that. The Veil is clearly not working as Blight-related security because Thedas has been up to its eyeballs in the stuff for centuries. You put a big mysterious city in everyone's dreams and guess what happened.

While Blight is present in the Fade outside the Black City, it is not everywhere in the Fade, and with the presence of eluvians we've got people wandering physically all over the Fade anyway. You can wander into Tainted bits of the Fade and get Blighted just like you can by wandering into Tainted bits of the Deep Roads. Don't do that! Also: make sure the Black City is properly locked up! It's common sense.

Blight, while undeniably still dangerous, seems to be operating on diminishing returns: the First Blight took two centuries to defeat and nearly wiped out civilisation; we just knocked over an Archdemon in a single battle at the cost of a few hundred lives and one fortress. And I'm betting we take out the seventh by the end of the game. Ghilan'nain has apparently been genetically engineering worse darkspawn, and we're still kicking their arses.

We should absolutely have Grey Wardens on cleanup duty in the Fade, though. I really do want to do this sensibly.

Darkspawn are also people, who can be cured of their compulsions by a modified form of the Joining. I'm certainly not wringing my hands over killing darkspawn in self-defence, but I think it's worth remembering that Davrin is wrong: they are not mindless monsters and if we can help them we should.

Tertiary issue is the Titans, who are attached to the Blight problem. The Titans were severed from their dreams in what sounds a lot like a form of Tranquility. This is a practical problem (Blight!) and a moral problem (we've got some mutilated people here!). The thing about Tranquility was that it was this utterly irreversible nightmare condition ... until it turned out that there had always been a cure, and it just involved reaching out to a spirit for some assistance. I'm not suggesting that the situation with the Titans is identical, but I am saying: bring down the Veil, reconnect with magic and spirits and start brainstorming. We can and should fix this.

Quaternary issue is just the Veil itself, which is increasingly tattered and in some places almost entirely absent. It is stupidly easy to thin the Veil and people are going to keep doing it, whether they mean to or not. So if there's, for example, Blight loose in the Veil, there is nothing stopping somebody from accidentally thinning a Blighted bit. And the damn thing will fall apart eventually. I for one would like to know its end date and be prepared for it.

So ... look, unless the game gives some last minute information on this ... Yeah, I think I want the Veil down. Solas can be a pain in the arse, but he's right about this. I've looked at his memories, and the flashbacks in the Fade: I know about the evanuris messing with the Blight, and Mythal's murder, and the ritual to lock up the gods not going as he intended. It's a mess, but it hasn't changed my mind.

Now: again, that does not mean I'm on board with Solas's actual plan. I want to grab him and tell him to sit the fuck down and work this out as a group project. Do it carefully, do it as safely as possible, and be willing to wait another year or two until we're organised.

But yes. BRING. DOWN. THE VEIL.

[heal-the-ashes]

I feel like Hershel and Desmond would both be afraid of themselves.

If they stop and look at themselves. If they realize what they're doing came from years of pain. Would it all lead to a question of "Who else am I going to hurt?" "How many people have I unintentionally hurt because I never realized what I was really doing?" "How many things of my life have I missed because of this?" "How many things do I—or will I—regret?"

I feel like Layton self-sacrifices to a fault. That others get hurt trying to protect him. That he unknowingly drags other people through pain to get to where he thinks he needs to go. To solve every mystery there is. To get rid of his pain from outside sources, he needs to make as much of it himself under the titles "Determination" and "Amazing at solving things" and "Helping others" because then, how could those things ever hurt him? How could they ever be seen as pain? They're not like his (other) traumas. They don't cause pain at all. Not to mention what he thinks about danger. Danger? What danger? There's no danger here. Just people who are willing to hurt others to get what they want—Which is very sad and shows their pain and he'd very much like to help them in any way possible, if possible. If they show that they don't want to be helped, then it's better to leave them be.

But then again, nothing can ever be someone's fault other than his around him. I think he goes over betrayals thinking, "There must have been something I could have done." or "There must've been something I did." or "If I learn from this, I can make sure it never happens again." or... ... I think he has a hard time accepting that things really aren't his fault / there's really nothing he can do about some situations. Actually, when it comes time for Unwound Future and the whole Evil Layton arc... The only time in which he actually raises his voice is at himself. Is at the version of him that betrayed all of the morals in which he's held onto for so long. But a part of me thinks that, if he knew things were actually his fault, he'd have a problem with that, too... I mean, look at how he reacts to him getting puzzle answers incorrect in CV. In CV. In the 4th game of experience that he's had with puzzles. And a movie. With all that experience and he gets something wrong... he's disappointed in himself. Going back to the UF/LF thing... "I demand an explanation!!" I don't think I'll ever forget that line. I think, from his journal... We know he was trying to think of reasons why he would do something like this. Idk. I'm. Thoughts are not thinking anymore. Um. Wow I really lost my thought process. I was also gonna talk about Desmond. But I guess that's not happening at the moment.

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

I've been rereading your "Gabriel redemption/corruption/canon mess of ideas post", and I remembered an old idea of mine: Gabriel driven insane by the Butterfly miraculous.

This is an artifact that allows you to sense the negative emotions of All of Paris. And then mentally connect to the person in whom the negative emotions are currently strongest.

It's less about "can this power drive anyone insane" it's more about "is there a chance this power wouldn't drive anyone insane?"

Worse, Gabriel uses this power constantly. Gabriel uses this power for shady purposes. Gabriel uses this power when already in an unstable state after losing his wife.

From a storytelling point, this neatly explains:

1) why Gabriel could go worse and worse as time progresses

2) why Gabriel's behaviour may be inconsistent (consistent behaviour doesn't combine well with sensory-overload magical madness and he is saner when untransformed)

3) why Butterfly Miraculous is so powerful (because this power is balanced with the great risk of using it)

At the same time, it is a trope known well enough to work well even in children's shows. In fact, I thought this idea may be canon, but then season 5 happened.

What do you think of this idea?

P. S. As always, thank you for your analysis, you are a treasure for the fandom!

Thank you for the lovely words! I'm flattered that you enjoy the blog so much!

I'm on the record as saying that evil Kwamis are about the only way to fix canon, so of course I love you idea! That post was about fixing canon post season five, though, so let's focus more on the butterfly itself.

Canon doesn't really explain how the heck the butterfly works. We get moments like this one from Sandboy:

Hawk Moth: I feel an emotion of great intensity. So pure… (turns a butterfly into an akuma) Fly away my little akuma and evilize him!

But why this happens is confusing. The butterfly isn't the miraculous of Emotion. That's the peacock. The butterfly is Transformation. Which is silly, so we're ignoring that. The butterfly is absolutely written to be Emotion in terms of almost everything about how it functions, so as far as I'm concerned, it's Emotion. Gabriel senses emotions with it and is even implied to have to pick what powers he gives based on the person's emotions as we see in Risk:

Shadow Moth: I need a villain who will force Ladybug to take risks, and without even realizing it, (corrupts a butterfly into a Megakuma) she'll make a mistake! (Shadow Moth closes his eyes to search for any strong negative emotions.) Extra 1: Great, of course my keys disappear from my bag just when I have to go out. Xavier: Now even benches have empty pigeon spikes on them? Oh, my poor friends... Froggy's Dad: Froggy, come back! It's too dangerous! Froggy: Why are you always scared of everything? I want to ride my bike without a helmet, without training wheels! Shadow Moth: (Open his eyes.) Perfect! Fly away, my Megakuma, and plague that deceived heart!

You could absolutely take this setup and use it to craft a narrative where Gabriel's actions are at least partially driven by the effects of feeling everyone else's emotions weighing down on him. This is extra true when you remember that Gabriel is supposed to be grief stricken. We are rarely at our best when we are mourning profound loss and the show really failed to lean into that fact even though the writers clearly wanted Gabriel to be sympathetic.

In my own rewrite, I heavily rely on these elements to shape Gabriel and Nathalie's characters. She may not use the butterfly, but she's also supposed to be mourning Emilie (or, at least, she is as of season five. I'm pretty sure that's a retcon, but it's something I changed to make her character work, so I'm cool with it.) That is a much stronger basis for Nathalie supporting Gabriel than the tired old trope of women doing stupid things because of men. (Don't get me wrong, we do, I just find it boring in most situations. It would only work in canon if the love square was supposed to be positive romantic love and Nathalie was supposed to be toxic romantic love, but the love square is toxic as hell and even "ends the world" so bleh )

I will peel back the curtain a little bit and give you one of my favorite ideas for making something like this work: if you have Emilie in a coma and not dead, then her brain would still be active. She'd still be experiencing emotions. Doesn't it make perfect sense for Gabriel to stay transformed 24/7 so that he can sense what is left of his wife, assuring himself that she's still there? And if the magic needs to stay secret, then of course that would mean that he never comes out of his home office because that's the only safe place to transform. And if you add in Gabriel being weak to the emotions of others, well, I think that has potential for something interesting, don't you?

[ladyloveandjustice]

so like I saw this entire argument for the first time when someone reblogged this post a few weeks ago, and was like "well it was two years ago, it's cleary a reach but i'm not that invested, they clearly just REALLY want to yell about this issue of Batgirl rather than go with the most obvious interpretation that was clearly intended, whatever, it's fine" (If they had Jordanna bring up "are you poor" after Steph talked about "her own issues" it is supposed to imply she was poor, whether Steph answers or not (and why would she answer that), otherwise why would the comic bring it up, it's not deep)

but then i was looking at one of my old amvs and

Stephanie's house looks kind of rough there. Yet this was a flashback? No earthquake?

man looks rough there too and this was way before the earthquake. weird that doing-well middle class people wouldn't repair a cracked wall and window.

As I said, that there are plenty of other comics that show Stephanie's house looking run down, this is exhibit A that I just happened to run across. I didn't really have the energy to actually look but turns out I didn't have to.

Steph's dad put the family in a financial hole. That is stated in this very comic. "Using all their money" every time he comes back means a bunch of stuff will pile up and you have to dig yourself out of it. Including the house being in disrepair. In-universe, it's only been like what, a year? less? since the last time he did that in most comics she's in. People don't just automatically recover from that. And that was most of Steph's childhood, Arthur doing that. This is a comic where "we have financial issues" is directly bought up. Steph's Mom likely has very little savings.

That's all I say. Comics are inconsistent. The writers are not as thoughtful about finances as the fans sometimes. It's often hard to nail down a single interpretation. But people think Steph has financial issues because there's more than one comic where her house looks rough, because it's directly stated, it's not out of nowhere.

Like I said, not super invested, I'm not going to say else anything past this post. Steph isn't obviously in danger of being thrown out on the streets, there's miles of difference between her and someone who was literally homeless like Jason, but "struggling" isn't a reach. It's been accepted as a fact for 15 years, since the first time I got into comics, with every fan I talked to, and this is the first time I've seen it so hotly contested, even by people who were following my series of scans on scans_daily (liking it or disliking it), having bits from almost every comic Steph was in right in front of them.

(OH. oh. You don't like Stephanie. that explains the amount of passion here that was confusing for me, I didn't understand why it seemed you were so invested in refuting this. it's like a moral thing now whether she's poor? or a 'financially-concious middle class white girl" is that why white was bought up despite not being relevant to the current conversation about finances? or something? idk what's going on in fandom anymore. anyway.)

If you ever have the time/interest, would you break down the canon surrounding Stephanie’s economic circumstances/home life? It seems like a lot of people have chosen to take it a specific way so I’d love to see your reasoning

Sure. Thanks for asking, it’s honestly a fun topic.

Y’know it’s funny—I actually happen to own something that I think most people, even most Steph fans, haven’t seen: Steph’s first appearance. Not her Robin first appearance, her Detective Comics first appearance, her actual introduction. I happened to pick them up by accident at a con a few years ago because they’re also some of Tim’s first cover appearances. 

Other people might disagree with me on this, but I like to go back to the characters’ origins whenever I can to find the baseline of what they were originally intended to be and try to bring later interpretations in line with that. I like to think of retcons as new revelations, new plot twists in an ongoing story, and not a way to reset aspects of the past just to fit your story. It works especially well for this because Steph’s socio-economic status doesn’t actually change, there’s just kind of a game of telephone that happens across the decades that leads people to misunderstand. 

One thing worth noting in these early issues is just how much Steph, a 16-year-old girl, has at her disposal before she ever even glimpses Batman and Robin. Literally the first shot we ever see of the Spoiler is this: 

And because I am, in fact, that kind of nerd, I have gone in a couple of times and dug out old era-appropriate electronics magazines to figure out what that piece of equipment would cost you in 1992. Baseline for a parabolic microphone is $600, and that price is for much larger, more delicate pieces of equipment meant to be used for like, outdoor nature shoots, which wouldn’t be able to hear through glass. Steph probably dropped $1,000 on that microphone alone. 

Remember also that her costume is homemade—she doesn’t have any other way of getting it. She’s also shown using some pretty elaborate climbing and painting gear, with no indication that they were stolen or borrowed or anything, and you can see that she’s got a pretty well-stocked utility belt there.

Again, for some reason people tend to forget or overlook this but, right up until she demanded Bruce make her Robin, Steph operated as Spoiler with zero Bat support. She got some hand-to-hand training from Cass late in the game and tagged along on some of Tim’s assignments, but was otherwise being actively discouraged from vigilantism for most of her career. She made her own costume, bought her own equipment, and maintained her own motorcycle, all without the financial support of either Batman or her parents. 

So right off the bat we know she’s a teenage girl with a not-insignificant amount of personal disposable income, the only hinted source of which is the implication she works a part-time job somewhere—which I don’t think is ever brought up again when she reappears in Robin. 

We all know minimum wage went further in 1992 than it does now, but it didn’t go that much further. So it’s reasonable to assume that Steph has access to at least some money from her parents to support her vigilante habit, whether that’s in the form of an allowance, gifts that she carefully manages between Christmas and birthdays, or money that she’s able to just, take from Crystal without her noticing. 

But this page is more important to our current interests because it’s also when we see Steph’s neighborhood for the first time. We’re told here that Steph and her mother (who is called Mrs. Agnes Bellinger in this comic, although it’s possible she was using a fake name to visit her ex in prison) live in what is described as “115 South Holden Street, in Manchester.” 

Now keep in mind, the Gotham City map can be extremely fluid and tends to change depending on the needs of the story. But there have been attempts to map it, and “Manchester” has never been on any of those maps, so we have to do some extrapolation. At the very least, we can tell the neighborhood is clearly not in the city, given the very deliberate angle there in the first panel to show that they’re well away from the crowded downtown Gotham skyline.

This implies that Manchester is intended to be one of the mainland suburbs that feeds the island city of Gotham, similar to Bristol Township where the Wayne and Drake Manors are located. It’s not nearly as nice a neighborhood as Bristol—note the fenced-in front lawns, the broken shutters on the neighboring houses, and the vaguely racist lawn ornament on the Brown’s property—but it’s also not some rundown slum. People aren’t afraid to let kids play in their front yards or leave their garage doors standing open. And you’ll note those aren’t trailers, either, they’re decently-sized suburban homes.

Also worth noting: Crystal seems to keep this house perfectly fine on her own as a single mother. Arthur doesn’t live with them; when he’s shown having residences it tends to be apartments in the city by himself, and it’s not like he could support them from prison or with his ill-gotten criminal gains. And yet, we don’t see Steph or Crystal worrying at all about bills or mortgages or anything like that throughout any of their appearances. We see the interior of their house on several occasions and, while it’s often messy, it’s not in disrepair or neglect.

This is a constant portrayal throughout all of Steph’s appearances, from Robin through even her run as Batgirl. So, with that in mind, where does the idea that Steph is poor come from? Well, I’ve got a couple of theories.

One is the usual comics fandom problem: canon is huge, nobody can keep up with all of it, and some people go out of their way to be assholes about it, so misinformation gets spread like wildfire, in no small part because Steph is a character that a lot of people use as a self-insert and therefore she must be the misunderstood underdog in all things.

But on the more-interesting-to-talk-about front… I don’t think it’s controversial to say that Steph’s first big storyline was her pregnancy. Yeah? Like, it’s the first story involving her that really started getting critical attention. Whether it deserves that attention is more open to debate—personally, since reading Icon & Rocket for the first time, I’ve come to view it as Dixon pulling the comic book equivalent of white guys repackaging black music and watering it down—but the important thing right now is that it’s the first time people would’ve been specifically reading the Robin comics for Stephanie Brown. And in those comics, Steph’s house is shown as visibly run-down, covered in cracks and disrepair.

Thing is, there’s a context that people miss if you’re reading for the baby storyline and nothing else: this storyline plays out over the last days of “Aftershock” and early months of “No Man’s Land,” the storyline where Gotham is racked by a destructive earthquake that nearly levels the city and is abandoned by the federal government.

Again, we get the reinforced confirmation that Steph’s house isn’t actually in Gotham because it’s not destroyed in the quake—the neighborhood is damaged and briefly evacuated due to a gas line rupture in the immediate aftermath, but once that’s cleared up they’re free to return home, and their suburb is not part of the federal government’s evacuation. Nearly every building in Gotham is shown with similar damage during this time, including Drake Manor. 

This storyline also plays into, I think, the stereotypes that people jump on when it comes to Steph’s socioeconomic status. Like I’ve mentioned before: Arthur is a criminal, Crystal is a drug addict, and Steph is a teen mom. Therefore, they must be poor, right? Because good middle class families supposedly don’t have those kinds of problems.

But, as I’ve mentioned before, that’s an inaccurate stereotype that ignores reality: plenty of drug addicts, criminals and teen moms live in the suburbs. And the Browns’ specific circumstances are distinctly atypical of the stereotype—Arthur’s not some down-on-his-luck thief pushed to crime by economic hardship, he’s an arrogant former gameshow host who thinks he’s smarter than everyone else and resents the world for not handing him the success he feels entitled to. Crystal’s not some crack addict, she’s a working nurse who used to get her doctor friends to write her scripts for prescription painkillers. And Steph is just a teenage girl who slept with a boy and got pregnant, with the costs of prenatal care and/or childrearing never seeming to be a factor in her decision to bring the child to term and give it up for adoption. 

I could go on but that’s pretty much the long and short of it: Steph is simply not shown as being poor in the comics. Ever. She’s not rich, she does clearly rely on her fists much more than any gadgets or fancy gear and lives with her mother rather than moving out on her own for college, but she’s also never shown worrying about student loans and can apparently pay for all her classes with some government assistance and a part-time job alone.

People just assume that she’s poor because they’re misinformed, or they’re projecting, or they’ve got biases they haven’t examined, or they need her to be an underdog to justify their argument against one of the other characters, or they really want her to be buddy-buds with Jason for some reason. 

Or, y’know, they just don’t want to acknowledge that they’re rooting for a middle-class white girl from the suburbs who commutes into the inner city to pick fights for fun. 

[starlighthome74]

Nightmare Time: Possession

[TW: Sort of blanket warning for themes of abuse, neglect, endangerment. Proceed with caution!]

Kik wakes in a sunlit room, alone. It's sometime in the middle of the day, and they aren't sure, for a moment, where they are. The memory is very familiar, but they didn't usually dream of memories. They sit up, and take in the pristine, clean bedroom around them, frowning as dread settles in their stomach like a giant pit. 

You would expect the bedroom of a fourteen-year-old to be messy, chaotic, and filled with a mixture of toys and clothes and hobbies as they rapidly switch between things they like, growing out of interests like skinny jeans during a growth spurt. However... Kik's room in eighth grade was hardly ever messy at all. They didn't really have many things, really, aside from a few pictures of their mother and father, a beloved stuffed dog, and a fairly-decent wardrobe of baggy clothes. A couple games lived on bookshelves, a few toys were tucked in the closet, but Kik would rather be caught dead than playing. Edwin was raising an adult, and they were expected to behave as one.

They get up quickly, smoothing down their clothes and fixing their messy hair. If he found out they were sleeping--

"Katherine."

Shit shit shit shit shit--

"uh-- y-yeah?" Their voice is high, and it cracks slightly.

"I didn't send you in here to think for you to fall asleep. Do you think this is a game?" Edwin is leaning on the door frame, his eyes a little darker than usual. 

It's been a hard day, especially because Kik had been so incredibly clumsy and out of it. They'd broken three glasses while on kitchen duty today, their hands shaking so much that they could barely keep their grip on the glass. Something had happened that had made Edwin angry. More angry than they had ever seen, and it was terrifying. He had sent Kik away after the third glass to think about why they couldn't 'stop acting like a bimbo doll.'

That. Stung. Kik had cried for an hour, and then fell asleep. Guess he was ready to 'talk' about it now. 

"Answer me." Edwin's tone is testy. Kik's stomach rolls.

"I- I'm sorry, I just feel a little sick today." Kik says quietly, forcing themself to keep eye contact. "My skin feels weird, I don't know what's going on."

Edwin sighs, and a little bit of his annoyance falters. Obviously, the teen seems a little sickly. He walks over, gently holding the inside of his wrist to Kik's forehead. "This start today?"

"Y-yeah, I just feel like I keep seeing things. I don't know if I haven't been sleeping well or what, but--" Kik rubs their eyes, relieved that Edwin's changed tact. He could be good. He was, sometimes. They decide to trust him. Maybe this time will be different. "The more stressed I get, the more I feel like I can... move the lights around. See the shadows dance around me... and-- no, it's silly."

Edwin's interest piques. Little do they know it, Kik has given him exactly what he wanted.

"What?" Edwin pushes, tone soft. He pushes a lock of brown hair behind Kik's ear, encouraging them.

"I dropped the last glass because I thought I saw my chest glowing." They had been drying off a dish, and turned to put it in the cupboard when they caught a glimpse of something glowing a crimson in the reflection of the fridge. In the black-chrome surface, it looked like Kik's rib bones were emitting light, shining through their body. They looked down to confirm, and the glass slipped from their hand and shattered, breaking the vision. "I-- I think I'm hallucinating."

"No." Edwin smiled, and Kik's heart lurched a little in their chest. Something dark was in his eyes, making his smile... something more akin to a dangerous grin. "No, no, my dear. You're not hallucinating at all. You're just like your mother."

"W-what?" Kik is starting to dislike the way that Edwin is touching them. Like a trophy. A prize.

"You've got the Gift, little lady." He simpers, but then he chuckles. "Oh, I knew keeping you around would be worthwhile! You sure are a late bloomer, that's for sure. Although, maybe that's my own fault."

"Just applying some pressure, huh? That's all you needed? Maybe magic is an instinct? Maybe we should try that, huh?" It's clear he isn't talking to Kik at this point, but the teen is shaking their head. They don't understand what the fuck he's talking about... And they don't want to find out.

[aita-blorbos]

AITA for chewing gum?

This is going to be a long post, so sorry about that. This happened quite a few years ago so it may not be entirely accurate, but I will try to sum it up. For the record, I am an adult now, and I've mostly moved on from it, but my therapist recommended I tell the story somewhere. I'd just like to see if I was really in the wrong, and if anyone has experienced something like this.

Basically, when I was maybe ten years old, I won a free tour of a candy factory. Of course I went because fuck yeah, candy. Now during this particular point in my life, I was really into chewing gum. By that I mean I DID IT ALL THE DAMN TIME. There was not a minute I spent without gum in my mouth. Typing it out all these years later makes me realize that yes, I was extremely weird.

I get to the factory with my mom and this guy shows up. Immediately, I am EXTREMELY sketched out. I mean he's wearing an old timey top hat ffs. But I was too excited because fuck yeah, candy.

So, we're going through a few rooms, I'm not paying much attention to the rest of my tour group because Mr. Sketchydude just said something about gum!!!!

He shows off a piece of gum, and I take it because I thought he was offering it to me? Probably should have thought that one through, but honestly, kids do impulsive shit all the time. I start chewing it and it's really damn good. I can't remember the flavor exactly but it changed a bit overtime, from a kind of savory flavor to a sweet one.

This is when shit hits the fan. I am not gonna do a very good job explaining this part, because I think I've blocked some of it out, but I remember being in a ton of pain and a lot of memories that don't make sense, like my vision was blurring and there were a bunch of tiny people singing and dancing? But the point is, my body was permanently altered. I am NOT going to go into detail. You can essentially find what I'm talking about on Deviantart, and it's disgusting so I don't recommend looking for it. Ew ew ew. And did I mention ew.

I spent YEARS as the social outcast. No friends, no support for my mental health, no nothing. The swelling went down quickly after the incident, thank god, but I still had to have a ton of physical therapy and regular therapy.

I probably shouldn't have chewed that gum without asking, but really, why show it off when you knew it would put a kid in danger? I think he set me up. Anyway, please let me know if any of you have experienced something like this, because I can't be the only one.

[kassian-ck]

I might do a whole ass series of posts regarding Miguel and Robby just staring at each other an analyzing what might be going on behind those glances. The writers sucked at giving them the depth they deserved, but giving credit where credit is due, they do know sometimes how to show and not tell, and the quiet glances that they give to each other from time to time does that pretty nicely in my opinion. Xolo and Tanner also help bring these messages across so kudos for their acting 🗣🔥

Or I could be completely wrong and they just staring at each other cause oh they're rivals grrrr.

ALSO THANK YOU EVERYONE for the feedback in the last post. I didn't think so many people would read what I wanna say. Yall real ones 😭🫂

So this time, I'm going alllll the way back to season 3 to talk about a scene that goes pretty under the radar when it comes to them and I think is really interesting (excuse the quality):

This one is a bit long ngl

Getting what's very telling out of the way – is insane that Miguel's look here barely resembles any kind of anger or hatred towards Robby. The situation isn't really the best for him to bring up any of that and he knows that, but Miguel isn't exactly the best at hiding his emotions, and to hide any (justifiable) anger he had towards Robby after what happened during the school fight wouldn't have been easy at all for him.

His experience was insanely traumatic. That's not something you can simply forget, nor your mind nor your body. But yk the writers, they don't actually like to explore anything with Miguel in depth–

Finding each other after going through one of, if not the hardest and most traumatic events of their lives at that point must have brought up pretty complex emotions they aren't sure what to do with. When they meet in Miyagi Do earlier in the season, Robby does resort to his anger from how betrayed he feels by the people he thought he could trust completely turn his back on him (in his pov). There might have been resentment towards Miguel, but I feel like that act of throwing a punch at him was more out of impulse caused by a fresh wound and the behavior he had to keep for months in juvie.

In this scene, Robby is angry but I heavily doubt any anger is directed towards Miguel at that moment. Instead, they look at each other blinking slowly as if it was hard to believe that they were in the presence of the other now that the situation had nothing to do with their rivalry.

Especially for Miguel. Not only for what happened between them but for what he thought of Robby once he saw him stepping out of the dojo right behind Kreese.

He didn't look angry. Man, he barely even seemed angry towards Robby regarding his injury compared to how he was with Johnny. Because even if he didn't know much about Robby, he did know one thing about him. Miyagi Do is about honor and balance, and he's seen Robby uphold those teachings with pride since the first time he fought him in their first tournament. Something that he massively lacked and nearly loss complete sight of when Kreese came into the picture.

Even if they weren't in the best terms in season 2, Miguel at least esteemed Robby's honor and balance the more he saw that Cobra Kai's teachings didn't have those principles he himself believed in. Maybe at some point he saw that what Robby did to him wasn't out of revenge or out of pure hatred towards him, it was because he was angry and he let his emotions take control, causing an accident that he knew the Robby he fought against in the tournament would have immediately regretted.

So to see this Robby come out, wearing a Cobra Kai gi and taking the side of the same old man who's philosophy nearly pushed him towards a very dangerous ideology had to feel like being hit by a truck. Because as much as it might be hard for him to admit it due to his ego, Robby was supposed to be better than him. He was supposed to be more honorable and with more integrity than him; to see that the rhetoric Cobra Kai wants to push isn't the right way to do things.

How was somebody like Robby now in the same position he was in? In the position that brought them to where they were in the first place? Miguel can only guess so much with what he knows from Johnny. He doesn't know that he's pretty much homeless or that his mom isn't available for him. He barely knows what he went through in juvie, or how Johnny chose him over his biological son and how that made him feel.

He's completely left in the dark wondering why Robby didn't care anymore. Thus, looking perplexed as he does in the scene.

If this is the case, he might have been the only one of the teens to see Robby past the mistakes that were made and past the choices he took from the very beginning. He wanted to understand what was going on, but who was he to even approach him?

This is why in season 4 I honestly would have loved it if they had fought instead of Eli fighting Miguel. Keep Eli winning, I liked that he won the tournament a lot, but just give Robby and Miguel a fight 🙏 It's not a 1:1 parallel but since they have pretty much flipped sides, it would force them to look at the other in the eye and notice sides of each other that they have not seen in earlier fights, giving them a sense of deja vu yet see what made this different. We could have gotten Robby's reaction to Miguel feeling a sharp pain in his lower back too after attempting that jumping kick. I feel this way the tournament could have had so much more weight emotionally, and it could have added another layer to the relationship that could work well with Robby ultimately turning away from Cobra Kai and deciding to stay in Mexico to search for Miguel with his dad.