#he's the ideal he's the death of the ideal

[vashti-lives]

When my uncle died it REALLY drove home how much our society is structured to favor legal "real" marriage over absolutely everything else, FOR EVERYONE. I feel like this is a very illustrative story because my uncle was not gay, he was straight. He was with the same woman for more than 30 years. They were common law married, they filed taxes together, owned property together, had a joint bank account, she was in all his work paperwork as his wife, and she was the recipient of his pension benefits after his death. They were never officially married because they were hippies who didn't believe it in. While they were both alive they were as good as married and in fact as far as they understood they were legally married even if they had never had an official ceremony.

Unbeknownst to anyone--including himself-- my uncle had a quiet neurological disorder that came with cognitive dysfunction. A fact we only learned after it killed him. He had a made a will, a very specific will! He knew it was important and he did it! However, he did not understand the legal requirements for a will as well as he thought he did and after he died it turned out this will was not legal.

SUDDENLY there were a number of bank accounts and some property my aunt should have had every right to that the bank would not release to her. The fact that she was by NEARLY every standard my uncle's wife did not matter. She wasn't really his wife so as far as the bank was concerned all these things were the property of my mom and other uncle. It took several months to get the whole thing sorted out and that's with my mom and uncle having absolutely no intention on making any claim on my aunt's inheritance. In the end both my mom and uncle had to sign a lot of paperwork saying they making no claims on the money or property before my aunt was allowed to access it.

I don't want to give anyone anxiety but to me there are two very important takeaways to this story--ONE you cannot trust that you will always know or perfectly understand what your are doing. You should have a will and ideally you should have a lawyer help you make it because the law is complex and you are not always the best judge how much you're understanding things. And TWO-- legal marriage is SUCH an important safety net. If they'd been legally married the issue with the will would have been nothing, everything would have gone to my aunt anyway as it was supposed to! If this is how straight women in her 70s who've been with someone for 35+ years are treated imagine if you're in a queer relationship during this situation.

OP makes a lot of really important points about how marriage prevents you from getting taken advantage of by your romantic or life partner, but even if that's 100% not necessary for your relationship because it's perfect and nobody would ever harm anyone else it ALSO prevents outsiders from taking advantage of your or your partner in the event of a death! Without a legal marriage your shit head family can try and steal property from your partner and frankly courts are often going to side with them! Even if they don't important bank accounts or property can be tied up in legal trouble for months or even years.

It was fucking infuriating to watch russian psyop blogs in 2016 downplay how much it mattered so they could try and tear the queer community apart and get that man elected. Don't let them win, legal marriage needs to be expanded not abandoned.

im going crazy you have GOT to decouple romance/amatonormativity and marriage in your mind. you have GOT to understand that marriage is a legal document that protects you from exploitation especially if you are a woman or a stay-at-home anything. it is not some evil unique to heterosexual people. it is a legal document that says 'this is who i want in my hospital room when i die, this is who i want to have my stuff when i die, THIS PERSON OWES ME RECOMPENSE IF THEY KICK ME OUT OF THE HOUSE I LIVE IN"

You are not immune to being taken advantage of by your partner if you are queer. do not wind up homeless because your garbage live-ins name is on the lease and they decided to drop you like hot coals.

[mentally-in-northern-italy]

a lover’s ruse — c.d. [1]

Summary: Your agonizing courtship and Cedric’s need to spite his ex are both ailments that have a very simple cure: a fake relationship, obviously.

⤷ [1] - in which prefect patrols end with a haphazard agreement being reached.

Requested: read the request here

Pairing: Cedric Diggory x fem!gryffindor!reader

Word Count: 3.9K

A/N: I'm so sorry guys. This has been such a long time coming, I'm not sure people are even waiting for this anymore. But this is the first part and I'm thinking of turning it into a full-fledged series. Second part of the fic WILL be out as soon as I'm done exams.

—

The first few dates were bearable enough  — if you squinted hard and counted the silence as a virtue. 

The next few were nothing short of painstakingly harrowing. And that’s being kind.

This one, however? It made you seriously contemplate lunging over the walls of the Astronomy Tower and meeting Death, himself, halfway. Little else could offer greater reprieve, in your mind, from this. 

The setting should’ve been romantic, in theory. The night was still, but not stiflingly so, and the moonlight danced around the top of the Tower teasingly, doing little to illuminate the dark. If he stepped into a crevice where the light didn’t reach his face and you tuned him out just enough, you might even call the view beautiful. But, you soon found out – only a few dates in – no view could be described as such when you have Trevor Selwyn standing next to you.

Trevor Selwyn should’ve been a perfect match, in theory. An avid member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight –  there was little else that could prove more pertinent to families, like yours, with snobby ideals of purity and the measures necessary to maintain it, generation after generation – a Slytherin, an athlete (he doesn’t like mentioning that he’s a substitute player, on his best days), and a prefect. And, as you soon found out – only one date in – he’s also an utter and complete idiot.

So, you should’ve said no, in theory. Kicked and flailed your arms like a petulant child, screamed and wailed and protested when your parents proposed a courtship between the two of you. You should’ve told Trevor himself that he possessed the tact of a Cornish Pixie and the wit of the dimmest of trolls. But, as you soon found out (after the wailing episode) – absolutely zero dates in – Trevor is nothing but persistent and your parents anything but unwavering in their resolve. 

“I’ve met the Minister once,” he remarks out of nowhere as he looks off, off of the edge of the tower with all the regality of an acclaimed emperor. 

You hum in response. You haven’t said a word all night and he hasn’t noticed a thing.

“Granted, I was only two but I recall the Minister telling my father –”

“I think I should head back, actually,” you interrupt before the anecdote can truly begin. There are a few things you’ve learned about Trevor so far but none of them are as glaringly consequential as this: if he starts talking about his father, he won’t be able to stop. Escapades from Uagadou, his adventures in Egypt warding off curses and serpents and the magical scrolls of Machu Picchu –

“Oh,” he furrows his brow as if deep in thought and you almost laugh. That boy has never had a thought in his life. 

“I don’t want to be late for prefect patrols is all,” a faux sweet lilt to your voice doesn’t do much to subdue the frown on his face. 

He nods curtly. “I’ll walk you back.”

Your refusal is automatic. “I think I’ll mana–”

“It’s no problem,” he starts walking towards the stairs and you’re left with no choice but to follow.

On any other occasion, the walk would’ve taken mere minutes. The hallways would’ve been something theatrical, a soft fusion of candlelight and the streaming moonlight at this time of night. With Selwyn by your side, however, the minutes seemed like hours, and the candlelit corridors, usually golden and warm, felt like the dull glow of a waiting room. Your shoulders ached from how stiffly you held herself as each step echoed louder than the last, as if the castle itself was sighing in disappointment and disdain.

“I had an enjoyable time tonight,” Trevor started when you finally reached and you tried your utter best to hide the discomfort when his clammy hand reached for yours. He brought it to his lips and pressed a single kiss on it before you gave him a tight-lipped smile. You expect him to then turn and go, to walk back down to his own common room but he stays standing there, his face blank. 

“Me too,” you smile, in hopes that this was the confirmation he was after. Another lesson you’ve learned about the boy has been this: nothing else pleases him as much as validation does. 

He gives some semblance of a smile back. You blink. The next thing you know he has started to lean in and his eyes are fluttering shut and his slightly puckered lips are mere inches from yours now and the ridiculousness of it all proves too much to bear – you guffaw in the most obnoxious way possible. A mixture of anger and hurt crosses his face before he retreats and you’re unsure of how to recover.

“I’m so sorry,” you cover your mouth and try to stop the laughter. “I– I just thought of a funny joke. I’m so–”

“Fix your hair, would you? It looked atrocious today,” he quips quickly to gain control of the situation back. The last thing you’ve learned about the enigma that Selwyn is is this: his superiority cannot be challenged. If it is, he will try to establish it again – by insulting you in the most seemingly hurtful manner. 

It doesn’t quite have the desired effect. You snort at his attempt and suddenly the laughter has returned. He exhales once out of his nose as he turns to go but not before calling out, “I will pick you up at the same time tomorrow night. Don’t be late.” 

The laughter dwindles at the thought of enduring this again. “I’m busy tomorrow!” 

“Don’t be late,” he calls again. 

“Charming,” you hear someone call from behind you and you can tell who it is without having to turn and look at his annoyingly perfect face. His clever quips usually carry the extraordinary ability to irk you to no end but after the night you’ve had, they seem especially akin to knives on a chalkboard. 

You can picture Cedric Diggory’s earnest yet irritating smile he seems to wear at all times, the kind that makes his honey-coloured eyes crinkle in the slightest way at the edges with no difficulty. You can picture his perfectly ironed robes, clad with pins and awards he has won over the years and his hair that falls in place like dominoes. There’s only ever one way to describe him: pristine. Always. 

Though you’d never cared much to exalt him to the status of an academic rival, it’d be foolish to call him anything else. He had a way about him that reeked of complete and utter competence at everything, which indubitably invited a certain degree of resentment from everyone. You were no exception.

And not only did the universe seem keen on making an already-horrible night worse by scheduling him as your prefect patrols partner tonight, it also seemed quite keen on wanting to humiliate you in front of him. 

“The gossip that you are, Diggory,” you huff with biting sarcasm as you finally turn to face him. “Using your patrols as a way to spy on unsuspecting young lovers. Classy.” The break of his grin is almost blinding and you have to avert your gaze to avoid damage to your visual field.

“Nothing else entertains me these days as much as your courtship, I’m afraid,” he jests, slipping an easy hand into his pocket. “If you need more time together, I understand. I’m perfectly capable of completing the patrols on my own tonight.”

With your face aflame, you shoot him a look and begrudgingly start walking beside him, arms crossed tightly over your chest like a shield and footsteps hitting stone a bit too sharply. 

“How kind of you.” You say curtly and make it a point to walk a few steps ahead of him. He doesn’t seem particularly perturbed by it: he follows a few steps behind you, but the smugness radiating off of him envelops you nonetheless. 

“You can laugh, you know,” you say again after a moment of silence. You have long-since learned that the best way to avoid embarrassment is to submit to it. You’ve been courting Selwyn long enough to know it – sheepish smiles exchanged with classmates when he pecks you on the cheek in the hallways, mortified but apologetic grimaces whenever he tries to clasp your hand in his as he walks you to your common room after supper. Judgment – if it must be served – is best served plainly. Overtly. 

He shakes his head in amusement as he finally catches up and walks in step with you. “Now, why would I laugh? That was the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.” 

“That was humiliating,” you mutter under your breath before you can stop yourself. 

Cedric’s amused smile wavers as he glances at you with something you hope isn’t sympathy. And as much as you hate to say it, it wouldn’t be something you would put above him – for all the determined rebuttals and rivalries in class, Cedric has only ever been infuriatingly kind. “I think Selwyn might be a tad bit more humiliated than you, [Y/L/N].”

“Good. If he ever tries to kiss me again, I might hex him into oblivion and end up as a headline in the Daily Prophet.” 

His amusement returns and you’re glad. You’re not sure how to interact with him beyond the usual teasing remarks. “Would it be in bad taste to say that I'd quite want to see that?” His smile only grows when you roll your eyes. “Will you be doing that tomorrow night then? Shall I call the reporters?” 

You make a face. “You won’t be grinning that wide when I send a dementor after you from Azkaban, Diggory.”

“Send one after Selwyn. He’s in need of a good kiss.”

Your lips twitch at the joke and Cedric notices the slight movement. You press them together before a full-fledged smile can appear on your face and Cedric revels in it. “You’re not funny.”

“Yes, I’m sure Selwyn’s funnier,” Cedric teases. 

“Still not funny.” You take a few quicker steps to walk in front of him again, having had enough of his teasing for the night. 

He catches up again and has no particular difficulties keeping up, no matter how much you try to hasten your steps. “Forgive me for prying –”

“I won’t.”

“But, why Selwyn?” The question’s sincerity catches you off-guard.

“What?”

“I just mean – I find it hard to believe that you’re… devoid of options. So…why him?” He picks his words carefully, as if he’s weighing them in his mouth before letting them fall out. And perhaps it was due to the late hour or the undeniable warmth that Cedric’s eyes perpetually hold, but you actually considered giving him a sincere answer. 

“He’s–” you pause as you vow to yourself this would be the last display of vulnerability Cedric would be getting from you tonight. Your voice drops despite yourself, and you find your fingers fiddling with the edge of your sleeve. Something about Cedric’s quiet attention makes the truth feel heavier than usual. “He’s my parents’ choice. They want me to graduate with a prospect secured.”

His eyebrows wrinkle in confusion. “If a courtship is what you’re after, I’m sure you’d find better prospects in – pardon my bluntness – anyone else.” His teasing cadence has dropped altogether now and you wrinkle your own eyebrows in confusion as you consider the notion that Cedric might actually be trying to help you. 

“It doesn’t matter who–” you pause again. “I don’t plan on marrying him, Cedric.”

Cedric frowns. 

You go on, “I’m only ‘courting’ him until graduation to subdue my parents. I won’t marry him so it doesn’t matter who it is.” You squirm in guilt as Cedric stays frowning. “And I realize it’s cruel to string him along – I do – I just – I don’t know what else to do.” 

Cedric nods after a while – a slow, courteous nod that indicates he understands but wholly disagrees with whatever you’re saying. It’s a nod you’ve seen from him when he proposes a rebuttal to whatever alternate answer you’ve proposed in class, an alternate solution to a problem and admittedly, a much more pragmatic one.  He opens his mouth to voice it before the sound of giggles fill the empty hallways from around the corner.

You both exchange a prefectly look with each other, acknowledging the obvious student out of bed, awaiting a scolding for being out past curfew. Before you two can approach to see who it is, they turn the corner themselves.

“Evelyn,” Cedric breathes out in surprise as your gaze lands on the familiar brunette-haired girl in your year, her hands firmly clasped in Damien Avery’s, matching love-sick grins plastered on both faces and lipstick stains on the latter’s neck. With their hair dishevelled and robes askew, they blink in stunned silence.

You purse your lips as you look between the two, realization cresting at once. Though Cedric’s dating life was never a particular topic of interest, you immediately recognized the girl as his girlfriend, Evelyn Waters. 

Well, ex-girlfriend as of two weeks ago. 

“Ced,” his name falls from her smudged, lipstick-stained mouth softly, her eyes widening slightly. She hastily straightens out her robe and runs a hand through her hair. “I–”

Cedric clears his throat awkwardly as he shoots Avery a lingering glare. “It’s an hour past curfew–” He manages to get out, his voice unbelievably even. He keeps his eyes on Avery, not sparing Evelyn another glance. 

“I’m a prefect, Diggory. I think we’re fine,” Avery dismisses, stepping around him. He tugs at Evelyn’s hand.

Cedric steps in front of him again, towering over the shorter boy with ease. “Forty points from Slytherin,” he says simply, his eyes uncharacteristically stoic.

Avery scoffs and looks at Cedric in disbelief. “Yeah?” He sneers. “Are you going to take another forty for theft?” 

Cedric exhales heavily through his nose at the implication. The night air has suddenly chilled and the tension is so thick, it makes it hard to breathe.

“You know… considering…everything.” Avery smirks, gesturing subtly to Evelyn’s hand he still has clasped within his own. Evelyn watches the exchange silently.

“Considering everything, Avery,” you finally find your voice in the uncomfortable silence and step forward. “I’ll be taking another hundred points away from Slytherin for your misuse of prefect privileges. Expect to hear from Professor Snape tomorrow when I formally file a complaint.”

Avery turns to you, his goblin-green eyes staring into yours for a minute before he narrows them. “This isn’t your fight, [Y/L/N]. Stay out of it.”

“I think you,” you jab a hard finger at his chest, pushing him away slightly, “should stay out of the hallways after curfew. Now, if you’ll excuse us.” You grab Cedric’s arm and tear him away from the pair. 

He doesn’t protest when you begin to lead him down a random set of stairs to get away from the scene of the stiff confrontation. Cedric walks a few steps behind you wordlessly as you chance periodic glances to make sure he’s still following. After a few moments, you slow your gait so he can catch up with you.

“Hey,” you jostle him out of his thoughts which seemed to have permanently etched a furrow in his brows as he shuffled his feet across the stone floor.

He sighs, running a quick hand over his face and then stuffing it back into his pocket. “You didn’t have to enjoy that quite so much.”

You frown. “Enjoy what?”

“Do you not normally enjoy my humiliation?” He asks with a teasing lilt in his voice, but the humour stops short of his eyes. You can tell his mind is still stuck elsewhere, replaying that scene over and over. 

“I’m not a sadist like you,” you quip. 

He offers you a quick smile as if to confirm receipt of your well-intentioned humour, but doesn’t say much else. You walk in uneasy silence once again. 

“She’s an idiot,” you say finally. “Just– for the record.”

“Hm.” He smiles wryly again but his eyes hold a heaviness that you don’t like. You can tell the breakup took a greater toll on him than he has let on the past few weeks. And you’re not exactly sure why that weighs down on your heart.

“Seriously, Diggory,” you sigh. “She’s an idiot for breaking up with you and she’s an idiot for getting with Avery.”

He exhales a quiet laugh. “Yeah.” 

The heaviness still hung in the air despite your attempts at trying to provide Cedric an outlet to let out his frustration. You scoff internally at his staunch unwillingness to talk ill of anyone – not even his ex-girlfriend who moved on from him in a blink of an eye. You think again of Cedric’s genuine interest in your ‘Selwynian’ plight. You sigh once before shaking your head. Were you really about to help Cedric Diggory?

“You know what? You need to stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Acting like it doesn’t bother you,” you hit him lightly on the arm. “It bothers you, right?”

He holds your gaze for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. Suppose it does.” He admits quietly.

“Do you want her back?” 

He frowns at the question. “What–”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” he breathes out after a while and looks away, as if embarrassed at the confession. You can tell he’s fidgeting with his pockets nervously. 

“Then, make her jealous,” you say. “I saw how she was looking at you. She knows she made a mistake. But she won’t admit it because that’s not how it works. Make her jealous and she’ll have to admit it. It’ll get it out of her.”

He looks at you in amusement. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to help me or sabotage me.”

You scoff. “Accept the generosity before I change my mind.”

He shakes his head with a bitter smile, clicking his tongue against his teeth quietly. “That won’t work, anyway.”

“It will,” you assert. “Trust me, Diggory. It will.” 

He shakes his head again. “I don’t even know how to–”

“Date someone else,” you supply easily.

“I don’t like anyone else.”

You shoot him an unimpressed look. “No shit. We already established that you still like Evelyn.”

“So, I ask out a girl I’m not actually interested in?” He asks in disbelief, discomfort evident on his face. 

“Yeah,” you shrug. 

He frowns and pauses, glancing at you with confusion. “That’s cruel beyond belief, [Y/L/N].”

His admonition makes you pause, too. The familiarity of the proposal strikes you at once. It was exactly what you were doing – stringing along a clueless Selwyn until graduation and then breaking his heart without a second thought. The cruelty of it all had always been a nagging thought – but its noise had been distant and dull. It was now ringing in your ears however, your skewed perception of morality hitting you at once.

“It’s not– cruel.” You try to tell yourself, more than him. “It–”

“It’s heartless,” he says again, matter-of-factly. “This, and what you’re doing to Selwyn, by the way.” 

You sigh at his moral policing. You knew he was right, but Selwyn was a problem for another night. 

“Fine,” you relent. “How about a girl who agrees to be your fake girlfriend?” 

He scoffs lightly. “If that were so easy to find, wouldn’t you have gotten a fake boyfriend already?”

You both stop walking at the same time, your footsteps coming to a screeching halt simultaneously. It was almost as if Cedric’s words had materialized and turned into physical roadblocks. His gaze slowly turns to you, honey-brown eyes landing on yours, but you’re already watching him in stunned realization. 

“[Y/L/N] –” he begins thoughtfully.

“No. No. Absolutely not.” That look in his eyes — the one like he’s already decided. Like he’s already seen this through to the end. It makes you nervous in a way you can’t name. You start walking ahead of him rather quickly but he catches up to you with no difficulty once again. His long strides match your pace perfectly.

“This was your idea–” He tries to reason again, the sound of hurried footsteps echoing off the walls as he chases after you with a walking stride.

“My idea– was not for us to do that–” you huff out as you keep up the pace, unrelenting.

He finally catches up to you and reaches for your arm, his hand closing gently around your elbow. The warmth of his touch sends a jolt through you, halting your steps more effectively than his words ever could. “It makes sense.”

You blink, momentarily thrown. “No–” 

“You won’t have to be needlessly cruel just to keep a prospect around–”

“Cedric.”

“And I won’t have to heartlessly pretend to like a girl who doesn’t know I’m pretending,” his hands find your shoulders. “It makes sense. You know it does.”

“I won’t–”

“And no more nightly dates with Selwyn,” he interrupts. “No more dodging his kisses.” 

That finally shuts you up. You shake your head though you can’t find the words to protest anymore. Cedric decides to sweeten the deal further.

“No life sentence in Azkaban, either.”

“Shut up.”

His lips tug upwards slightly and your eyes can’t help but catch on the movement. You let your eyes roam over his face — annoyingly symmetrical, irritatingly warm — and suddenly it hits you how easy it would be to fall into this lie. How dangerously tempting it is to pretend.

“No one would even believe it,” you say weakly. “We hate each other.”

“You mean you hate me?” He smiles dryly. “Because I don’t recall ever hating you.”

You avert your eyes before you start tracing his smile lines again with your gaze. “I just mean– we’re always at each other’s throats.” 

“That makes it more believable, don’t you think?” 

You shake your head, closing your eyes. “It’s a bad idea–”

You don’t get to finish your sentence before a familiar owl flies overhead and perches itself on the ledge next to you, clutching a letter. It doesn’t take long for you to realize who it’s from – the intricate green envelope and Selwyn family crest catching your eye immediately.

Cedric raises an eyebrow as he holds back a smirk. You grumble under your breath before plucking the letter from the owl begrudgingly. 

“Aren’t you going to open it?” He questions as he stifles a smile.

“No,” you huff in annoyance. “He … sends these every night. A ‘goodnight poem’, he calls them.”

Cedric doesn’t say anything, his grin already revealing he knows what your next words will be. 

You glance at the letter again — Selwyn’s cursive looping like a snake about to bite. What were you even doing?

You sigh, knowing exactly what this meant. “Fine. Let’s do it.” You cast the ignition spell, watching the green wax seal curl into smoke. “Let’s date.”

He blinks. “Wait — really?”

 “Don’t make me change my mind.”

 His grin returns, slow and lopsided. “Pretend to date,” he corrects.

“What?”

“We’re pretending,” he says cheekily, your cheeks aflame at his teasing cadence. "Don’t fall in love with me, [Y/L/N].”  

With a determined roll of your eyes, you turn on your heel. “As if, Diggory.”

Second part coming soon!

[maxdibert]

Sirius always did everything right. Sirius defied his family, his blood status. Sirius opposed supremacist ideals. Sirius spat in the face of his surname, his parents, his brother. Sirius rejected everything Voldemort stood for like the plague. He left home. They erased him from the family tree. Sirius spent 12 years in Azkaban with no one believing in his innocence just because it made sense that a Black would betray his Muggle-born friends. Sirius always chose the right path and still, Dumbledore—the man he kept trusting even though he never really advocated for him, the man he followed even though he never showed interest in whether he was guilty or innocent—chose Snape.

Sirius did everything right and Dumbledore chose Snape as his right-hand man. The same Snape who had always wanted to be everything the Blacks represented and Sirius had rejected. The same Snape who surrounded himself with supremacists. The same Snape who followed his family’s ideals. The same Snape who joined the Death Eaters and bore the Dark Mark. Dumbledore chose Snape—who never chose the right path, who never made the right decisions, who never stood up to the people Dumbledore claimed to be against. But it was Snape whom the old man trusted most. Snape who had the secret conversations and the dangerous missions. Snape who reveled in having the old man’s backing, who was accepted despite being a black sheep.

Because Snape was always the prodigal son—the one who strayed and returned to be embraced and acknowledged by the Father. And Sirius, without even realizing it, was the son who always stayed, but no one seemed to care.

[ekjohnston]

My favourite kind of villain is the one who is actually a lot like the protagonist, but makes wildly different choices. For example, both Katniss and Snow are starving and selfish, living in the shadow of dead fathers with an unreliable parental figure left in charge, but from that point, they are very, very different, and it's because of choices they make.

I think that's one reason that I like my Rook so much. Because Rook and Solas have a lot in common. They're both unlikely heroes of causes they didn't entirely mean to be part of. They're both trusted with the well-being of countless strangers and dear friends. They're both faced with a lot of hard choices. They're both going to be remembered, whether they like the story or not.

But they make different choices. Rook chooses to build a team, to reinforce the bonds between her friends, to trust them with information, and to keep going forward, even when it's hard. Solas chooses, over and over and over, the exact opposite: he uses people and justifies their deaths, he murders his friends, he's convinced he's the only solution, and above all else, he will not let go of his idealized version of the past, unable to imagine that a world built by beings other than him could be a good one.

I find it really therapeutic to play videogames in general, because I love the idea of being able to help people and make life better for my friends. Veilguard dials that up to 11 the way ME2 did, in that everyone's survival relies on how good at team building you are. My Rook builds bridges and opens doors. She doesn't have to, but she likes it. And so do I.

Veilguard is, literally and figuratively, a game about mirrors, and Rook is at its heart, making better choices than the gods who came before them, because they choose to.

Solas is a great villain because you get him. You really do. You love him and you want him to change. You keep trying, even as you learn all of the horrifying things he has done, because that's what you do. Even when you realize that the world he is so desperate to restore never really existed (and the parts that did sucked for like 90% of the people involved), and that he has no plan for what comes after, you try. Because you're the hero. And that's what you do.

And then you stand above Minrathous, with a knife in your hand and a god at your feet and, if you've chosen well, all of your friends behind you. Solas only gets what you give him, in the end. And because the game is very, very clever, he deserves all three endings.

Rook has made their final choice and saved the world from a monster who was determined to break it, no matter what they choose.

[74thcookie]

Wait what happned between Fount and Fortune?

(I have bad reading skills sorry)

It’s okay, my writing skills are bad so it makes sense but I’ll do my best to explain those two.

Fount was the headmaster of the school Fortune and the other Vanilla/Smilks used to study from.

There was a classmate of Fortune that got overwhelmed with schoolwork. In the brainrot post it mention that the school only accepts the students who are willing or honest about their choices in learning a ton of knowledge. Unfortunately this student manage to pass and yet he already got overwhelmed.

The student plan to kill themselves but wants to take someone with them. They target Fortune due to him being the ideal student of the school and the class.

Before the student their hands on Fortune, Fount manage to took the blow for Fortune and was sliced in the neck. (Hence why Fount hides his neck).

The end of that event is Fount giving the students wish of killing them but with only Fortune being the only witness and his hand on the receiving end of the students death. People thought he killed the student.

Fount and Sage manage to calm the suspicion on them but Fount knows the damage has been done and if he remains any longer, whatever good reputation they have left will slowly corrupt. So he vanish.

Fortune overwhelmed with guilt with what happened and he didn’t even try to either help Fount save the trouble student nor did he defend and let the people know Fount killed the student to save him. He was left frozen, he only snap out of his state once everything has been calmed down and the Fount vanish.

For years Fortune look for the Fount and Fount was busy erasing his existence from the public.

Fortune found Founts where about via Ms./Mama Berrys stream. He heard a man’s gentle voice and pinpointed that not only he sound familiar but it’s literally Fount.

Fortune is curious about Fount even more and not only is it confirm he ain’t dead but how on earth did he not find him so easily.

With a ton of investigation and Fortune manage to find how Fount erases his existence and his past, his old colleagues, his old victims and how to survive Fount if he become the next part of his cook list if he decides to dig deeper to know more about him.

One night Fortune was caught trespassing in Shamil’s studyhub in where Fount works at. Fount almost killed him, literally got some stab wounds here and there but when Fount recognize Fortune as the child who he saved. He stop his rampage a little.

Fortune took that as an opportunity to make a deal with the fount. Him sparing his life in exchange for medical check up every Friday.

Fount can tell that was Fortunes plan from the get go. Fortune wanted to know Fount so he can check on the old man’s well being. Fount agrees since he is trying to not go back in the public, let alone get a record that his alive.

But Fortune ain’t off the hook yet, Fount wants to play around with him before he earns his freedom out of his territory. They play a game of cards and whoever wins get to receive a reward.

For Fortune if he wins he can get anything from Fount and if Fount wins.. who knows.

That night Fortune won.

They do their usual check up and games every Friday night.

[yoursinisforgiven]

IT’S GETTING STICKYYY ! ──

pairing: elias x reader (barista/non listener)

cw: spiderman!elias, college au, reader is implied to be older than elias, reader is a barista but not ideally the one from the original storyline, takes place in new york instead of cali for obvious reasons, violence, blood, distress, mentions of death/loss, consumption of alcohol, injury, multiple sexual jokes, (. . .) is a timeskip less then 5 hours.

credits to @skrunklebink for this post & @bernardsbendystraws for dividers.

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

‘Good morning, New Yorkers. Looking for another beautiful day here in the city. Clouds to start us off, songbirds still fighting for the mic. Temperatures steady in the high 40s, so grab that scarf on the way out—’

The radio murmured through the café like the voice of a ghost—an old-timey, slightly tinny tune that wove itself into the dusty silence of the room. It barely competed with the humming refrigerator and the faint clink of the drip tray filling under the espresso machine. The voice was smooth and unconcerned, like it hadn’t known exhaustion a day in its life.

You, however, were a monument to sleep deprivation.

Your body was slouched behind the counter, legs half-giving out, arms folded into a clumsy makeshift pillow against the still-warm surface. The apron string dug faintly into your lower back like a gentle accusation. It was early. Unforgivably early. The kind of hour that made you question every decision you’d ever made that had led you here, including—especially—that one time you told your manager you were a “morning person” just to sound reliable.

You'd now learned that being reliable only made people use you more.

The linoleum beneath your feet felt colder than it had any right to be, the chill sinking through the soles of your sneakers like spite. You had your elbow propped on the counter, forehead pressing against the crook of your arm, the heat from the stainless steel surface warming your cheek in a way that was both comforting and utterly humiliating. If you passed out right there, nobody would know for a good ninety minutes. Not until Denise came in for her 9 a.m. shift smelling like vanilla perfume and passive-aggression.

Your eyes slipped shut again. Just for a second.

Maybe one hour and thirty minutes of sleep could be salvaged. Maybe, if the universe was kind and just, it would grant you a full REM cycle tucked up against the espresso machine like a raccoon in the attic of a bakery.

But the universe had jokes.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

The bell above the door chirped its bright, dainty warning like it didn’t just commit an act of psychological warfare. You let out a noise that could only be described as a groan filtered through a curse word, your head rolling to the side with the slow agony of someone facing death—or worse, customer interaction.

Your eyelids peeled open.

Standing in the doorway like the poster child for “accidentally attractive in a disaster movie,” was Elias.

The door hadn’t even fully closed behind him before he stumbled a few paces in, sucking in sharp lungfuls of air like he’d outrun a pack of wolves. His curls—thick, black, and usually a soft halo of carefully disheveled fluff—were now stuck to his forehead in damp ringlets, sweat glistening at his temples. His signature star-print shirt clung to his chest like it, too, was regretting his choices.

Had he been running? Again?

You blinked. He caught your eye and immediately dropped the hand braced against his knee, trying to pretend he hadn't just looked like he narrowly escaped a building fire.

Your eyebrow arched in slow judgment.

“Cardio. Again?” you asked, deadpan and already regretting the fact that your voice sounded just the right amount of hoarse and sleepy to be attractive.

He paused, blinking owlishly. Confused—like he’d forgotten his own script. Then the memory hit him in the face. You watched the realization light up behind his eyes in real time.

“Oh! Yeah—Yeah!” he huffed, recovering too fast. “Have you been stealing peeks at me during class long enough to notice?” His grin bloomed—boyish, breathless, annoyingly winsome.

You gave him a long, unimpressed stare. “In your dreams, Elias.”

“Oh, every night,” he said cheerfully, tossing himself into one of the barstools at the counter. “In at least three of them, you fall for me. Hard.” He winked—actually winked, the little menace.

You turned away, mostly to hide the ghost of a smile pulling at the corner of your lips. He didn’t need that kind of encouragement. Not when you were still half-dead and still annoyed and—let’s be honest—vulnerable to flattery when it came from people with eyelashes like his.

You reached for a clean cup, because of course you were going to make him something. Even if you hated him in theory. Even if he interrupted your hibernation like a caffeine-hungry gremlin every other morning.

The espresso machine hissed to life, steam unfurling into the air like breath on glass. Familiar, meditative. Your hands moved on instinct, pulling a shot, frothing milk, tapping the metal tin against the counter. You didn’t ask what he wanted. You already knew.

He slid into one of the stools at the counter like he lived there, arms draped casually on the bar, still panting softly. You glanced at him.

He was flushed from the cold and the running, his cheeks tinted pink under the golden undertones of his skin. That same godawful star shirt, stretched slightly at the collar, seemed like it had been washed a thousand times but refused to give up the ghost. You kind of respected it. It was just like him—loud, persistent, and somehow still charming.

You handed over the cappuccino without a word.

He looked at it with exaggerated reverence. A small foam heart sat nestled in the creamy swirl.

His eyes lifted to yours, dark and shining with mischief. “You like me.”

You gave him the flattest look you could muster on three hours of sleep. “I’m sleep-deprived. It’s basically the same thing as being drunk. I have no control over my actions.”

He grinned, cradling the cup like it was spun gold. “You’re gonna break my heart, you know that?”

“I’m hoping to do it before 8 a.m. so I can move on with my life,” you replied, spraying the counter a little too aggressively with the sanitizing bottle.

He took a sip, closed his eyes, and let out a blissful sigh like he’d just been spiritually reborn. Then he looked at you from over the rim, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

“You should let me take you out sometime,” he said, suddenly softer. Not a joke this time. Not a line. Just him—casual, hopeful, warm.

You paused. Turned. Raised an eyebrow.

“Are you asking me out while you’re sweaty, panting, and looking like you lost a fight with a treadmill?”

He leaned in, smile widening. “You have to admire the commitment.”

“Have to is a strong word.”

“And yet, here I am,” he gestured around, “braving the elements, the streets, the danger of early-morning traffic—all for the chance to see you half-conscious behind a counter.”

You stared. He stared back, unblinking.

You lifted the spray bottle and spritzed him in the forehead.

“Hey!” he gasped, jerking back and nearly tipping off the stool. A few drops of water glistened on his skin like holy retribution.

“That’s for interrupting my sacred nap window,” you said flatly, placing the bottle down with finality.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, dabbing his forehead with a napkin, but laughing anyway.

“You’re the one showing up here like it’s your job to be annoying before dawn.”

“Can’t help it,” he shrugged. “Something about you brings out the worst in me.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was heat creeping into your face that had nothing to do with the espresso machine. He caught it. Of course he did.

He grinned. “One of these days, you’re going to say yes, and it’s gonna be my turn to tease you for a change.”

You leaned across the counter, nose nearly brushing his over the space of your shared silence.

“One of these days,” you whispered like a threat, “I’m going to put decaf in your drink and watch your soul leave your body.”

Elias grinned, eyes lighting up. “Hot.”

“Any questions?”

You very nearly groaned aloud when a hand lifted toward the ceiling. It wasn’t the question itself that irritated you—nor the student asking it. No, the real problem was that the lecture had been teetering on the brink of conclusion, the finish line in sight, and now someone had hit the brakes.

Still, you didn’t blame them. Not really.

It certainly wasn’t that you disliked Professor Marston either. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Professor Marston was, unfortunately, eye candy—all chiseled cheekbones, thick lashes, and a voice like worn-in leather. If he’d taught a subject you actually cared about, something with weight or soul or anything remotely poetic, you might’ve even worked up the nerve to flirt with him. As it stood, he lectured on dry texts and colder syntax, which made admiring him from a distance the only tolerable pastime.

He adjusted his glasses as he responded to the question—those dark, almost too-perfect frames—and the student nodded, seemingly satisfied. Marston glanced toward the clock without moving his head, then addressed the room once more.

“Any more questions?”

Silence.

“Okay, that’s it for today. The first full text is already uploaded, so give it a read and we’ll discuss it tomorrow. Failing to do so results in falling behind. You should study hard.”

His words, though plainly delivered, carried the weight of inevitability. The class began to stir as students collected their things in a symphony of zippers, chair legs, and rustling paper. The person in front of you dropped their pencil, and you stepped around it without offering to help.

You were on your feet in a single motion, slipping your bag over your shoulder and retrieving your phone from the tabletop without ceremony. You had brought no papers, no laptop, no pastel sticky notes or highlighters like the girl beside you who had prepared for class as though going to war. You didn’t bother with notes—writing them always felt performative. You trusted your memory to sort things out later. Or not. Either way, it wasn’t your concern now.

You made your way toward the back of the lecture hall, already angling for the door, but not before making a detour.

Your hand came down firmly on the desk where Elias had fallen asleep some fifteen minutes ago, causing the entire surface to quake beneath the impact.

He jolted upright with a choked gasp, his limbs twitching like a marionette with tangled strings. His face was flushed, mouth open slightly, hair sticking up on one side like a child’s failed attempt at styling.

You didn’t say a word.

You didn’t need to.

One look from you, one neatly arched brow, and he sighed in defeat, slinging his backpack over one shoulder with the slouch of someone resigned to their fate. Without further comment, he followed you out of the room, still rubbing sleep from one eye.

The hallway was cooler than the lecture hall, quiet in the way all institutional spaces become after dusk—humming fluorescent lights overhead, the faint scuff of shoes on linoleum echoing too clearly. You didn’t look at him as he fell into step beside you. You simply kept walking, your pace steady, your expression unreadable.

Still, you slowed—barely. A fraction of a second. Just enough to keep him at your side.

You didn’t know why. It wasn’t like you liked him or anything.

Elias let out a wide, theatrical yawn, the kind that involved every bone in his body. You didn’t flinch, but your eyes narrowed.

“You’d think the free venti I give you every day would at least keep you awake until our two a.m. class.”

“Venti?” he echoed, looking genuinely puzzled.

You turned to glance at him, your tone dry. “A large, dimwit.”

His brows furrowed. “Oh. I always thought that meant, like… twenty.”

“It does. It’s also a size. On the menu. The one you order. Every day. For free.”

“I thought that was just the name.”

You stared at him.

“What did you think ‘grande’ meant?”

He gave a sheepish shrug. “A suggestion?”

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the silence stretch between you like a slow exhale. When you opened them again, Elias was grinning, his boyish expression utterly unrepentant.

“You’re hopeless,” you muttered.

“And yet,” he replied, nudging your shoulder with his, “you wait for me after class.”

“I slammed a desk. That’s hardly affection.”

He tilted his head, faux-thoughtful. “In my love language, that’s practically a marriage proposal.”

You didn’t smile. But your eyes flicked to him, just briefly, just enough to feel the warmth creep up your neck. The air was sharp outside the glass doors—late fall wind slipping through cracks, rustling the leaves that had made their home against the edges of the building.

“You’re imagining things,” you said quietly.

Elias chuckled, unbothered, falling into step again as the door groaned open ahead of him. You would’ve followed, had it not been for the strange flicker of color—just a corner of it—peeking out from the half-zipped edge of his bag.

It was the kind of blue you didn’t see often—something oddly rich and deliberate in shade, not denim, not some wrinkled notebook cover. Fabric. Clothing. But more than that, it was the way it looked like it had been shoved in carelessly, crammed down and zipped just enough to be forgotten… or hidden.

You slowed to a stop, eyes narrowing, drawn toward it like heat-seeking instinct. He didn’t notice at first. He kept walking. But as if he could feel the shift in the air—your presence no longer beside him, the pull of your gaze—he stopped too.

When he turned, your hand was already halfway to the exposed scrap of cloth.

“Don’t—” he said, a half-step too late.

Your fingers barely brushed the edge before his hand caught your wrist.

It wasn’t harsh. But it was quick.

The contact startled the breath out of you for a moment—warm skin, the faint pressure of his fingers on the thin bones of your wrist, not demanding, just—there. Just immediate.

And then it was gone.

He released you without looking directly at you, instead hastily pushing the piece of cloth back down into his bag and yanking the zipper shut in one smooth, practiced motion. Like it wasn’t the first time he’d done it. Like it wasn’t meant to be seen.

There was a moment of silence between you, charged and brittle, the kind that belonged to narrow stairwells and unspoken things. You raised a brow, letting the look speak for itself.

Elias glanced up at you, a flicker of sheepishness crossing his face before he quickly masked it with that familiar crooked grin. It was a boyish thing—half charm, half deflection.

“Handsy, huh?” he said, voice a little too light, like he was trying to douse the spark before it became a flame. “I like that.”

The grin widened, lazy and confident, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Not entirely.

You blinked, once, slow. “Excuse me?”

He tilted his head slightly, a mock-innocent look dancing in his expression as he leaned back on his heels. “You know. Grabby.” He mimed your motion just barely, lifting a hand and fluttering his fingers. “Didn’t even ask my name before trying to strip me in the hallway.”

“I was going for the cloth, Elias,” you said dryly, lips pressed together to keep from smiling. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late,” he said, shifting his bag higher onto his shoulder with exaggerated effort. “I already told my future therapist.”

You let out a sharp breath through your nose, not quite a laugh. “Right. Because you’re the victim here.”

“I am!” he insisted, feigning a wounded look. “Violated. On campus. In public.”

You rolled your eyes but kept walking, this time without waiting for him. “Your zipper was halfway down.”

“That’s never stopped anyone before.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response, but your silence had weight. Not disapproval exactly. Just the kind that made him glance over, as if checking whether he’d gone too far.

He hadn’t. Not really. But he’d definitely stepped close.

When you spoke again, your voice was cool but amused. “I didn’t know you were shy.”

“I’m not shy,” he said quickly.

You shot him a sideways glance. “Then what’s the big secret?”

“It’s not a secret.”

“You stopped me.”

“I redirected.”

“You grabbed me.”

“I saved you.”

“From what?”

He hesitated, grin faltering just enough to expose something beneath it—uncertainty? Embarrassment? Or maybe it was just the echo of something private, tucked away like the fabric in his bag.

“You ask a lot of questions,” he muttered.

You shrugged, gaze already sliding forward again. “You give a lot of answers.”

That hung there for a moment.

Neither of you spoke as the stairwell swallowed your footsteps. The hum of the building had quieted now, most students long gone. Outside, the last threads of blue had begun to pull away from the sky, stained purple at the edges, streetlamps flickering on like blinking eyes.

Behind you, Elias shifted his weight again. “Hey.”

You stopped just before the door.

He was standing a step below you now, which meant he had to tilt his head slightly to meet your eyes. “You’re not… mad, are you?”

The question was genuine. Small.

You studied him for a moment. Then:

“No,” you said. “Just curious.”

He exhaled, relieved.

“Besides,” you added, already pushing the door open with a creak, “if I really wanted to strip you in the hallway… I wouldn’t have stopped.”

Elias stared at you for a beat too long.

Then he laughed—loud and delighted, his voice bouncing off the stairwell walls like a spark let loose.

“I’ll make sure to wear something nice next time.”

“Make sure it’s zipped up.”

“No promises.”

You didn’t say anything else, but you didn’t need to.

“Good morning, New Yorkers—breaking news! All bystanders from the building on 46th Street are confirmed alive with only minor injuries—all thanks to Spider-Man!”

The newscaster’s voice was electric, sharp and a little breathless, even through the fuzzy speaker of the countertop radio. You could hear applause behind him—distant, uneven, the clapping of people who had been holding their breath for far too long.

You’d passed the building on your way in.

Or what was left of it.

Twisted scaffolding, smoldering beams, smoke that clawed upward like it was trying to climb back into the sky. Glass had bloomed outward from the windows like jagged flowers. The streets were slick with water and soot, and the air had tasted like static. You remembered slowing down just a little to take it in, the way people did when they weren’t sure if they should look away or keep watching—like witnessing something sacred and terrible in equal measure.

Then you’d walked the rest of the way to the café in silence.

It was early. The kind of early where the sun still felt like it was clearing its throat behind the clouds, pale gold bleeding through gray. The shop was quiet, warm, smelling of baked bread, coffee grounds, and lemon cleaner. You’d been in the middle of wiping down the counter, absentmindedly, not out of necessity but habit—half-listening to the radio, half-drifting in thought.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

The bell above the door shrieked to life like a fire alarm, and you jumped—actually jumped, your whole body jerking upright as your spine stiffened and your shoulders snapped up like a cat hearing a vacuum. The rag dropped from your hand with a damp thwack against the counter.

It wasn’t unheard of for someone to come in this early on a weekend, but it was rare. It was unbelievable that it would be Elias.

Elias, who never showed up on Saturdays. Who slept in like it was his religion. Who once claimed that rising before noon on a weekend was “a crime against youth.”

But there he was.

Standing in the doorway of the café.

Panting.

Dripping.

Wearing absolutely nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs and a plastic bodega bag clutched in one hand like it was the Holy Grail.

Your brain short-circuited.

For a second you forgot how breathing worked.

Elias was leaning against the doorframe as though it was the only thing keeping him upright. His chest was rising and falling in heavy, uneven bursts, hair flattened and damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead in erratic curls. There was a smudge of dirt—no, ash?—along his collarbone, and a bright red scrape running diagonally across his knee. The bag in his hand looked like it had been tied in a hurry, sagging slightly at the bottom. You couldn’t tell what was inside. Your eyes refused to cooperate with your brain, refusing to leave him.

A million questions tripped over themselves trying to reach your mouth.

None of them made it.

He blinked at you, chest still heaving slightly. “Hey.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Then—so casual it bordered on absurd—he stepped inside, the bell dinging again as the door swung shut behind him. His skin was damp and cold-looking under the fluorescent lights, and there was a clear squelch when one of his bare feet met the linoleum.

“You…” you managed. “You’re—”

“Yeah,” he said, gesturing to his own body with a vague, sweeping motion. “It’s been… a morning.”

“A morning?” you repeated, incredulous. “You’re—half-naked. You’re soaking wet. What—did you get mugged? Fall in a river? Explode?”

“Technically none of the above,” he said. Then paused. “I think.”

You blinked again, slowly. Your eyes slid down to the bag. “What’s in there?”

He lifted it, triumphant. “Croissants.”

“…What.”

“Two butter, one chocolate. And a napkin.”

You stared at him. Hard. “You ran through the city. In your underwear. Covered in soot. For pastries?”

“No,” Elias said, walking over to the counter and carefully placing the bag down as if it were sacred cargo. “I ran for you.”

That shut you up.

He smiled, something softer now, teasing but not sharp. “Well—and pastries.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Ran a hand down your face.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “I need… I need a minute. I think my fight-or-flight response is still active”

“Understandable. You were just ambushed by peak male form.”

“Elias.”

He held up his hands. “I’m just saying—I probably saved someone on my way here.”

“You definitely traumatized someone.”

“Depends on who you ask.”

You sighed and looked away, trying not to let your eyes trace the line of his abdomen, still slick with rain or sweat or whatever chaos he’d waded through. Your fingers itched toward the espresso machine, desperate for a distraction.

“So,” you said eventually, “do I even want to know what happened?”

He scratched the back of his head. “Honestly? I’m not even sure. There was a cat, a ladder, some guy yelling about propane, a sudden gust of wind, and then… here I am.”

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

Then both of you burst into laughter—unfiltered, bright, echoing through the empty café in a way that felt warmer than the lights and stronger than the coffee.

“You’re insane,” you said between wheezes.

He grinned. “Maybe. But I brought croissants.”

At closer inspection, there’d been something else in the bag—some sharp edge of a box, maybe, or folded paper hidden beneath the telltale brown of a bakery bag. You hadn’t even finished forming the thought before Elias subtly shifted the bag behind him, like a magician protecting his final card. He laughed—nervously, poorly—and the grin faltered for a fraction of a second.

You cocked a brow. “What is it, Elias?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again, as if the words might form on their own if he gave them enough air to live in.

“Would you…” He hesitated. “Would you accompany me to my aunt’s house?”

. . .

It was such a stupidly formal word—accompany. Like he was inviting you to a gala instead of dragging you into whatever brand of chaos he was fermenting now. You didn’t know why you said yes. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was something far more dangerous and subtle, something that tugged at your spine whenever Elias looked at you too long and you didn’t look away.

And now, here you were, standing stiffly on a porch that smelled like wealth, surrounded by flowerbeds that probably cost more than your month’s rent, outside a house that had columns, columns, like something out of a romantic tragedy.

The kind of house that wasn’t just expensive—it was confidently expensive. White brick, high arched windows, planters with roses trained up a trellis and not a speck of dirt on the welcome mat. You half expected a butler to answer the door. Or a ghost.

It was the kind of house you imagined belonged to girls who ordered grande caramel macchiatos with three extra pumps of syrup and called it “just a little treat,” or guys who drank pitch-black coffee and glared at the barista when it was served in a pink cup during Valentine’s season because pink was apparently an affront to masculinity.

You tugged your sleeves down just a little, suddenly feeling underdressed.

The doorbell was a soft chime, not a ding. The kind of sound money made when it didn’t want to be loud about itself.

And then the door creaked open.

The woman who answered looked… surreal.

She couldn’t have been older than twenty-eight, yet she wore a silk robe and a pair of fuzzy slippers with all the poise of a monarch. Her hair was caught in a crown of pink curlers, framing a face that looked like it belonged on a perfume billboard. A steaming mug sat in one hand, nails curled around the porcelain like she was painting a commercial. Her other hand rested lazily on the doorframe. She was very much not dressed for guests, and very much didn’t care.

But what truly struck you was that her eyes didn’t dart to Elias first, despite the fact that he was standing there in nothing but his boxers. Not even socks. He hadn’t even tried to throw on a hoodie. Just stood there like he’d gotten halfway dressed and then lost the thread of reality.

Her gaze, instead, landed squarely on you.

“Why,” she asked slowly, her tone light but edged, “have you introduced me to your partner while half-naked, Elias?”

You blinked.

Elias spluttered, his arms twitching like he couldn’t figure out where to hide. “They’re not—I didn’t—we’re not—”

You cleared your throat, trying to steady the absurd flutter that had taken root in your chest. “I’m not his partner.”

She gave you a slow, amused once-over. “Mm-hmm.”

“I’m not,” you said again, firmer this time, though your voice still carried a hitch of disbelief. “I was dragged here under false pretenses.”

“That’s exactly what I said about my ex,” she replied, stepping aside with a practiced sigh. “He’s now my husband. Come in.”

The house interior was what you’d expected—no, worse. Wide open and modern, sunlight pouring in from skylights like it had been invited. Pale hardwood floors that gave a little under your step, and a hallway lined with expensive-looking abstract art, the kind you could pretend to understand if you stared long enough.

A long-haired cat lounged on a velvet chair like it paid the mortgage. A diffuser quietly breathed eucalyptus into the air. You suddenly felt like a gremlin tracking mud into a museum.

Elias followed behind you, still not saying much. His bare legs were just… there, walking beside you like it was completely normal. You made a mental note to never, ever let him plan anything again.

She walked ahead of you both, her robe swinging with each step. “James isn’t here,” she called back over her shoulder. “Got a call this morning, something about a shipment delay. He’s in Chicago until Sunday.”

You didn’t know who James was. Not really. But from the way Elias flinched when she said it, you figured that he meant something to Elias. Which meant whatever you were here for—whatever Elias was carrying in that bag—it had to do with him.

Before you could ask, she turned around at the mouth of a hallway and clapped her hands together softly. “I’ll grab you two something to drink; and Elias some clothes. Don’t touch anything glass, and don’t let the cat sit on your lap. She’ll never leave.”

And then she disappeared, the swish of silk and perfume vanishing into the kitchen.

You turned to Elias slowly, arms crossed.

“You wanna tell me what this is yet?” you asked.

He looked like a deer caught in a philosophical crisis.

“Still deciding,” he muttered, then scratched the back of his neck. “Sorry. For… the, uh. The everything.”

You gestured at him. “You’re in boxers, Elias.”

He looked down at himself, as if realizing for the first time. “Right.”

“And you dragged me here. Unprepared. With pastries.”

“Croissants,” he corrected weakly.

You stared.

He wilted.

A pause.

Then you sighed, settling into the arm of a velvet couch that looked too expensive to be comfortable. The cat watched you from its throne with unconcealed judgment.

Your eyes wander, as they tend to do when the silence gets too loud.

The room is draped in taste—everything curated and plush, the kind of place that smells like old perfume and lemon polish. But it’s the photo on the far wall that catches your attention. Framed in weathered wood, the image is sun-washed and slightly tilted, as though someone had bumped into it once and never quite bothered to fix it.

A couple sits in lawn chairs, skin sun-kissed and smiling wide enough to feel it in your own cheeks. There’s a careless kind of joy in the picture, the kind not posed or primped for. Behind them—caught mid-laughter—is a younger version of Elias’s aunt, her curls tied up, a hand pressed to her mouth as if trying to stifle her own giggles.

But it’s the kid that hits you.

A smaller, chubbier Elias, maybe six or seven, grinning devilishly with two oversized buckets of water in his hands, clearly just about to drench the couple. One bucket’s already midair. The whole scene hums with a kind of frozen joy, the kind you don’t even realize is golden until it's gone.

You furrow your brows slightly, lips parting with a breath you don’t quite realize you’ve taken.

You don’t need to ask. You don’t need a label or a story told in past tense.

There’s a hollow in the image. A sweetness and a silence around it that says everything. A queasy kind of knowing settles in your chest—not sharp or dramatic, just… quiet. Still. The kind of sadness that lingers like a smell.

And for just a moment, everything was quiet—the sunlight, the cat, the bag still slung over Elias’s shoulder like a ticking bomb.

You can feel his gaze on you—hot, flickering, skittering across your profile like a guilty thought—but you don’t meet it. You stay perfectly still, slouched into the crook of the overstuffed velvet couch, arms folded across your chest like armor, eyes fixed on some expensive-looking painting across the room that probably cost more than your car.

You faux an anger that isn’t really there. It's not fury running in your blood. It’s confusion. Frustration laced with something else—something more brittle, more uncomfortable to name.

Confusion over why he’s always out of breath when he stumbles into the café each morning, as though he’s been running from something—or toward it. Confusion over what he’s hiding in that stupid, overstuffed bag, the one he won’t let you touch, the one he guards like a secret pressed to his chest. Confusion over why he’s now half-naked, legs bare and knees awkwardly pressed together, sitting on his aunt’s ludicrously expensive couch like it’s just another Tuesday.

But most of all, confusion over why you don’t mind. Why you’re still here. Why your pulse jumps a little every time he moves beside you. Why the quiet between you feels less like silence and more like static.

His gaze lingers.

“So, uh,” Elias says finally, his voice light, careful, like he's toeing the edge of something. “I was thinking.”

You don’t look at him. You raise an eyebrow instead, sharp and automatic. “You think?”

“Ha ha,” he mutters, not quite wounded, not quite laughing. You can hear the smile trying to make its way to his lips. “I was wondering if you wanted to go to a party with me on Friday?”

That makes your head turn. Just slightly. Just enough that your gaze meets his, and sure enough—there it is. The boyish little grin playing at the corner of his mouth like he already knows you’re going to say no, but he’s asking anyway. The curve of it does something traitorous to your chest.

“A party?” you repeat, wary. “Like, the sweaty kind? With music so loud you can’t hear your own thoughts and red solo cups full of backwash and regret?”

He shrugs, adjusting the throw pillow behind his back. “I mean, yeah, but there’s a bonfire too. And fairy lights. And I heard someone might bring a guitar.”

“Are you trying to sell this to me or scare me off?”

“Depends,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head with the sort of lazy confidence that should be illegal in someone wearing only boxers. “Is it working?”

You blink.

Your mouth opens—then closes again.

He grins, just a little too pleased with himself.

You exhale through your nose, a slow breath, carefully calibrated. You don’t know what he’s playing at. Whether this is a joke, or if he’s serious, or if you’re being dared by the universe to say yes.

You look at him again, really look—at the curls falling into his eyes, at the half-smile that always makes him look younger, softer, the shift of light across his bare shoulders, at the way he keeps glancing at you like he’s trying to memorize something.

“Fine,” you say, already regretting it. “But if it ends up being some weird frat house with a stolen fog machine and EDM remixes of Taylor Swift, I’m walking into traffic.”

He lights up like you just handed him front-row tickets to his own funeral.

“Deal,” he says brightly, tossing you one of the croissants he had brought as a bribe you didn’t even realize you wanted. “But, uh—also, you might have to pretend to be my girlfriend. Just a little.”

You pause mid-catch, staring at him. “What?”

“Just a little,” he insists, holding his hands up. “Not the full girlfriend experience. Just enough to keep this one guy off my back.”

You glare. “Define ‘a little.’”

“Like… minimal hand-holding. A few shared looks. Maybe a forehead kiss.”

You make a face. “Absolutely not.”

“We can negotiate,” he says, with a sly smile. “You’ve already met my family. That’s like three relationship milestones down already.”

“I met your aunt. Who called me your partner. While you were wearing underwear. You don’t get to spin this like it was romantic.”

Elias only shrugs, lounging deeper into the couch like he owns the place. “Can’t help it. We’ve got chemistry.”

And somewhere in the back of your mind, you think about Friday—and the party—and the terrible idea of letting yourself get tangled up in this mess of a boy with his half-lies and half-smiles and mystery bags. With a roll of your eyes that doesn't truly hold any annoyance you mumble out your address and phone number to him, part of you wonders if he’ll truly remember the street name let alone to pick you up.

And yet you’re already thinking about what you’re going to wear.

You were going to have to take a shot before you walked into that party—let alone see Elias again.

The nerves weren’t logical. You’d been around him countless times, suffered his bad jokes, tolerated his shirtless lounging, even accidentally brushed pinkies once while reaching for the same lemonade glass. But tonight was different. It was lit up with an invisible pressure, the kind that folds over your ribs and makes your lungs forget how to do their job.

Your closet looked like a war zone. Six days of hypothetical outfits had gone from hanging neatly to lying defeated across the bed and floor. After pacing for thirty solid minutes in your towel, weighing the merits of confidence versus comfort, you’d reluctantly settled on the second-choice outfit—the one you didn’t entirely hate but didn’t exactly love either.

You smoothed your palms down your sides and gave the mirror a half-hearted nod, trying to convince yourself you looked decent. Maybe even good. Passable, at the very least. That gnawing knot in your stomach didn’t agree.

Ding.

Your phone lit up on the vanity table. With the sheer amount of messages you’d been receiving from Elias—half of which were cosmic facts you never asked for (“Did you know Saturn’s moon Enceladus has an ocean beneath its ice crust?”) and the other half shamelessly flirty (“If I had a galaxy for every time I thought of you, I’d beat NASA to the stars”)—you didn’t even hesitate to smile as you reached for it.

But instead of another space pun or a tragically charming compliment, it was a breaking news alert:

“BREAKING NEWS: Threats being sent to police stations across New York. NYPD debating whether to investigate what they’re calling a ‘likely harmless prank.’”

Your smile fades.

You stare at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering over it like the act of touching it might make the headline real. You shake your head, sigh through your nose, and toss the phone onto the bed with a soft thud, trying to bury the unease it stirred.

Back to the mirror. You fluff your hair, adjust your collar, tug at your shirt, tilt your head a little to the left. The air feels weird tonight, thick with anticipation. You don’t know if it’s the party or something else. Your stomach folds in on itself again.

Then—

VROOM!

The guttural roar of an engine rips through the quiet like a firecracker, too loud, too close.

You gasp, heart rocketing into your throat, and sprint to the window, practically tripping over a pair of heels you decided not to wear. You fumble with the curtain and shove it aside.

There he is.

Elias, with his stupid, smug little grin, straddling a motorcycle that looked far too cool for someone who once tripped on a broom handle at the café. The night wraps around him in a glossy hush, the orange streetlights gilding his dark hair and turning the lazy smirk on his lips into something almost criminal.

You don’t realize you’re staring until he lifts his head and meets your gaze dead-on—those dumb, sparkling eyes catching yours like a secret you didn’t mean to say out loud.

Your heart does something it has no right to do. You ignore it.

You unlock the window and push it open. The night air is brisk, laced with city sounds and just a little too much cologne. You lean out, arms braced against the sill.

“You know that’s illegal, right?” you call down to him, raising your fingers to tap your temple meaningfully. “Helmet, Einstein.”

He lifts one brow, pretending to look confused, then casually reaches behind him and pulls out a helmet—sleek, black, and clearly too small for his head.

“That’s why I got one for you,” he calls back, voice slightly raised over the gentle purr of the idling engine.

Your mouth opens—then closes. You blink. He grins wider.

“You’re insane,” you say, but the words catch on a smile you’re already trying to hide.

“Clinically, probably.”

You duck back into the room, grab your coat, and snatch your phone off the bed, suddenly aware of how fast your heart’s beating. Your hands feel clammy. This is stupid. It’s a party, not an elopement.

Still, as you take one last look in the mirror, there’s something electric in your chest that wasn’t there before.

. . .

The bike ride is loud and reckless.

You’ve never clung to anyone quite so tightly. Your arms wrap around his middle, half in terror and half in disbelief that this is your night now. Elias weaves through traffic like he’s done it a hundred times—which you suppose he probably has—and you scream once, maybe twice, but only in that breathless way that makes him laugh over his shoulder and yell, “You okay back there?”

“No!” you yell back, even though you are.

The city blurs around you. Neon signs, blinking taillights, the sound of someone blasting a sad girl playlist from an open window. Elias makes a sharp turn and your whole body leans into him, the wind curling through your hair like it belongs there.

By the time he pulls up to the curb outside the party, your legs feel like jelly and your face is flushed with something dangerously close to excitement.

He glances over his shoulder and takes off his helmet, raking his hand through his wild, wind-tossed hair. “Well?” he asks, cocky. “Still alive?”

“Barely.”

“I’ll take it.”

He holds the smaller helmet out to you like an offering. You ignore the way his fingers brush yours again. You swing off the bike as gracefully as possible, which isn’t saying much, and try to pull your dignity back on like your jacket.

The house is pulsing with bass and colored lights. You can already hear the crowd inside, laughter spilling out in waves through the open windows.

Elias adjusts the strap of his bag—you still don’t know what’s in it—and jerks his chin toward the house.

“You ready?”

You look at him for a moment. Really look. The messy hair, the stupid grin, the fact that he picked you up like this in the middle of the night like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Not even a little,” you say honestly.

“Perfect.”

And with that, he takes a step ahead, into the blur of lights and music. And you follow.

. . .

You barely make it past the threshold before your skull starts to throb.

It’s like stepping into a war zone disguised as a celebration. The music isn’t just loud—it’s deafening, a relentless bass that punches through your ribs like a second heartbeat. The lights strobe in seizure-inducing flashes: violet, red, green, white, over and over again like some technicolor alarm system. People are pressed shoulder to shoulder, yelling over the music, sweating through thin layers of sequins and faux leather and expensive cologne that doesn’t quite mask the scent of spilled drinks and hormones.

Your body stiffens automatically. Your eyes narrow against the whiplash of colors. It smells like heat and desperation in here.

You think I’m going to kill Elias.

And as if summoned, a hand reaches through the crowd, latching onto yours. He tugs gently, parting bodies like water, until you’re drawn to him by gravity or force of will or something far more dangerous than either. His mouth is close to your ear, his breath warm against your cheek as he leans in just enough to speak without shouting.

“You’re furrowing,” he says, almost teasing. “Already? You’ve been here, like, forty seconds.”

Then his thumb brushes between your brows—the exact center of your frustration—and smooths the crease there. The touch is light, careful, like he’s done it before. Like he wants to do it again.

“Let’s get you something to drink before you get wrinkles.”

You shoot him a half-hearted glare, but it’s wasted when your lips twitch upward anyway. He barks out a laugh and leads you through the mess of limbs and flashing lights, weaving with that same irritating ease he does everything—like the crowd parted for him. Like even chaos respected Elias.

You finally reach the kitchen, which is marginally quieter and smells like citrus soda and melted ice cubes. Someone’s raided the host’s liquor cabinet, and the countertop is a disaster: beer cans, half-empty bottles of something neon blue, cocktail napkins soaked through, one lonely lime wedge on a plate like it’s given up.

Elias snatches two cups, pouring without asking. It’s red, whatever it is. It probably tastes like gasoline and regret.

“Cheers,” he says, lifting his.

You raise yours hesitantly and sniff it first. “Are you trying to poison me?”

He grins, takes a sip of his own drink, then gestures to yours. “If I were trying to poison you, it’d be in something a lot less disgusting than jungle juice.”

You roll your eyes but take a sip. It’s horrendous. It burns all the way down and somehow makes your tongue feel fuzzy. You’re pretty sure your soul tried to leave your body just to avoid another gulp.

Elias watches your reaction with a sick kind of delight, eyes dancing.

“Aw, come on, don’t look so betrayed,” he says. “It’s tradition.”

“I hope tradition tastes like bleach in your mouth too,” you mutter, wiping your lips with the back of your hand.

But something about the drink—the ridiculousness of it, maybe—melts the edge of your nerves. You exhale and let yourself lean a little against the counter, watching the blurry outline of the party through the kitchen doorway.

And then the music shifts.

The pounding house track transitions into something smoother, slower, heavier with bass and dripping with tension. It's sultry, low and thumping, a rhythm meant to drag bodies close and blur the spaces between them.

You feel Elias shift beside you.

You glance at him just in time to see that glint in his eye again—the dangerous, stupid one. He leans in like he’s telling you a secret. “Come dance with me.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“You’re going to, though.”

You hesitate. There’s too many people. Too much noise. You’ve never been the type to lose yourself in a crowd—but then again, Elias is already walking backward, into the living room-turned-dancefloor, and he’s holding out his hand for you like it’s already yours.

You’re going to regret this.

You put your cup down and follow him.

The lights blur and the room pulses around you. Bodies press in from every direction—hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder—heat radiating from every surface, and for a moment, it feels like you're suspended inside someone else's heartbeat. The music doesn't just play; it breathes. Heavy. Throbbing. Intimate. A rhythm that doesn’t ask to be followed—it demands it.

Elias’s hands find your waist with a certainty that makes your stomach twist. He doesn't pull, doesn’t rush. He just reststhem there, like he’s claiming something already his. He waits—coolly, patiently—like he knows something you don’t. Like he can feel the tiny tremble in your frame despite the wall of noise and movement.

And then, like gravity isn’t optional, you step closer.

The space between your bodies disappears like it was never meant to exist. His chest brushes yours, slow and purposeful, and then he moves.

Not fast. Not flashy. Just deliberate—his hips swaying into yours with a confidence that burns low and steady. It’s not grinding in the sloppy, desperate way everyone else on the dance floor seems to be doing—it’s smoother, more restrained, and somehow worse for it. More dangerous. Like he’s letting you feel every inch of tension between you, bit by bit, breath by breath.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Elias leans in.

You can feel the heat of him—every part of him—so close now, his chest against yours, the side of his face brushing yours as he brings his lips beside your ear. His breath fans across your skin, hot and humid, and it sends a shiver down your spine so sharp it borders on pain.

“You really gonna let me dance on you like this and still pretend you don’t like me?” he murmurs.

It’s not cocky—it’s low and careful, like he’s afraid of what happens if you answer honestly.

You should shove him away. Say something sarcastic. Laugh it off.

But instead, your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding him just slightly tighter, grounding yourself on something—someone—you don’t want to admit feels safe.

The tempo of the music slows, but Elias doesn’t. He keeps moving, his hips rolling in time with yours, one hand sliding from your waist to your hip, anchoring you there. You feel everything. The curve of his mouth near your jaw. The brush of his thigh between yours when you shift. The dizzying rise of your own pulse, too fast, too loud, too real.

You hate this. You hate how your skin lights up at his touch. You hate how the world vanishes every time he moves like that. You hate that you don’t hate it at all.

And then—close, too close—he whispers again, voice rasping, barely audible:

“Can we… go somewhere quieter?”

He’s not even looking at you now. His eyes are fixed on your mouth.

You nod.

But he doesn't move right away. Instead, he stays exactly where he is—like he wants to remember the way you feel in this moment. Like he wants to burn it into memory before he lets it go.

When he finally does pull away, it’s just enough to take your hand.

And this time, you follow him without a word.

. . . 

Elias practically dragged you up the stairs with a grip that was urgent but not rough, like he wasn’t sure if this night was about to get better or worse but couldn’t bear to let the moment evaporate. His fingers were wrapped tight around yours, the thudding bass from the party below growing distant behind the hush of walls and closed doors. The hallway was dark, lit only by the flickering glow of a motion-sensor light that clicked on above as you passed beneath it. He chose the first door on the right and yanked it open without a second glance.

The bedroom was unfamiliar—neither of yours—and clearly belonged to someone who wasn’t expecting guests. A string of half-dead fairy lights clung to the top of the headboard, casting pale, flickering gold across the bed’s messy sheets. It smelled like a stranger’s lotion, faint vanilla and something powdery beneath the usual party scent of beer and too many people in a tight space. Elias didn’t seem to care. The door clicked shut behind you, and the soft latch of it felt louder than it should’ve.

He turned to you slowly, and for a second he didn’t say anything. His boyish smirk was already forming, the kind of sheepish grin he gave when he was trying to charm his way out of a bad idea or make light of something heavier than he wanted to deal with. But there was a flicker in his eyes—something hesitant, something unsure, like he was stepping out on a wire and had no idea if you’d catch him if he fell.

You stood directly in front of him, not quite close enough to touch but close enough to feel the pull—whatever magnetic thread that had been building between you since the second he walked into the café barefoot, or dropped off croissants with that half-crumpled bag and too many secrets behind his smile.

Your eyes stayed on his for a second too long. Then, like gravity, your gaze dipped—trailing from his eyes to his mouth. His lips were parted just slightly, like he was about to speak again but thought better of it. You watched the way his chest rose and fell, just a little faster now.

He said your name—just your name—but it felt like it echoed in the space between you. You looked back up at him slowly, and when your eyes met his again, they were wider. More raw.

“Please,” he said.

The word was nearly a whimper. It came out thin, barely formed, like it had escaped before he could decide if he really wanted to say it. There was something desperate in the way it landed. Like he’d been holding it back for too long.

You nearly laughed. Nearly said, If you asked to be my boyfriend, you could just do it, but something about the look on his face made the words catch behind your teeth.

“Please what?” you asked, voice steadier than you felt.

He let out a breathy laugh, the kind that was meant to cover up nerves and came out as static instead. “Could I please kiss you?” he asked, low and hopeful and stupidly sweet, like he thought the answer still might be no.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you stepped forward—just one step—and now you were close enough that you could feel his warmth under the thin layer of clothing between you. Your hand twitched at your side before finding the hem of his shirt, curling into it just slightly. You leaned up slowly, deliberately, your breath brushing his chin as you hovered. You could hear his heartbeat. You could feel it.

Your lips brushed.

Not a kiss. Not yet. Just the ghost of one.

And the second your mouth pressed fully against his, your world tilted.

He kissed you back like he’d been holding his breath for weeks, like he didn’t know how long he’d have you and didn’t want to waste a second of it. His hand found the side of your face, thumb grazing the curve of your jaw as his other arm slipped low around your waist and pulled you flush against him. His mouth was soft, eager, his breath hot against your cheek as he broke the kiss only to kiss you again—deeper this time, like a question he couldn’t stop asking.

And then—

BZZZT.

His phone rang.

The sharp buzz of it sliced through the quiet like a blade. A second later, your own phone dinged with a notification.

You both froze.

Your lips still touched, barely, the heat of his breath against your mouth like a held secret. He pulled back just an inch, forehead still brushing yours, eyes still half-lidded and wide.

“Shit,” he muttered, blinking like he was just now waking up.

His hand slipped from your waist as he fished his phone from his pocket, and his expression twisted into something panicked the second he looked at the screen.

“What is it?” you asked, trying to keep your voice calm. “I’m kind of—” he paused, glancing at you again, and the way he said it was half-apology, half-regret, “—busy.”

But as he listened to whoever was on the other end, something in his face changed. It was like watching a light flicker out behind his eyes. Whatever warmth or tension had filled the air between you was gone, replaced by the ghost of something colder.

“What is it?” you asked again, sharper now, but he wasn’t looking at you anymore.

“I—I'll be right there,” he said suddenly, and the phone clicked off.

The room went quiet again, but it was the wrong kind of quiet now.

He was breathing harder, like he’d just run a sprint. His eyes darted around the room, frantic and full of a fear he wasn’t doing a good job hiding. He moved too fast, too jerky, pulling back the curtains like he expected a fire behind them. The metal curtain rod groaned loudly under the sudden force, nearly coming off in his hand.

“I—I’m sorry!” he said, backing toward the open window now, one leg already halfway out. “I’ll make it up to you! Promise!”

“Elias—what the hell are you—”

But it was too late. His body disappeared through the frame.

You rushed to the window in disbelief, heart hammering against your ribs.

He hit the ground in a graceless roll, staggered upright, and took off running into the night—no shoes, no coat, no explanation. Just gone.

Your breath caught in your throat. You blinked.

He actually jumped.

From the second story.

For a full second you just stood there, stunned. A hollow ringing filled your ears. Your fingers curled tight against the window frame.

Your blood boiled.

This was worse than being stood up. Worse than being ghosted. He had ditched you in real time—face to face—mid-kiss—and jumped out a fucking window.

The fury rose first, hot and loud in your chest.

But then something colder crept in beneath it.

You grabbed your phone, almost shaking as you opened the notification that had popped up alongside his.

‘BREAKING NEWS: Second Threat Sent to NYPD—Anonymous Group Claims Involvement in Prior Bomb Threats. Police Still Debating Level of Credibility.’

. . .

After the thirty-fourth failed call, your thumb hovered over the redial button one more time. You stared down at your phone like maybe—maybe—this time it would go through. But instead, it rang once. Then twice. Then a third time before cutting straight to voicemail. You didn’t even bother to listen to the mechanical tone again. You’d heard it too many times already, that robotic woman’s voice telling you to leave a message that he clearly wasn’t going to answer.

You tried texting next, your thumbs fumbling over the screen with frustration as you typed messages you didn’t even remember writing. Some angry, some worried, some just fragments of thoughts—“What the hell, Elias?” “Are you okay?” “Please just text me. Anything.”

But eventually, the texts stopped sending too. The little bubble with the exclamation mark mocked you each time you hit resend. It was like shouting into the void and expecting it to answer back.

So you gave up.

Not with a sigh. Not with some quiet acceptance. You gave up the way a door slams in a storm—loud, sharp, and full of something bitter that refused to settle.

You pushed his damn motorcycle all the way to the nearest parking lot, feet dragging through the pavement, the bike’s weight making your arms ache with every step. You didn’t even bother to lock it to anything. Let someone steal it. Let him deal with that too. You hoped the tires got slashed. You hoped the mirror cracked. You hoped it rusted.

He left you.

Not metaphorically. Literally. Mid-kiss. Mid-moment. He said please. He kissed you like he meant it. And then he jumped out a goddamn window.

By the time you got home, the adrenaline was gone. What was left behind was something quieter and heavier, like your bones had been replaced with wet concrete. You unlocked the front door with shaky fingers, the key jammed slightly before the lock finally clicked open. Once inside, you slammed them—your keys—onto the narrow table by the entryway. The clatter echoed through the quiet house like a scream in a church.

You wanted to scream too.

But instead, you just cursed.

“Stupid,” you muttered under your breath. “Stupid, stupid, fucking—” The word caught on the lump in your throat before it could fully form.

You stood in the hallway for a moment, just breathing. The silence around you was too much—too loud, too empty, too different from the way his voice sounded close to your ear when he whispered your name like it was something sacred. You clenched your fists until your nails dug into your palms. No tears. You refused to cry over this. Over him.

The bathroom tiles were cold beneath your feet as you walked in, kicking the door shut behind you. You didn’t bother to undress neatly. Your clothes ended up in a small trail on the floor as you twisted the knobs on the faucet, letting the shower burst to life with a hiss and a groan. You stepped in without waiting for it to warm up.

It was like shock therapy.

The water hit your skin like glass—cold and relentless—and you stood there anyway, letting it wash over your face, your shoulders, your chest. You pressed your palms to the tiled wall in front of you and let the water pound down until you could almost convince yourself it was rinsing him off.

The way his hand felt on your waist. The way he held you like he didn’t want to let go. The way he looked at you before he asked, “Please.”

You scrubbed at your skin hard enough to turn it red. You shampooed your hair twice. You stayed until the water ran lukewarm and your fingers began to prune. And still, it didn’t feel like enough.

Eventually, you stepped out, shivering. You wrapped yourself in a towel and wiped the fog from the mirror. You stared at your own reflection. Your eyes were red, not from crying but from exhaustion, from frustration, from the stupid sting of something that felt too much like heartbreak even if you refused to name it that.

You padded into the hallway, passing the living room in the dark. The silence still hadn’t gone away. If anything, it followed you like a shadow.

You stopped in the kitchen before heading to your room. The fridge hummed softly as you opened it. You didn’t even glance at anything else—just grabbed the carton of ice cream you’d tucked into the back days ago for a future bad day. Apparently, this counted.

You didn’t bother with a bowl. You just grabbed a spoon, peeled the lid off, and trudged down the hall wrapped in your towel like a defeated Roman emperor.

Back in your room, you dropped onto your bed with a soft thump, pulling the blanket over your legs as you shoved a spoonful of ice cream into your mouth.

Vanilla. With cookie dough chunks.

The sweetness didn’t help. The cold didn’t help either.

4:37 PM Saturday, the 5th.

Thud!

Your phone screen still glowed beside you, The Office paused at some half-frozen frame of Michael Scott mid-rant. The soft hum of your room—the low whirr of your fan, the faint buzz from the fridge down the hall—was abruptly cut by that sound. You blinked up at the ceiling from where you’d been curled beneath a heap of blankets, the empty tub of ice cream still half-clutched in your lap.

You rubbed your face, assuming it had just been the creak of the house settling. Old buildings make weird noises, you reasoned—right up until it happened again.

Thud. Again. Louder.

You froze.

The sound hadn’t come from the hallway or the apartment above. It came from the window. Your window. Which, last time you checked, was three floors above solid pavement. There was no fire escape. No balcony. No goddamn reason why there should be footsteps on the other side of that glass.

Thud. The third landed with weight, not like knocking, but like something—or someone—had landed.

Panic bloomed so fast it had no time to unfurl gently. You were on your feet before your brain had fully caught up, fingers flying to your purse on instinct, yanking out your keychain and gripping the tiny pepper spray bottle so hard your knuckles whitened. Your heart was hammering against your ribs like it was trying to break free of your chest, faster and louder than it had any right to be.

Your gaze swept the room like it was a battlefield—no weapon, no bat, no sense of logic. You were still in your sleep clothes, your hair flattened on one side, a smear of ice cream on your wrist, and none of that mattered because someone was at your window.

A creak.

The unmistakable groan of a window being slid open. Slowly. Carefully.

You spun on instinct and fired.

The pepper spray hissed violently through the air, cutting a fog between you and the figure ducking through the frame—blurry, fast-moving, limbs covered in—

Wait. Not clothes. Not black like a burglar. Not dark like a hoodie or ski mask.

Red. Blue.

Your hand faltered for half a second as the fog of spray began to settle, your eyes struggling to make sense of the silhouette. The figure coughed—hacked, really—stumbling halfway into your bedroom and nearly crashing into your nightstand as they flailed blindly.

“Jesus—fucking—ow! Okay! Okay, I get it—stop!” the voice rasped out, nasal, but unmistakable.

You froze in place, pepper spray still raised, and watched in horror and disbelief as the figure fell forward and tore off his mask.

And there he was.

Elias.

Your Elias.

His curls were damp with sweat, his cheeks streaked red from the sting of the spray. He was blinking furiously, squinting up at you from one knee on your carpet, chest still heaving as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

You were speechless.

He was wearing a Spider-Man suit.

Not a knock-off. Not one of those Halloween-costume, Party City, badly stitched replicas with puff paint muscles and too-short arms. No—this one was real. Sleek and contoured, with reinforced seams and thin tech panels glinting like micro-circuitry under the suit's texture. His gloves were fingerless at the tips, showing pale crescents of his real skin. One boot was scuffed. The suit clung to his frame like second skin.

And you were still pointing a weapon at him.

“I—what the fuck?” was the best you could manage, your voice strangled by panic, confusion, and a cocktail of so many other emotions that you couldn’t even begin to name them.

He coughed again, eyes watering, trying to fan the air between you. “Cool welcome,” he rasped. “Glad to know you’d mace a guy before asking questions.”

You didn’t move. “You came through my window.”

“You sprayed me in the face.”

“You’re dressed like Spider-Man!”

He looked up at you, squinting hard, and said quietly, “Because I am.”

The room went silent.

The wind from the open window lifted the curtains slightly, as if the whole world paused to let that sentence land.

You felt the air change. It was no longer fear buzzing in your veins—it was disbelief. Wonder. A sick lurch of realization that clicked the puzzle pieces of the past few weeks into sudden, painful place.

The late arrivals. The bruises. The secret glances. The adrenaline and deflections. The fucking fabric you saw in his bag.

You took a breath, shaky and shallow, and before your voice could betray you, he moved.

Fast.

Too fast for your eyes to fully follow.

He didn’t leap out the window—he launched himself from your rug to the frame, flipped backward, and—stuck—to the roof just outside your room, hanging upside-down with a fluidity that defied logic.

You gasped.

He wasn’t holding on. He was clinging. To the brick wall. Like it was nothing.

One hand released, and from his wrist—

Thwip.

A thread of web shot upward, catching against a vent on the roof, anchoring him in a single line. The tension in the air stretched with it, vibrating with the weight of the impossible. His body shifted until he dangled upside down, swaying slightly in the night air, the lines of his suit shimmering in the glow from your desk lamp behind you.

He didn’t say anything.

Just… waited.

You moved before you could think better of it.

Your feet carried you to the open window, bare toes cold against the floor. You reached out slowly, breath caught in your throat, and placed your fingers against the fabric of his suit—right where his ribs would be.

Warm. Real.

He blinked up at you, upside-down and grinning nervously. “Hi.”

The smallest laugh escaped you. Shaky. Unbelieving. “You—are an idiot.”

“True,” he said softly. “But I’m your idiot.”

Your eyes flicked from his to his mouth—soft, parted slightly, waiting.

Your hand found the base of the web he was hanging from, just behind his neck. It trembled.

“Why now?” you whispered. “Why tonight?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Because I couldn’t stand one more second of lying to you. And because I think—I know—I’m in love with you.”

The words knocked the air from your lungs.

You didn’t kiss him right away. You stared.

At the boy who’d been in your life as a joke, a flirt, a chaos magnet, a mystery—and now, a fucking superhero.

And still, underneath it all—he was Elias.

So you leaned in.

And kissed him.

Upside down. Hands cradling his face. Soft at first, like a test. A brush of lips.

But then—deeper.

He let out a small sound in the back of his throat like he’d been waiting to exhale for months. His hand moved to your cheek, fingers brushing your skin with a reverence that felt holy. Your lips moved against his, slow and certain, matching the rhythm of something that had been inevitable from the start.

Outside, the city breathed. Wind curled around the building’s edges, sirens whispered in the distance, and the streetlight painted gold across his jawline where your thumb now rested.

When you finally pulled back, you didn’t step away.

His eyes opened slowly, lashes fluttering, lips parted and swollen from the kiss. He looked breathless. Real. Yours.

“…Holy shit,” he breathed, voice low and reverent, like he wasn’t entirely convinced you were real. Like this wasn’t a dream he was about to wake from face-first in a dumpster.

“Yeah,” you whispered back, the word catching on a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Holy shit.”

The wind tugged softly at the web above him, making it creak where it connected to the edge of the roof. He swayed gently in place, the movement subtle, but enough to bring him inches closer—close enough that your breath mingled in the space between you, warm against the night air.

His eyes didn’t leave yours, wide and still trying to catch up with everything that had just happened.

Then he blinked, smile curling slowly at the corner of his mouth. “So, um…” he murmured, a little sheepish, a little dazed. “Does this mean I’m allowed back in? Maybe this time without getting maced like a home intruder?”

A laugh escaped your chest—soft, breathless, still shaky from everything—but it felt real.

“Yeah,” you said, your fingers brushing lightly over his jaw, wiping away a tear track left by the pepper spray. “But next time, I swear to god, use the front door. Or, I don’t know… text me like a normal person?”

He grinned, upside-down and stupidly handsome. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. Not thinking my apartment’s being broken into is pretty fun.”

He rocked in the web again, chin tipping just slightly with the movement. “So there’s gonna be a next time?”

You tilted your head, expression softening. “That depends.”

He blinked, the grin faltering just slightly as something more serious slid into his gaze. “On what?”

You leaned out the window, hand sliding behind his neck as you pressed your forehead gently to his, eyes closing for just a beat.

“On whether or not you make me regret this.”

There was no challenge in your voice. Just quiet truth.

A breath passed between you. He swallowed hard.

“You won’t,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I swear, you won’t.”

His voice was different now—no bravado, no flirting, no cocky tilt to the words. Just him. Honest and raw and maybe a little scared. But steady. Present.

You looked at him—really looked. At the cuts along his cheekbone, the faint shadows under his eyes, the way he still trembled just slightly from the adrenaline, and you felt something shift in your chest. Not pity. Not fear. Just understanding. Something ancient and wordless.

You kissed him again—slower this time.

Longer.

His hand found your cheek, thumb sweeping along your skin like he was memorizing the shape of your face from the outside in. He kissed you like gravity didn’t exist, like if he let go now, he’d float away into the sky.

The room around you fell away. The thrum of the city below dimmed into white noise.

There was only the warmth of his lips, the anchoring press of his palm, and the tiny creaks of the web as it shifted above your heads—holding him steady in the quiet, suspended like a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding since the morning you met him.

SNAP.

The web snapped like a rubber band.

Elias dropped out of frame with a startled, “Oh sh—!”

There was a loud thud and a less loud curse as he crashed back-first onto your bedroom floor, limbs flailing midair before gracelessly landing like a bug under a cup. One leg kicked the nightstand. Your phone charger launched into orbit. A pile of laundry absorbed most of his dignity.

You gasped and whipped around, peering over the edge of the window frame.

He blinked up at you, flat on his back, a sock draped across his face like a funeral shroud. His voice came muffled.

“…I’m good.”

You clamped a hand over your mouth, but the laugh punched through anyway.

“Oh my God.”

“I meant to do that,” he groaned, peeling the sock off and tossing it aside like it had offended him. “Classic superhero exit. Very stealth. Very graceful.”

You snorted and stepped over him to shut the window.

“Next time,” you said, trying not to smile, “maybe aim for a kiss that doesn’t end in blunt force trauma.”

He gave you a thumbs up from the floor. “No promises.”

author's note: do we want a series orrr?

tag list:

@ysawdalawa @rain-soaked-sun @tanksbigtiddiedgf @sdfivhnjrjmcdsn @lil-binuu @colombina-s-arle @xxminxrq @souvlia @meraki-kiera

[player016]

People who say ‘Sangwoo didn’t care about the other players’ or ‘Sangwoo had no humanity’ really miss the plot, I fear.

Think about him confronting Player 069, the man who had killed his wife in the marble game.

Incensed at his request that they vote to end the games, Sangwoo grabs him by the uniform and points at the money.

“That’s not just the cost of your wife,” he says. “It’s the cost of everyone who died here. You want to leave that behind?”

Meaning—you want everyone’s sacrifice to be meaningless, their deaths to have amounted to nothing?

This is the same Sangwoo who takes his own life in accordance with these ideals we’re talking about (though, of course, there’s a lot more to be said about what motivates his final actions).

Instead of winning, instead of killing a relatively easy mark (no offense, Gihun), Sangwoo chooses to stay with the rest of the dead.

And people still think he doesn’t care.

[girlpathetica]

never got over my sickness about this scene. lashing out at the man who mentored you and was there as a stable figure in your life the entire time, because you were both helpless to save the boy you idealized so hard that it pushed the bounds of parasocialism... and you knew it was unrealistic and yet you begged for his safety knowing that it would be in vain... between death or torture. so your only way of retribution was to harm the one person most like you, because you believed that if any of you could try to save that boy again, it'd be your mentor. and he failed. you both let him out of your sights in the goal of keeping you alive.

and then in mj.... my stomach HURTS man. i know his eye was likely injured to such a bad extent and i KNOW the facility would've done him in... oh, haymitch....

[adhdnursegoat]

In the Event of a Black Out

Word count: 6.3K

Content Warning: minors dni, explicit sexual content, PWP, accidental intimacy, touch starved Edward, vulnerability during sex

Pairing: Edward Nigma X gender neutral reader (let me know if i missed anything)

Setting: Arkham Knight

“What did you do?!”

“I didn’t do shit! What did you do?”

“I would not do anything this stupid.”

“Oh, right, cause you don’t make mistakes.”

“No. I don’t.”

“Would you just shut up and help me? I can’t see!”

“Well, unfortunately, the one thing I have been unable to do is to evolve the ability of night vision… yet.”

“Can you not just answer a simple question without being a smartass?”

“Can you not be an annoying twit and help yourself?”

“Jesus Christ—fine! Don’t help. I’ll just flounder around until I run into a project and break something.”

You could practically see the scowl on his face, even in pitch black. “...Where are you?”

“Over here.”

“That is not descriptive.”

“Follow my voice.”

He sighed, and then you heard the hesitant sound of footsteps. Then you heard a less-than-ideal scraping crash. “Fuck!” Better him than you—you’d never hear the end of breaking one of his precious Riddlerbots.

“Marco!”

“No!”

“You’re no fun.”

“What about this situation screams fun to you?”

“It’s fun because we are now on equal footing.” You could hear the scuff of his boots closer, so you reached out in front of you, absolutely unable to see your hands in front of your face. 

“We are nothing of the sort. I assure you the blackout neither stole my IQ nor blessed you with more.”

“Ass.”

“Brat.”

Finally, your hand pressed, nearly shoved into something soft, solid, and warm. You reached further, drifting up higher to grip and grasp about, trying to sense your environment. You grabbed and touched what felt like a nose and cheek. 

“Hey!” Edward quickly snapped up to grab your wrist and jerk it away. “Watch what you’re grabbing.”

“I can’t watch anything.”

“Don’t be smart.”

“Said the smart one.”

Edward’s grip on your wrist tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to ground you. There was a low growl behind it, that guttural sort of warning he saved for when he was two seconds from short-circuiting.

“Just—be careful.” His voice was closer than expected, brushing against your cheek like a whisper turned threat. You weren’t sure if it was the dark playing tricks or if he’d leaned in.

“I’m always careful,” you said flatly, rolling your eyes—pointlessly, since he couldn’t see it.

“Right,” he muttered, dry as dust and just as warm. Disbelieving. Definitely scowling. You could hear it in the angle of his voice, the tension coiled tight in the silence that followed. “Come on.”

He kept hold of your wrist, his fingers still curled firm around it—less of a guide, more of a leash, like he didn’t trust you not to break something or trip a secondary security system just by existing.

You felt him turn, the shift of air as his body pivoted. The slight tug on your arm followed.

“Where?”

“To find the breaker box,” he replied over his shoulder, like it should’ve been obvious. His steps were careful but brisk, the sound of his boots brushing the floor just ahead of you in the dark. “Need to find something to orient to—wall, doorway, anything.”

You followed, letting him lead, but your free hand lifted almost on instinct—searching for something more solid than the clammy air and your own stumbling steps. You found the back of his shirt and gripped it, fingers curling tight into the fabric like he was the only fixed point in this pitch-black labyrinth of wires, half-assembled death traps, and rising tension.

He jolted at the touch. Barely. A sharp inhale. A twitch in his back. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t comment.

Edward moved again, deliberate and slow. You stayed close—so close you could feel the soft brush of air every time he shifted, the residual heat radiating off him in the dark.

You were just thinking that if he stopped too fast, you’d crash right into him—

Then he did. Dead halt. Your chest collided with his back, your momentum tangled with his legs.

The floor wasn’t under you anymore.

There was a chaotic scuffle of limbs, a clatter of boots, a muffled curse. The both of you hit the ground in a graceless, jumbled heap. The impact knocked the breath out of your lungs. Something sharp jabbed your hip. Something else—a knee? An elbow? Possibly pride—dug into your ribs.

And Edward? Edward groaned beneath you.

“Oh, for the love of— get off,” he barked, voice muffled, pinned somewhere beneath your shoulder. “You weigh a thousand pounds.”

“I do not!” you gasped, trying to push yourself up—only to realize that your arm was stuck between his chest and the floor, and your leg was looped awkwardly around something metal. A pipe? A bot limb? Maybe Edward’s endless collection of industrial cables.

You flailed. He groaned again, louder this time.

“You’re wallowing,” he hissed.

“Well, move, then!”

“I can’t move! You’re the one on top—get your elbow out of my liver!”

“I would if I could! I think I’m—ugh, I think I’m caught on something.”

A beat of heavy silence. Then an exhale, sharp and withering.

“Of course you are,” Edward muttered. “You know what? Fine. Stay there. Rot in the tangle you’ve created.”

“Oh my god—do something, Nigma.”

A pause. Then you felt him shift underneath you—slowly, resentfully. His hand slid along the floor until it found your thigh, then moved upward with practiced, clinical focus.

“Hold still,” he grunted.

His fingers skimmed the side of your leg, over your hip, then hesitated as they found the edge of something taut—a twisted strap or caught hem. You couldn’t see, but you could feel every inch of his touch through the fabric, every slight adjustment, every press of his palm as he followed the length of the snare.

You went still.

Completely, breathlessly still.

Because his hand didn’t stop at your hip. It kept going—slow, deliberate, dragging down the curve of your thigh like he wasn’t fully aware of what he was doing. Like he was searching for something and forgot to stop when he found it.

Then it slipped inward.

His fingers curled gently around the tender inside of your leg, resting there, motionless.

Heat pooled low in your belly.

Neither of you moved.

The dark pulsed around you like a second skin, pressing in on all sides, every sound sharp and loud in the silence. You could hear his breath catch. Could feel the tension coiled beneath your body, his hand still cradled against your thigh, not retreating.

"Umm… is that… better?"

His voice was quieter now. Rougher. A thread of something unfamiliar wound through it—like he wasn’t sure if he meant the question, or just needed to say something.

You didn’t answer. Not right away. Didn’t trust your voice. Didn’t trust your body.

So you shifted. Carefully. Slowly.

You meant to sit up. To put distance back where it belonged. But the space was tight, and your leg was still caught between his. When you pushed upward, your hips settled on one of his thighs, straddling it instinctively for balance. Your hands braced on his lower stomach. That was a mistake.

Edward’s muscles jumped beneath your palms. Sharp inhale.

You both froze again—idiots caught in your own trap.

Finally, you spoke quietly, “You know… this is a terrible way to fix a power outage.”

You felt him exhale through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.

“Well, excuse me for attempting to assist,” he muttered. “Next time, I’ll let you wander around and trip into the elevator shaft.”

“I tripped over your bot.”

“I tripped over your clumsiness.”

That earned a quiet scoff. Your fingers flexed slightly against his abdomen. The fabric was soft. His body, under it, was not.

He shifted to sit up. At least, you thought he meant to sit up. But the movement pulled you in closer. His thigh pressed snug between yours, and suddenly his chest was nearly against yours, his breath warm against your face. Close. Too close.

The words on your tongue scattered like loose screws.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

There was no quip. No snarl. No breathless complaint or cutting remark. Just this—this moment suspended in a blackout, where the heat wasn’t from faulty wiring but from something pulsing and slow and alive between your hips and his.

His hands were at your waist. You weren’t sure when that happened. You weren’t sure if he knew either. You felt him breathe—felt the rise and fall of his chest beneath your own, the minute tremor in his fingers where they gripped your sides like he’d only just realized he was holding on.

Still… Edward didn’t pull away.

You weren’t sure who moved first—if it was you leaning in for balance or him shifting to escape the awkwardness—but the result was the same. You ended up straddling his waist, knees braced on either side of him, your hands resting against the firm plane of his lower stomach. His breath hitched at the contact, and your fingers twitched in response, pressing more fully against him without meaning to. The darkness swallowed everything but sensation: the fabric of his shirt wrinkling beneath your palm, the heat of him bleeding through it, the unmistakable tension rippling beneath his skin.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did you. There were no quips, no insults, no snide remarks to fill the space—just breathing, shallow and uneven, caught somewhere between restraint and curiosity. His hand, still curled around your side, began to move with the kind of slowness that made it obvious he was second-guessing every inch. His palm slid from your waist to your lower back, fingers ghosting up along your spine as if tracing the ridges of some ancient secret. He stopped just beneath your shoulder blades, but didn’t pull away. If anything, his grip tightened slightly, as though he needed the anchor just as much as you did.

The heat between your bodies was impossible to ignore. Your hips were pressed against his, and every breath made your chest rise against his. Edward’s free hand had planted itself against the floor beside him, but you could feel the way it tensed—like he wasn’t sure whether to push himself up or stay exactly where he was. When he finally started to shift, you felt it first in the subtle lift of his torso, the slight withdrawal of him from beneath you, the way his breath broke against your cheek like a breeze trying to pull back from the storm.

And then—he began to pull away.

You moved before you thought. Your hand shot out, catching his wrist with a grip firmer than you intended. 

“Wait…”

It came out softer than you intended, but no less raw. A single word, stripped of its armor, small and human and trembling.

He froze. Mid-motion. Mid-exit. His body half-curled beneath you, one elbow braced, ready to shift away—but your hand wrapped around his wrist and held him there, tethered by something far more delicate than force. Not yet. Not like this. Not when the space between you was still viscous.

Edward didn’t speak. Didn’t move. But you could feel him watching—or at least, facing you in the dark. His presence was unmistakable, a pressure in the air, a heat just beneath your skin. The room may have been shrouded in black, but there was no mistaking him. You could’ve found him blind.

And you did.

With a tentative drift, your fingers eased from his wrist and began to creep upward, cautious at first, like you were crossing into sacred ground. You didn’t rush. Couldn’t. Each inch demanded attention. Your hand traced along the inside of his forearm, brushing over the coarse hairs and the grime of whatever work he’d been elbow-deep in before the power cut. 

Higher, across the ridged tension of his bicep. You felt the shape of him there—lean and hard, the ever-present tautness of someone who never quite relaxed, never quite let go. Even still, even here, there was power waiting just beneath the surface. Coiled. Quiet. Unyielding.

Your palm followed the curve of his shoulder, pausing slightly as your fingers ghosted across the seam of muscle and bone. There was dust on him—grit clinging to his shirt, and probably beneath it. Your hand swept up further, seeking the sharp line of his collarbone, and when you found it—God—you let your thumb drag over it above his tanktop. It jutted just beneath his skin, elegant and severe, a perfect geometry of tension and restraint.

He still hadn’t moved. But you could feel him breathe. Not steady. Not calm. Shallow. Barely-there. Like the act of being touched was more than he’d bargained for.

You weren’t finished.

Your fingers skimmed up the side of his neck next, brushing over the tendons, the hollow of his throat where his swallow caught halfway down. His pulse was steady but elevated—a quiet rhythm bounding beneath the pads of your fingers like a secret he hadn’t meant to share. His skin was hot there, exposed, and you followed the blaze upward. You met the line of his jaw, the rasp of stubble prickling against your fingertips. And when your hand finally cupped his face—thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone—he inhaled—sharp and sudden, a breath hitched in surprise as your palm settled against his face, cradling it. 

Edward still didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

Everything you needed to know was there beneath your palm—tension wound tight, reverence fighting restraint, a quiet kind of hunger. Still, he let you touch him. Not like a man used to softness. But like someone who ached for it, belied by the subtle tilt of his head into your palm.

He exhaled, just beneath it, a sound: not a word, not a moan, but a sigh, quiet and shaken, like he didn’t know what to do with this kind of contact. The warmth of his breath wafted against your skin, and you could feel the heat rising beneath his skin, the stillness in his body. And when you leaned in, the distance vanished.

Your lips met his—carefully, uncertainly.

The kiss was nothing like a storm. It was soft. Fragile. The first brush of mouth to mouth tentative and reverent, like he was afraid it might break both of you open. There was no hunger, not yet. Just the dizzying stillness of the moment, the warmth of his breath across your skin, and the quiet quake of a man who didn’t know he could be wanted like this.

You stayed close, thighs still bracketing his waist, your balance forgotten somewhere back in the fall. When his hips shifted beneath you—barely a twitch, the ghost of motion—you adjusted instinctively. The press of your body aligned more snugly against his, not in invitation, but inevitability. It wasn’t overt. Wasn’t obscene. Just closeness. A firmer weight. A sharper breath. The hush between you trembling on a new frequency.

Edward made a sound against your mouth—low, involuntary. The kind of sound a man makes when something slips past the walls, when sensation outruns logic. But still, he didn’t move. His hands remained where they were—beneath you, beside you, nowhere they shouldn’t be. He didn’t pull you closer. Didn’t push you away. He just kissed you. Slowly. Carefully. Lips parting in small, reverent increments, learning your shape by feel, like each pass of his mouth over yours was a question he didn’t know how to ask. There was tension in him—always—but it had shifted. Less resistance. More surrender. He kissed you as if he didn’t know what would happen if he let it go further. And maybe didn’t care.

Your hand still cradled his face, thumb stroking gently along his cheekbone. And even in the dark, even with the faint hum of electricity still dead in the walls, you could feel how vulnerable this made him. Not the position. Not the kiss. The silence. The lack of mask. The absence of pretense.

And Edward—bitter, brilliant, impossible Edward—didn’t run.

Not yet.

When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to speak, if either of you dared. His breath was warm against your lips, shallow and quiet.. You swallowed. Let your thumb trace the sharp cut of his jaw. 

“You’re… really not going to say anything?”

A pause. His voice was low, rough with the kind of restraint that wasn’t physical. “Do you want me to?”

You considered it. The silence was heavy again—but not cold. Not distant. It was the kind of quiet that wrapped around you like steam.

“I’m not sure,” you admitted softly. “I don’t think I want this to be clever.”

That made something in him twitch. A tiny breath of laughter. Bitter. Fond. “Then I’ll ruin it if I speak.”

“You won’t.”

You weren’t sure if he believed you. But he didn’t argue. And that silence was permission enough.

Not wanting to shatter whatever held so still between you, one of your hands drifted slowly down from his face to his chest, fingertips brushing over the collar of his open shirt, then flattening against the fabric of his tanktop. You felt the shape of him there—his ribs tight beneath your palms, the subtle tremble in his breath. And beneath all that, his heartbeat—wild, pounding, almost furious in its rhythm.

It wasn’t the beat of calm desire. It was something feral. Caged. Desperate. And that was the moment you realized: you could take this further. Right here. You had him—beneath you, under your hands, lips parted from that last kiss, body tense not with refusal but with restraint. He was saying nothing, but his body wasn’t still. His hips had shifted again, just enough that you were more keenly aware of the pressure where yours met. His jaw clenched under your touch. 

He was open. He was wanting.

You leaned down, breath catching as you pressed your mouth to the corner of his again—slower this time, but not softer. Testing. Asking. And the moment he turned his head into it, meeting your kiss with equal force, it shifted. All of it.

Edward’s lips parted beneath yours, and the kiss turned sharp, breathless, teeth catching in the drag between mouths. It wasn’t gentle anymore. It was something pulled from the chest like a secret too long withheld. Something desperate. You gasped against him as his hips pushed upward into yours, the sudden press of friction making your spine arch. Still, he didn’t touch you with his hands—but his mouth spoke in movements. In the way he kissed you like he wanted to memorize every taste, every inhale, every sound you gave him.

Your fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt, dragging it up, baring a strip of skin beneath your palm. His stomach was hot. Tense. You felt the twitch of muscle beneath your touch, felt his breath stutter as your hand slid lower.

Still no words. Just heat. Just breath. Just that storm blooming under your skin like something inevitable.

He broke the kiss first—not with retreat, but to catch his breath, forehead tipping to yours. You could feel the tremor in him, the war he was still waging with himself, even as his body betrayed him moment by moment.

You let your hand slide over his ribs, feeling every tense divot and line. 

“You’re not stopping me,” you murmured.

A beat. Then, softly—harshly—he answered: “I can’t.”

The words left him like a confession. Rough, low, barely there. But you heard it. Felt it—in the way his breath hitched against your cheek, in the way his body arched beneath yours like he was no longer holding anything back. Not logic. Not resistance. Not fear. Just need.

It started slow—still restrained, still cautious. But when your lips found his again, when you rolled your hips just once, deliberately, against the pressure growing between you, that final thread snapped.

His hands moved. Fast.

They surged from the floor like they’d been yanked by gravity—one gripping your waist, the other sliding up your back and into your hair. His fingers threaded through it, not gently, not thoughtfully, but desperately, pulling you down into him as his mouth claimed yours with a heat that hadn’t been there before. This wasn’t soft anymore. This was hunger. Sharp, ragged, real.

You gasped into him as his hand at your waist shifted, dragging the fabric of your shirt up with it, bunching it around your ribs. The cool air against your skin barely registered before his palm found its way beneath the hem, splayed wide and possessive along your lower back, like he needed to anchor himself there or he’d lose what was left of his self-control.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips. It wasn’t just an expletive. It was surrender—guttural, breathless, wrecked.

You fisted your hands in the fabric of his open shirt, tugging at it with a kind of clumsy urgency, bunching it up as he shifted beneath you. He rose slightly, hips pressing upward under yours, his body caught in that liminal space between restraint and reckless want.

Edward’s hands were everywhere—raking up your back beneath your shirt, sliding around to grip your hips with a desperation that bordered on possessive. You could feel the tension in him, the way his fingers trembled just slightly with the effort not to go faster, harder, too much too soon. His shirt clung to one shoulder, tank top shoved haphazardly beneath his ribs—both useless now. You couldn’t see him. Couldn’t make out his eyes, his expression, the part of his mouth when he gasped—but you didn’t need to. Everything that mattered was beneath your hands. Your hands didn’t stop. You ran them up his chest, memorizing the cut of him by touch—the twitch of his ribs when you dragged your nails lightly, the quiet hiss when your thumbs brushed his nipples through the tank. His body answered you in small, urgent movements—hips lifting, stomach tightening, breath growing ragged against your cheek.

“You’re going to kill me,” he breathed.

Then, his mouth moved to your jaw, then lower, teeth grazing your throat as he kissed a trail down to the edge of your collarbone. You felt him groan against your skin, felt the tension in his jaw as he fought to pace himself—and lost. His hand slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, not quite going lower yet, just pressing firmly at your hip, his thumb stroking over bone like he was trying to memorize it through touch alone. He pulledback, breath hot and panting in the dark. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you could feel the heat in his focus.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered. The words were strained, wrecked. “Just say it, and I will.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

“Shut up.”

Instead, your hands slid down between you. His skin was burning under your palms, slick with the sweat clinging to both of you now—heady, hot, humid in the dark. Every inch you explored seemed wound tighter, more braced, like his whole body was caught in the space between restraint and collapse. You traced the line of his stomach, the slight hollow at his navel, the sharp ridge of his hips beneath fabric. Then lower. Your fingertips bumped his belt buckle—hot from his skin, metal biting against your touch. You fumbled for the clasp, working through the worn leather, the button, the zipper. He made a sound as you worked—low, wrecked, sharp. His hands dug into your hips, thumbs pressing hard enough to bruise. His breathing was ragged now, cut up into pieces between the kisses he dragged along the column of your throat.

You were almost there, but your shorts were in the way. You cursed softly under your breath and leaned back just enough to get your hands between you. You could barely think, barely breathe, tugging at the waistband and shimmying them down over your hips in the dark. You kicked them off blindly, one leg at a time, half-graceful, half-feral.

Edward’s hands never left you. He guided you back into his lap the second the fabric cleared your legs, like gravity was no longer strong enough and only he could keep you where you belonged.

You straddled his waist again, seated across him on the dusty, dirty floor, knees aching, chest pressed tight to his. The floor beneath was hard, uncomfortable—but you didn’t care. His tank top was still bunched beneath his ribs. His cargo pants were shoved low around his hips, everything open. You could feel him now—his cock pressed hot and thick between your thighs. Bare.

You both froze there for a moment. Just breathing.

Then you shifted. One hand braced behind his back, the other reaching down between your bodies, lining him up with the kind of instinct that wasn’t thought—it was need. He let out something sharp and high in the back of his throat, his hands tensing on your hips, trying—failing—not to pull.

At last, you sank down onto him—slow, deliberate, unstoppable. The stretch stole your breath. He filled you completely, the pressure dizzying: hot, hard, too much, perfect.

With your forehead pressed to his temple, the exhale left your lungs in one stunned, trembling rush. One hand gripped his shoulder like a lifeline, the other slid behind his neck, fingers tangling in the damp curls at his nape. Thighs shaking where they cradled his hips, you felt him shudder beneath you—a full-body tremor, raw and helpless. The sound that tore from his throat wasn’t a moan. It was a rupture.

“Jesus Christ…” His voice cracked, frayed to the edge of breaking—somewhere between awe and agony.

No answer came from your lips—only breath, ragged and caught. You leaned forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear, the tremor in your voice mirroring the one gripping your body. With a sharp inhale, he moved.

Those hands, once reverent, turned possessive—gripping your ass, holding you flush against him as he ground up into you, slow and brutal. The drag of him inside you was blinding. You gasped, your mouth falling open, a moan spilling from your throat before you could trap it behind your teeth.

Edward’s mouth found yours again—sloppy now, gasping, wet. Tongue and teeth and need. The kiss was frantic, fevered, and absolutely unforgiving. His hips drove upward with controlled force, tight thrusts that sent jolts through your spine. You met him, rolling your hips in tandem, body slick with sweat and sensation. Every grind, every drag was devastation. All around you, the dark amplified everything. The sound of skin against skin. The sharp slap of movement. The whimper of a man trying not to lose control—and failing. The lilting of your moans. 

Breath tore from him in ragged bursts, caught somewhere between a moan and a curse, his hands locked around your waist like he was holding himself together by the feel of you. Each time you came down, you felt the strain in his muscles—the way his thighs tensed beneath yours, the way his stomach clenched as he thrust upward to meet you with a kind of restraint that was barely holding.

You rode him in the dark, the slick sound of your bodies meeting swallowed by the static of breath and heat. The floor beneath you was unforgiving—cold, biting at your knees—but it only made you move harder, made every grind, every bounce sharper in contrast. You chased the rhythm with single-minded hunger, moaning into his open mouth, your hands tangled in his hair, pulling, grounding.

“Fuck,” he rasped, the word tumbling from his throat like it hurt. “You’re—” He couldn’t finish.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, dragging down the damp fabric still clinging to him. “Say it,” you breathed, forehead pressed to his. “I want to hear you say it.”

He exhaled a sharp breath, one hand gripping your hip while the other slid beneath your tank top, palm splayed across your lower back, dragging you down harder. “You feel like sin,” he groaned, voice cracked and trembling. “Like I should never be allowed to touch you like this.”

You rolled your hips slower, more deliberate, your breath catching as he gasped into your neck. “You can,” you assured. “You already are.”

Your hips shifted, no longer rocking in that easy rhythm, but grinding down in slow, tightening circles—each pass dragging his cock along every sensitive ridge inside you. You rolled your pelvis forward at the top, then dropped down with a stuttering snap of motion that made him choke on a sound, hips jerking up in reflex.

It was intentional. Precise. Your movements weren’t rushed—they were devastating. Drawing his length through your slick, pulsing heat in a rhythm that was both merciless and teasing, calculated to make him fall apart and know you were the one doing it to him.

His breath stuttered out in fragments against your neck, jaw clenched, every muscle in his stomach tensing as he tried—tried—to hold on.

“Jesus—fuck, I’m not—” The words died in his throat, swallowed by a groan, hoarse and guttural as his forehead fell to your shoulder. “I’m not gonna last if you keep doing that.”

“It’s okay,” you whispered, your voice a soft, wicked taunt against his temple. Your hands dragged up his back, nails grazing the damp fabric of his shirt, the heat between you scorching now, your thighs trembling from the effort, from the building pressure cresting behind your ribs. “Just don’t stop.”

His mouth was on your shoulder, open and desperate, moaning helplessly into your skin as you bounced again—sharper this time, faster, not enough to finish but enough to make his hips snap up with a raw, broken thrust.

He was close. So were you.

And then—

The lights flickered on.

Too bright. Too sudden.

Edward jolted like he’d been shot, his entire body seizing beneath yours. Hands froze at your hips. Chest heaving. Eyes wide, blinking against the harsh overhead fluorescents that illuminated everything.

You saw him. Finally, saw him.

His dark hair was a wild, sweat-damp mess, curls sticking to his forehead, to his flushed cheeks and throat. His glasses were nowhere in sight. His shirt hung half-off his shoulder, collar stretched, his tank top soaked and clinging to the lean cut of his torso. His mouth was parted in shock, lips kiss-bitten, his expression utterly wrecked.

His eyes—those brilliant, electric blue eyes—looked dazed, vulnerable, caught.

And for a moment, he stopped. Like the light made it real. Like he was about to disappear inside himself and take the moment with him.

But you didn’t let him.

You cupped his face in both hands, drawing him back to you, your forehead pressing to his, your breath shaking as you stared into him.

“Don’t stop,” you whined, voice trembling, your thumbs stroking over the flushed heat of his cheeks. You started moving again, hips rolling down slow and deep. His breath caught with a startled sound, mouth falling open. “Please. Don’t stop.”

Your voice pitched higher as the rhythm built again, as your hips met his in a seamless, hungry rhythm. You kissed him—sloppy, open-mouthed, desperate—riding him with effortless, aching momentum now, the sound of your bodies echoing in the room.

“Oh god, Edward,” you gasped. “Don’t—don’t stop—ah!”

Your head fell back, mouth open, hands sliding from his face to his shoulders just as the orgasm tore through you like a storm.

Heat coiled in your belly, then exploded—sharp and bright and deep, every muscle in your body seizing as your walls clenched around him, pulsing, dragging him with you. Your cry echoed off the walls, breath breaking, thighs shaking around his waist.

He watched you come apart in his lap—eyes wide, mouth parted, reverent.

And he was right there with you.

You rode out the shudders of your orgasm with his name on your tongue, your body pulsing around him in slow, clenching waves. Your thighs quivered against his hips, your hands curled into his shoulders for balance, grip faltering as the high twisted through you—but you didn’t stop.

Didn’t dare.

Instead, you kept moving. Kept grinding your hips down onto him with slow, aching precision, milking every drop of aftershock from your own body—and dragging him with you. His hands scrambled for purchase—first at your waist, then up your back, then into your hair as his body bucked beneath yours, the tension in him a live wire, a fuse burning fast.

“Fuck—fuck, I can’t—” He looked up at you, wild and panicked, his eyes locked to yours like he was falling and couldn’t find the ground.

You didn’t let go. You gripped his jaw, holding his face steady in your hands, lips barely brushing his. “Yes, you can,” you whispered, voice wrecked and breathless. “Let me see you. Let me have you.”

Edward moaned—high, wrecked, utterly gone—and that was it.

His hips surged up into you in one final, frantic thrust, then stilled. His head dropped back, mouth open in a soundless cry as his body arched beneath yours. The orgasm ripped through him—violent and full-body—his fingers clenching at your sides as he spilled into you, hips jerking with every pulse, every helpless wave.

You stayed with him, hips still moving gently, drawing it out, wringing every last flicker of pleasure from him with your body wrapped tight around his. Watching him shake. Watching him fall apart. His eyes never left yours. Not until they fluttered closed, lashes heavy, lips parted as he sagged beneath you—shuddering, breathless, undone. You kissed his cheek, soft and reverent, then his temple, then his mouth—slow and lingering, the kind of kiss meant to tell him he survived it.

He hadn’t spoken yet. Couldn’t. But the way his arms curled around you, holding you to his chest like you were the only thing keeping him in his body—that said everything.

Feeling everything catch up to you, you let your head all to his neck, resting there, tucked there.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The cavernous lair was whirring, electronics coming alive with the backup system—it wasn’t quiet. But you were. You both were save for your panting, huffing breaths. You were both sticky with sweat, limbs tangled, your thighs aching, his hands still heavy on your back. 

Edward sat beneath you, his chest rising and falling in slow, disbelieving waves. His shirt hung from one shoulder like an afterthought. His hair was a wild mess, curls clinging to the flushed shell of his ear. He looked like he’d survived a small war.

And you? You were still straddling him. Still buried together. Still reeling.

He blinked up at the ceiling, eyes dazed, voice hoarse. “Well… that was interesting.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “Shut up.”

“Can’t,” he croaked. “Think I blew a fuse. Physically. Psychologically. Possibly spiritually.”

You snorted against his skin before raising up to shake your head and narrow your eyes playfully. “Shut up.” 

He only smirked softly in that way only he could. 

Had it not been for the blackout, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe you would’ve kept circling each other for weeks. Months. Always brushing, never breaking.

Maybe the dark just gave you permission.

Compelled with this new breach in boundaries, you reached up and brushed your thumb along his cheekbone, slow and deliberate. “So…” you murmured, “that’s what it takes to get you to shut up for five minutes.”

A breath caught in his throat—half laugh, half indignation. “I was being respectfully stunned.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” You tilted your head. 

He narrowed his eyes, still breathless. “Had the lights not come back on, I could’ve salvaged my dignity.”

“Mm. No, sweetheart.” You hummed, dragging your fingers through his hair, gently teasing out a knot. “That ship got railed and sunk about twenty minutes ago.”

Edward’s hair was damp beneath your fingers, sticking to his temple, his face still flushed and dazed. You could feel his pulse through every point of contact—under your hands, inside you, in you. He blinked up at you, like the world was just now catching up to him. His mouth parted slightly, like he might try to say something clever. But he didn’t. Not yet.

You stroked your hand back through his hair, quiet. “You look like you just got struck by lightning.”

He huffed a breathless laugh, voice raw. “I feel like I forgot my own name.”

“Should I remind you?” you asked, rolling your hips once—lazy, cruel.

He flinched. “Please don’t.”

You smiled, soft and sharp. “Well then,” you said, dragging your hand down his chest like you were mapping your way back to calm, “maybe next time, you’ll think twice before you leave a mess all over the floor.”

His hand flexed at your hip, still twitchy with the aftershocks. “I didn’t—”

“Edward.”

A beat.

“…Okay,” he grumbled.

Smiling, you leaned forward, pressed a kiss to his flushed cheek, then to the edge of his jaw, slow and reverent, like you weren’t just teasing—you were claiming the wreckage.

He didn’t move. Barely breathed. You felt the twitch of his fingers against your skin, the way his chest rose to meet yours without thinking, like his body was still answering to you, even as his brain tried to catch up. And for once, he didn’t try to be clever. He didn’t deflect. He just sat there, dazed and quiet, his arms loose around your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go.

You weren’t either.

So you stayed. Straddling him on the cold, grimy floor. Skin cooling. Muscles aching. The overhead fluorescents buzzed softly above you, flickering now and then like they were struggling to decide if they were staying on for good.

Eventually, you shifted just enough to rest your forehead to his. Your nose brushed his. He exhaled.

“…We’re gonna have to move eventually,” Edward murmured.

You nodded. But didn’t move.

Not yet.

[angeldeviloshi]

So gotta talk about the chapter title again and the way 有害 is translated.

In the JP version it's written 有害な二人 (A Harmful Pair) translating it as toxic works too since people do talk about manufactured products being toxic as well as it being a reflection of the unhealthy nature of Asa's and Denji's life and relationship as it stands.

I find it noteworthy that Asa uses this to describe herself like the bun, in that she is herself containing something harmful.

Esp wrt the bread analysis I've done recently in mind, the bread as representation of love, desire, satiation through the framing of Denji's dream, normal life and family.

(Bread analysis for easy access)

The roles AsaYoru currently plays for him while he too acts as lover and parent for Asa to fill her void of companionship and mourning, keeping each other fed.

Money and the dead brought up again. They afford this small luxury between them through theft, living off the dead in the wake of their destruction via Yoru's shooting and the Chainsaw Devil horde. What they robbed the masses of.

Denji telling Asa not to eat the bread if she minds it so much also calling back to Asa eating the dried fish Denji made despite being averse to eating fish because of the weight death holds for her. Asa swallowing the bread as an acceptance of her hellish circumstances and Yoru emerges again.

In a way, the consumption of the bread also reads as Denji and Asa coming to terms with this as their newfound normal with the pain and harm it carries and Chimerasaw Man's appearance here questioning if it's alright for Denji to be having this brings to mind Makima and Barem's judgment on Denji for enjoying a normal life despite his sins.

Asa herself expressing her discontent and grudge towards her peers for seemingly living a normal life as she suffers but they were likely just trying not to think about it, just like what she's taken to doing with Denji. Quanxi's ignorance is bliss.

Speaking of Quanxi, her answering Yoru's question at the devil containment centre about Denji being stronger than her by saying that Denji isn't stronger but he's more fearsome.

And I kinda see it as a way of saying that Denji isn't necessarily as tough and aloof as Quanxi (model of the hardened devil hunter as Kishibe's ideal) but there's a deeper horror to Denji as a person in the ignorance he employs both selective and genuine and what it leads to because of how much he feels and the lengths he goes to numb it.

Something something the devils inside Denji and Asa as reflection of their heart emerging as their thorns.

[strryhaze]

guys the lore between jfk and the arthurian legends goes even deeper …

as we’ve all come to know, one of jack’s favorite books as a kid was king arthur and his knights of the roundtable. in countless of documentaries and biographies, it’s always been noted how jack as a young boy would voraciously read that book among many others and how these books broadened his imagination, gave him comfort, and made him see heroes. later on, jackie would link camelot (arthur’s kingdom) to jfk’s presidency, using the last few words from the last song of jack’s favorite musical: “don’t let it be forgot that once there was a spot for one brief, shining moment that was known as camelot.”

now although t.h. white’s book, the once and future king, had not yet been released during jack’s childhood, it was originally released in 1958 — before jfk’s presidency. nonetheless, the parallels between young jack and young arthur, who goes by the affectionate nickname ‘wart’ in the book, are so insane to me.

a summary of the first volume: “When the novel begins, the Wart is a naïve, impressionable, and seemingly inconsequential boy, living in the shadow of his older brother. While he could never imagine himself as a figure in a medieval romance, he certainly devours these legends wholeheartedly […] He later tells Merlyn that his greatest wish is to wear a "splendid suit of armor" and call himself "the Black Knight." The Wart's admiration for all those connected with knighthood and adventure (such as King Pellinore, Kay, Sir Grummore, and Robin Wood) marks him as a "born hero-worshipper," an ironic description for the person who is to become one of the most-often-worshipped legendary heroes. The Wart, however, never dreams that he — a foundling — can ever rise to such heights.”

legends influenced both jack and arthur as young boys. for jack, his legends didn’t only include the legend of king arthur but swashbuckling, adventurous and weighty literature as well. they shaped him as a boy and influenced the ideals that followed him in his political career -> and was also very much in the shadow of his older brother (joe jr.) as arthur was when he was young. jack was described by his father as “a very frail boy.” they thought he wouldn’t amount to much. jack once admitted that joe always did everything so much better than him, which made it difficult to get things done, that there was no point in even trying, not knowing that he would grow to surpass his older brother in history.

both arthur and jack "devoured legends wholeheartedly" like jack was very much captivated by noble, romantic, debonair figures in literature and history just. like. arthur. and because it would be too presumptuous, they never really likened themselves as these sort of idealistic figures, though they admired them greatly, but they’re completely defined and crystallized as such after their deaths.

[nonbinaryeye]

Kingdom Come Deliverance gives you so many options to decide Henry is a better person, that Henry could keep his morals and principles despite all the hardship. He can give Istvan honorable death, he can challenge Dry Devil to spare Maleshov, he can face the man who killed his parents and walk away, letting him his die of his injuries, deciding he's grown past his need for revenge...

You can play the game as a story about a boy thrown into war who managed to through everything keep his ideals, withstanding the challenges and though he has grown he is still himself.

However I find such a narrative personally very unsatisfying.

Because Henry decided to set on way of revenge and that changes people. He cannot go through the story without killing people. He saw a violence and he has to embrace it too. To beat them he has to become at least a bit like them just like Istvan said.

It seems natural that he would have to make tough decisions and each time making a tough choice gets a bit easier and there is no way back, just forward adding new places and faces to his nightmares.

It is just so thematically rich and interesting especially when he agrees to setting fire to Maleshov and it's so similar to Skalitz except this town he is the one destroying someone's home, same way his own was destroyed. And when von Aulitz ask him how can he be sure he didn't kill someone's father and mother it can finally hit him that maybe Istvan indeed was right.

[rosmarinblooms]

Was Steve a good friend to Bucky?

Thing is, we have no idea. We just haven’t been shown it. There’s so little casual interaction between modern-era Bucky and Steve on screen. Did Steve visit his friend in Wakanda? Did they talk much? Who knows. We’ve been shown mostly echoes of their previous friendship. Shared childhood memories, well-known phrases.

But willingness to sacrifice things, even to die for the other man is not a definition of friendship. This could be a thing that a heroic savior does, or an altruism, or a result of a deep trauma, or a painful dependence. Lots of things, many of them quite dark.

Friends can die for each other.

Good friends live for each other, because of each other.

And the second option is often more difficult.

Bucky smiles at Steve. He smiles though he is heartbroken. He smiles, and smiles, and smiles.

And then he smiles NEAR Sam, when Sam doesn’t see him.

Steve and Bucky idealize each other. This is probably their way of coping with the pain life throws in their faces. But no one really wants to be idealized, to be seen not as themselves but as some perfect, spotless sculpture.

We human beings want to be loved as we are. With all our quirks, vulnerabilities, insecurities. We crave someone who understands our gaps, spots and imperfections – and doesn’t abandon us because of them.

Friends are the people with whom we are not afraid to be vulnerable.

Bucky says it’s hard to live with his past, and Steve says, “You had no choice.” He’s right. But then Bucky admits the past troubles him, choice or not. And all we have is an awkward pause.  It seems like Steve’s words were not meant for Bucky but for Steve himself. He doesn’t want to think about the horrors his friend went through. (And he takes his friend to the exact same place he was literally tortured. Smiling about treasured past).

To be clear, I’m not trying to say Steve is a shitty friend. Far from that. But he is flawed, complicated. And his relationship to Bucky contains darkness as well as light.

And we’ve seen their bond brought Bucky to death. And again. And again. Whilst Bucky’s connection to Sam brings him life.

[evil-winters]

Hi, I just read your post about Weskennedy and I wanted to ask if you think that Wesker had a thing for Rebecca/was attracted to her? Personally I hope it's just an easter egg and joke but I am really unsure regarding this :/

hi! hello! first ask on this blog ever! so thank you!

i want to start this off and say: i don’t care if you ship wesker x chambers, or if you hate it with a burning passion. i’m not here to engage in ship wars because i think that’s harmful to fandom culture (again: as long as it’s legal).

but, on to my thoughts!

i do firmly believe the photo thing was an easter egg, i’ve seen people say that’s confirmed by the creators. but also, let’s acknowledge how resident evil was made to be before i even dive into characterizations!

resident evil, when it was made, put a STRONG foot down by having nonsexualized lead female characters, in a genre that didn’t really… do that at the time. rebecca and jill, even claire upon the time of the OG re2, they weren’t put in any horrifically sexual situations, despite most horror around that era thinking sex + scared women = good shock value that caters to male crowds. resident evil just… didn’t do that (they kinda went downhill as they gained more popularity, evident when death island was released and they kept jill “young looking” in a clear way to up her sex appeal to young male audiences). back when the first few resident evils released, the creators were like, “ok, we want this really cool story. we’re going to do this story, and we’re going to execute it WELL.”

and in a time of strong misogyny, that’s what set it apart from other horror games in general. and people can argue whatever they want about that, but it’s very clear that resident evil, at its start, wanted to create horror and plot twists and STORY without the use of cheap shock.

and i know someone will be like “well the rebecca picture was fan service! it was awful!” and i’ll just blink at them because if they think THAT’S fan service then i hope they NEVER even look at video games from the 2010s and on. even when you get a clear view of the rebecca chambers photo, it’s like… just a photo of her in a mildly revealing outfit or whatever. there’s nothing super sexual about it, like yeah the pose may be a little weird or whatever but if you’ve EVER been on a sports team especially in high school and college, the poses are usually made for… fun? there’s professional photos and fun photos and team photos, and the one of rebecca is very clearly a fun photo. god forbid a teenager be comfortable and confident, in an outfit that may be a little revealing but isn’t at all meant to be perverted.

(and tbh, people who look at that photo and decide it’s gross get a really bad side eye from me)

even aside from like… my rambles on this time period and such, whatever, easter egg blah blah blah…

i mentioned in my wesker post (and even vaguely in the one before that) that i believe wesker doesn’t really care to have emotional connections with other people, so to say he has SEXUAL feelings on top of that? for someone who isn’t even on his main team? for someone who he clearly doesn’t care to keep alive? yeah… alright… i’m sure??

so like, to summarize: no, i don’t think for even a second nor do i have any doubt that wesker liked rebecca. i don’t even think the creators had that in mind when they placed that there. if anything, the placement makes me wonder if wesker just did his research on the people he worked with.

he didn’t put her on the primary stars team, and he had no issues barely acknowledging her and then SHOOTING her. in my opinion, he does not care at all for Bravo team because they’re kinda like easy throwaways while Alpha team remained his ideal test subjects. i honestly don’t even think he cared much for rebecca outside of knowing her name + her specialty because all of these people were never meant to live past the mansion incident.

also, not to mention, even after rebecca escapes with chris and jill— he does NOT care to remember rebecca at all. he grows obsessive over chris and jill because of his like weird complicated dynamics with them. like if anything he had a thing for chris and jill.

sighhhh… sorry for this huge ramble! on to my like… finishing thoughts. you can dislike wesker all you want, i don’t care— but if you say he’s some like pedophilic creep i’d rather you don’t interact (not directed at you! i believe your question came from a genuine curiosity). like you don’t have to like wesker, but if you lack media literacy and call him some pervert… when (in my opinion) he’s one of the most asexually coded characters in resident evil EVER… i’d love to never interact! i’m not a wesker defender, i love to point out how fucked up and evil he is because a good story, especially in horror, can NOT be made without an antagonist, and wesker is done in a way that makes him complicated and fun to analyze! but i will never, not for a second, EVER say he’s a creep or a pervert or whatever. it’s just not true to his character and it makes no sense for anything ever, and if you have that as your headcanon or write that out then YOU’RE weird as hell for that.

the actual summary: no, i believe albert wesker does not have any attraction or “thing” for rebecca chambers.

[tokiro07]

Been getting some notes on my post about Ichi's complacency with death and it got me thinking a little bit more about how Ichi seems like a direct response to Luffy

In One Piece, standing and fighting is, more often than not, the objectively correct answer in most scenarios, as backing down, turning tail, running away, those are all moral failings where the person in question is giving up on their ambitions or compromising who they are for something as petty as "survival." If you live knowing that you didn't stand up for your beliefs, what was the point of living in the first place?

Of course One Piece is more nuanced than that, with characters like Usopp espousing that survival allows one to make up for a failure, but Luffy specifically represents the romantic ideal of never compromising on your dreams or backing down from a challenge

Luffy's dream is worth fighting for, and if it comes down to it, worth dying for

Ichi, as I said previously, has no dream, and instead is simply living until he dies, even if it means dying right now

This brings us to the first World Hater fight. World Hater was primed to destroy a village with an untold number of lives in the balance, and because of Ichi's sense for bloodlust, he was the only one who was able to make it onto the scene and stand in the World Hater's way. If it weren't for Ichi, all of those people would be dead

Except...that's not entirely true

For one, Ichi was not fighting to protect anyone. While he didn't want anyone to die, that was not his primary motivation for confronting such a strong opponent; rather, it was his opponent's very strength alone that motivated him. The fact that people were in danger was merely the catalyst, the excuse that Ichi needed to abandon his current task at hand (proving himself a better hunter than Togeice) and instead assign himself a new objective: kill the World Hater, or die trying

If Ichi were trying to save anyone, he wouldn't have been so contented with his failed murder attempt. After stabbing the World Hater's neck, Ichi's thoughts were not on his regrets for how he let everyone down, but rather the mild disappointment that he wouldn't get to sate the curiosity of how he could have won instead. I would argue that he was even excited that he failed, because it meant that if he did survive, he would get another chance to play with his food again later, as the thrill of the hunt is more important than anything else

Secondly, while Ichi's botched hunt is portrayed as stalling the World Hater and buying time for Desscaras to break into the barrier, this is missing a crucial detail: if Ichi had taken the chance to escape when World Hater told him to, Desscaras still would have gotten in

Yes, Ichi held off the Lancemen, but Desscaras destroyed them, a feat that would have been accomplished that much sooner and allowed that much less collateral damage if Ichi had considered that he wasn't alone

He could have teamed up with Desscaras to both save the villagers and draw out the fight with World Hater and learn more about how to go about hunting them if he only had the strategic sense to look outside his own desire for instant gratification and lack of self-preservation instinct

When a bad decision works out for the best, it is retroactively decided that it was "the right thing to do," but a better outcome was easily attainable with a little bit of forethought and caution, and the worst outcome was narrowly avoided by a little bit of luck

For Luffy, running away is a moral failing because doing so is portrayed as endangering his crew and his dream, but for Ichi, it was staying to fight that was the moral failing because it endangered everyone present for the sake of a dopamine rush

[mariuspompom]

marius is always so passionate about everything and yet he never belongs anywhere. he's impressionable yet distant, reckless and impulsive yet observing from the outside. he's obsessive yet fickle. he is ready to give his life like it's nothing yet he's not truly one of les amis. he never went to their meetings, yet he will forever mourn their loss. he refuses the comforts of the bourgeoisie and feeds off his love and his ideals alone, yet he ends up a rich lawyer. he's weak and miserable and lonely yet so loved and cherished that people sacrificed their lives to save him. he's a neglected orphan, yet a privileged kid. abandoned by his father, who adored him. he wanted nothing to do with his father while he was alive, yet latched onto his ghost when he was gone. he's pitiful in his misery, cruel in his happiness. he's the epitome of idealism yet he's selfish. his intentions are pure yet he inadvertedly caused great suffering and death. he has something about him that suggested day - and night. his face was illuminated by the light of the dying day and by the thought of a soul that is taking flight. not yet a ghost, no longer a man. he's truly the most character ever and u guys just don't get him like I get him