#i said most of what i wanted to say already i think but i also wanna add that c4 is absolutely dave

[can-i-make-image-descriptions]

[Image IDs: Text reading: I have known Elon Musk at a deep level for 14 years, well before he was a household name. We used to text frequently. He would come to by birthday party and invite me to his parties. He would tell me everything about his women problems. As sons of highly accomplished men who married venuses, were violent and lost their fortunes, and who were bullied in high school, we had a number of things in common most people cannot relate to. We would hang out together late in Los Angeles. He would visit my San Diego lab. He invested in my company.

Elon is not a Nazi, per se.

He is something much better, or much worse, depending on how you look at it.

Nazis believed that an entire race was above everyone else.

Elon believes he is above everyone else. He used to think he worked on the most important problems. When I met him, he did not presume to be a technical person—he would be the first to say that he lacked the expertise to understand certain data. That happened later. Now, he acts as if he has all the solutions.

All his talk about getting to Mars to "maintain the light of consciousness" or about "free speech absolution" is actually BS Elon knowingly feeds people to manipulate them. Everything Elon does is about acquiring and consolidating power. That is why he likes far right parties, because they are easier to control. That is also why he gave himself $56 Billion which could have gone to the people actually doing the work and innovations he is taking credit for at Tesla (the reason he does not do patents is because he would not be listed as an inventor as putting a fake inventor on a patent would kill it and moreover it would reveal the superstars behind the work). His lust for power is also why he did xAI and Neuralink, to attempt to compete with OpenAI and NeuroVigil, respectively, despite being affiliated with them. Unlike Tesla and Twitter, he was unable to conquer those companies and tried to create rivals. I fired him with cause in December 2021 when he tried to undermine NV.

Elon did two Nazi salutes.

He did them for five main reasons:

He was concerned that the "Nazi wing" of the MAGA movement, under the influence of Steve Bannon, would drive him away from Trump, somewhere in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, rather than in the West Wing which is where he wants to be. He was already feeling raw over the fact that Trump did not follow his recommendation for Treasury Secretary and that the Senate also did not pick his first choice.

He was upset that he had had to go to Israel and Auschwitz to make up for agreeing with a Nazi sympathizer online and wanted to reclaim his "power" just like when he told advertisers to "go fuck yourself". This has nothing to do with Asperger's;

There are some Jews he actually hates: Sam Altman is among them;

He enjoys a good thrill and knew exactly what he was doing;

His narcissistic self was hoping the audience would reflect the abject gesture back to him, thereby showing complete control and dominion over it, and increasing his leverage over Trump. That did not happen

Bottom line: Elon is not a Nazi but he did give two Nazi Salutes, which is completely unacceptable.

N.B. For the few whining about my post "sans connaissance the cause" and either trembling about my having shattered their illusions about their cult leader or thinking I am defending Elon:

I. My point is that he is transactional rather than ideological;

II. That being said, I am not defending him or his actions, just explaining them and confirming that he did, in fact, do two Nazi Salutes if anyone had doubts or believed the doctored footage of Taylor Swift doing the same thing to normalize what Elon did;

III. At some point, it matters to a few people if one is a Nazi or if one acts like one. My father was a Holocaust Survivor. 32 out of 35 of his family members were murdered by the Nazis. My mother's grandparents were murdered in Auschwitz;

IV. After Elon tried to manipulate NV's stock in 2021, I fired him with cause, and he was unable to exercise his stock options. In the aftermath of the Nazi Salutes, I told both him and his wealth manager to fuck off. Any remaining friendship between us ended with the Nazi Salutes. He is blocked on my end and I am pretty sure I am blocked on his;

V. I did not share what he told me in confidence. I just happened to know him extremely well, the person, the aspirations and the Musk Mask;

VI. I know who I am, have no desire to be famous and give exceedingly few media interviews. I prefer to work in obscurity and let the work speak for itself. I am certainly not envious and would definitely not want Elon's life, including living in a bubble and having to make one outlandish claim after another and manipulate the public, elections and governments to shore up my stock and prevent the bubble from bursting. Unlike Elon, I am an actual scientist and inventor and I am not pretending to be someone I am not like a fellow who got his BA in Econ at 26 all of a sudden pretending to be an expert in mechanical engineering, chemistry, rocket science, neuroscience and AI and keeping the people actually doing the work hidden and paying people to play online games in his name to appear smart and feed his so-called "Supergenius" Personality Cult—the "Imperator" has no clothes, and he knows it. I am just very disappointed in what happened to someone I had a lot of deep admiration for and the first person to found out about my concerns about his behavior was always him;

VII. He is the one who betrayed a number of his friends, including Sergey, and, given his actions, many other people who believed him and believed in him. I have no sympathy for this behavior, and at some point, after having repeatedly confronted it in private, I believe the ethical thing to do is to speak out, forcefully and unapologetically, whatever the risks may be, so as to not be part of the timid flock remaining silent while evil is being done, including propping up far right governments around the world in part to deregulate his companies and become the first trillionaire and otherwise to "rule the planet"—he knows Mars won't be terraformed in his lifetime and he really wants his planet. No joke... Ethics matter. People matter. The truth matters.

I took down Descartes (through the Cambridge Declaration on Consciousness) and I am definitely not afraid of a so-called inventor whose greatest invention in his image.

I will not be silent. You should not be either. I am a sovereign individual, and so are you. I stoop up to bullies, and am stepping out of the dark to do it again.

Stop working for him and being exploited by him. Sell your Tesla and dump your Tesla stock. Nikola Tesla was a great, creative and courageous man who led with ethics and by example and he would not have wanted for his good name to have been used by him and would agree with my principled stance. Sign off of "X" which is boosting far right propaganda, and of your Starlink as well. He is a complete cunt who doesn't give a shit about you—only about power. Just ask Reid Hoffman. He only wants to control, dominate and use you—don't let him and cut him and his business out of your and your loved ones' lives entirely. Remember he is a total miserable self-loathing poser, and unless you are too, he will be much more afraid of you than you should ever be of him.

He will probably come after me, and I am completely fine with that. I am a self-made multibillionaire with an armada of lawyers—literally—and most importantly, I know who I am and who I stand for, the people and their freedoms, whatever happens. He can send his dumb Proud Boys and Oath Keepers after me and they will be butchered on sight. Either way, I would rather die with honor than live as a coward.

"Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented."—Elie Wiesel, Holocaust Survivor and Nobel Peace Prize laureate /End IDs]

[revvethasmythh]

listen, now that everything is said and done i'm going to say something i've been thinking but not outright saying for the past nearly four years. frankly, imogen and laudna's relationship is a pale shadow of caleb and veth's and if you really sit and think about it, it's outright embarrassing for the former party. it's like if you saw a beautiful piece of art and tried to emulate it and then the only thing you managed to jot down that was the same was the basic shape and you never added any color when the color was the most important part. imogen and laudna's relationship is formed out of almost the exact same origins (troubled mage who needs to keep a distance from regular society joins up with monstrous misfit with a traumatic backstory and become each other's most important person while traveling place-to-place because they keep getting into trouble in cities). the difference is, genuinely, how much more colorful and lived in caleb and veth's story feels. they met in a podunk county jail and worked together to break out of the place, stayed together for practical reasons (straight-up survival) and then out of genuine friendship. they were hobos in the woods together. they cuddled on the side of the roads on cold nights together. they were genuinely each other's sole lifeline because they were the type of people no one in the world cared about in a very real, visceral way. they were also con artists, and sam and liam worked together to come up with an entire booklet of different cons they used to survive, which come into play surprisingly often during the campaign (Modern Literature, famously, but also Mother's Love and Money Pot featured).

comparatively, we know next to nothing about what imogen and laudna's lives looked like after leaving gelvaan, and the Incident™️ that sent them running in the first place remains amorphous and random no matter how many times the story is told or whatever extra details get added. the people of gelvaan found laudna to be a generically threatening presence (because of her fun-scary appearance and/or kooky-fun-scary behavior) and picked up their torches and pitchforks to run her out of town. imogen heard her thoughts and found them so beautiful she nearly killed two of the townspeople she grew up with the defend her and then they fled into the night together. and that's it. what did they do for two entire years after that? i don't know! neither do you. they don't appear to have struggled for money like caleb and veth did, there's no reference to hard-living, no real reference to what jobs they took to stay afloat, no mention of the practical realities of living as homeless nomads, no mention of towns and cities they'd visited and how those places impacted them. nothing. empty. no color. how did their relationship develop? also don't know! they seem to have slotted together perfectly as friends with no conflict for years before slotting together perfectly as lovers while batting aside all attempts at conflict later. done and dusted, that's the relationship, and people have the gall to call caleb and veth's successor relationship 'soulmatism' when it doesn't hold a candle to what the original offered.

which was, to be clear, endless complexity. i can't tell you how to define it, and i don't think the character's themselves could define it if they tried. sam went into the campaign intending to lean into a familial relationship and quickly realized that wasn't the vibe, course-corrected into veth having a crush on caleb--something sam has said developed fairly early in the campaign.* liam went into the relationship not intending to care about her nearly as much as he ended up doing, then spent the early campaign eps grappling with just how suddenly important she was to him, to the point that, in the face of her potentially dying in episode 20, liam says to sam, "do you want to make my character turn evil already?"** both were surprised at how tightly their characters clung to each other, and developed a deeply caring, highly insular dynamic where they were suspicious of outsiders and desperately guarded each other. with full retrospect, both went into the relationship intending to use each other (caleb for general usefulness/protection and veth, obviously, hoping caleb could change her back one day), then found such deep and tender care that they became each other's worlds. for a time. until nott became veth and veth had a husband and it sent their relationship into a tailspin because no matter how you frame the relationship, caleb clearly felt his feelings for her and the way they behaved together stepped over the line of how one should act with a married woman. after that, he is terrified of the idea that he might not have a place in her life and works so hard to create opportunities to insinuate himself into her present and future (teleportation spells so she can travel home quickly and still return to the group, making room for her family in the tower so she can stay with him, offering to tutor luc in magic to stay in her life, etc). veth gets her body and her life back but fears returning home will be lackluster compared to what she's experienced with the group, starts falling out of love with her husband, and has intense extra-martial feelings for caleb that are canonical. their relationship morphs and changes constantly throughout the campaign, and the one thing about their dynamic that never changes is how deeply and truly they love each other. you want to talk about soulmatism? them being the two party members with fake names who's real names share aspects of each other ("Bren" and "Brenatto") both from small-town dwendalian empire who's lives have been deeply impacted by meddling of the cerberus assembly (veth's in adulthood, caleb's in childhood) and who's deepest traumas are respectively fire and water does the trick for me.

so why is one so popular and the other, particularly as a romantic ship, very much is not? it would be obtuse of me not to immediately point to the fact that imogen and laudna are two pretty, skinny white women who claim to have deliciously little agency in their own stories and provide a blank enough canvas that the relationship can be whatever you want it to be. there's a reason there's so many AU fics for them, after all. caleb and veth on the other hand would center first a relationship between the handsome white fandom-popular sadboi and *checks notes* a self-described ugly, unfeminine goblin with deep neuroses and later a short, fat brown woman who also happens to be a young mother from a small country town. popular fandom, tragically, will almost always turn away from dealing with complexity of the latter for the empty calories of the former regardless of the quality gap between the two. if anything, watching the popularity of imogen and laudna's relationship has cemented my opinion that if veth had been different (either a man or a generically attractive white woman or someone more conventionally pretty just in general), widobrave would have been a massively popular ship, and i think it would have been regardless of veth's marriage. people can forgive a lot to write about their two generically attractive favorites getting together. they're a lot less forgiving for an ugly goblin or a fat, brown young mother, though.

tldr: reject modernity, embrace tradition. ship widobrave

*Talks Machina for C2E88, VOD no longer available, but a paraphrase of the quote can be found here **(2:09:30 on the YouTube VOD).

[anticipatedexhale]

Can you do the arcane characters with a s/o who is obsessed with their looks and how they’re perceived to others?

Hellooo <3 ofc I can!!

Just a disclaimer u are absolutely gorgeous and wonderful just the way you are! Inside and out! Don't let fake standards and false words put by society get to you please, love yourself just the way u are because although it's the hardest type of love to achieve it's also the most fulfilling<33

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Wish I could be like you, but I’m not that cool.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨୧

♡ ◞ includes: caitlyn, ekko, jayce, jinx, mel, viktor, vi, sevika

☆ ◞ summary: when you care too much it starts to backfire on you, when you think you lost everything they are right beside you.

△ ◞ warnings: gn! reader, tons of bad talk about ones body and self, insecurities that may be triggering you some so please be careful while reading.

Jayce Talis.

Jayce had always been confident—he knew who he was, what he stood for, and never really cared much about what others thought of him. So when he started noticing how much you worried about your looks and how people perceived you, it caught him off guard.

At first, he thought it was just normal self-care. Everyone liked to look good, right? But then he started picking up on the little things.

The way you’d constantly check your reflection in any shiny surface you passed. The way you’d subtly adjust your outfit over and over, as if trying to perfect it. How you’d bite your lip and glance around nervously when someone so much as whispered near you, convinced it was about you.

And when you two were out together? Forget about it. You agonized over every detail—your hair, your posture, your expressions. Always making sure you were just right.

Jayce hated seeing you stress over it.

One evening, you were getting ready for an event, adjusting your outfit for what felt like the fiftieth time, inspecting yourself in the mirror with a deep frown.

"Does this look okay?" you asked for the third time in ten minutes. "Maybe I should change. Do you think people will—"

Jayce sighed and gently grabbed your hands, pulling you away from the mirror.

“Babe,” he said softly, his brows furrowed in concern. “Why does it matter so much what other people think?”

You hesitated, looking down. “I just… I don’t want to embarrass you. Or myself. People talk, Jayce.”

His expression softened. “I don’t give a damn what people say. And you shouldn’t either.”

You sighed, but he wasn’t done. He cupped your face, tilting it up so you had to look at him.

“You’re already perfect,” he murmured. “I don’t care what you’re wearing, how your hair looks, or what people think. They don’t see what I see.”

You swallowed, throat tight. “…And what do you see?”

His lips quirked into a small smile. “Someone incredible. Someone who makes me laugh, who makes me proud every damn day. Someone I’d still be crazy about even if you walked into that party wearing mismatched shoes and a potato sack.”

You let out a startled laugh, rolling your eyes. “A potato sack?”

He grinned, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Yep. You’d still be the best-looking person in the room.”

You sighed, leaning into his touch. “…You really don’t care?”

“Not one bit,” he promised. “I just want you to be happy. Not stressing over what a bunch of nobodies think.”

His words hit deep. And for the first time in a long time, you actually believed them.

Maybe—just maybe—you didn’t need everyone else’s approval.

Maybe Jayce’s was enough.

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Mel Medarda.

Mel had always been surrounded by high society, where appearances were more than just about beauty—they were about power, influence, and command. She’d been taught from a young age how to control the room with a well-placed smile, a confident stance, and the right attire. But while she had mastered the art of fitting into the expectations of others, she’d never let them control her.

When she first noticed your obsession with your appearance—how you would fret over the smallest detail, constantly worry about what others thought, and always seek validation from the people around you—she didn’t rush to correct you. Instead, she observed, trying to understand why it mattered so much to you.

One evening, you were preparing for another event, this time a gala held by Piltover’s elite. You stood in front of the mirror, your eyes darting between your reflection and the wardrobe full of options, your fingers pulling at your hair, your expression one of deep dissatisfaction.

“Mel,” you said, voice tinged with frustration. “I don’t think I’m ready for this. I’m just not—”

She stepped into the room with the effortless grace she was known for, her gaze soft yet intense as she approached you. “You’re just not what?” she asked, her voice calm but laced with concern.

“I don’t know… I feel like I don’t belong here,” you confessed, your hands wringing together. “I keep thinking about what people will say when they see me. What if they don’t think I’m… enough?”

Mel’s brow furrowed as she gently placed her hands on your shoulders, turning you to face her fully. “Let me ask you something,” she began, her tone serious but tender. “Why do you care so much about what they think?”

You looked down, not quite able to meet her eyes. “Because if I don’t look a certain way, if I’m not perfect, I feel like I won’t matter.”

Mel took a deep breath, stepping closer to you, her hands gently lifting your chin so you had no choice but to look at her. Her gaze softened as she studied you for a moment, her fingers brushing the side of your face.

“Sweetheart,” she began, her voice quiet but steady. “You are already more than enough. I’ve seen you, not just with your looks, but with your heart, your intelligence, your strength.” She smiled softly. “You think people are only judging you based on how you look, but the truth is, they want to see you. They want to know you—the person who carries themselves with such grace and confidence, the one who makes them wonder how they missed such brilliance.”

You felt a lump form in your throat as her words sank in.

“I’ve spent so much of my life trying to fit into others' expectations. To be what people wanted me to be,” Mel continued, her eyes locking with yours, unwavering. “But I realized that I will never be happy that way. And neither will you. So stop letting your worth be defined by others. You have everything you need inside of you already.”

You blinked, the warmth of her words washing over you. “But… I still feel like I’m not enough sometimes.”

Mel gently cupped your face, leaning in until her forehead rested against yours. “Then let me remind you every day how much you mean to me. You’re perfect just as you are.”

You swallowed, a smile tugging at your lips. “I think I’m starting to believe you.”

With a soft chuckle, Mel pulled back slightly. “Good. Now let’s go out there, and when they look at you, let them see the amazing person I see.”

And as she helped you get dressed, there was a quiet understanding between you two. Mel never pressured you to be anyone else, but she also knew how to help you realize that you had more power than you gave yourself credit for.

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Viktor.

Viktor’s perspective on beauty had always been one of deep pragmatism. His entire life had been about improving, evolving, and focusing on the mind’s capacity to achieve, while the world outside often seemed obsessed with superficial qualities. He’d never cared much for what others thought of him or how he looked. But when it came to you, it was different.

He’d noticed, more and more, how often you seemed preoccupied with your appearance. You would spend hours before a mirror, adjusting your clothes or making sure every strand of hair was in place, always worried about what others might think. Sometimes, even after all the effort, there was a quiet dissatisfaction in your expression, and it made him wonder how much you truly believed in yourself.

One evening, after a long day of work, Viktor arrived home to find you sitting on the couch, still in your outfit from earlier. Your gaze was fixed on your phone screen, scrolling through images of other people’s lives, comparing your appearance to theirs. Your posture was tense, your brows furrowed in frustration.

Viktor quietly approached, his voice soft yet steady as he spoke your name. “You’re still awake? What’s going on, love?”

You glanced up, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Just thinking. About how everyone seems to have it all figured out. How they look perfect, and I’m… well, I don’t know.” You trailed off, your gaze dropping back to your phone.

Viktor, noticing the sharp contrast between your usual confident self and the person sitting before him, knelt beside the couch, taking your hand gently in his. His tone was patient, understanding, but there was a certain firmness that made you look up at him.

“Your worth has never been determined by someone else’s perception of you,” he said, his voice quiet but intense. “You’ve spent so much time trying to please others, trying to fit a mold you never asked for. But I need you to understand something, love…”

You looked at him, unsure, waiting for him to continue.

“You are far more than just the sum of your physical appearance or the validation of others,” Viktor continued, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You are a person of substance, of intellect, of heart. And that’s what I fell in love with. Not the way you look, but who you are.”

You swallowed, feeling a lump in your throat. Viktor’s gaze softened as he reached for your hand, gently lifting it to his lips. “And you don’t need to change for anyone. Not for me, not for anyone.”

There was silence between you, broken only by the soft hum of the city outside. His words settled in your chest, easing the tension that had built up over the past few hours.

“I just feel like I’m constantly chasing something I can never achieve,” you admitted quietly. “Trying to be perfect, trying to be what everyone else expects.”

Viktor’s eyes darkened with concern, but he smiled gently. “What if I told you that the most perfect version of yourself is already here? Right now, in this moment? That you are more than enough, as you are?”

His words were simple, but they carried the weight of years of wisdom, of someone who had seen the world through a lens of endless improvement. Slowly, you found yourself leaning into him, feeling the comfort of his embrace and the security of his steady presence.

“I’m still learning, Viktor,” you whispered, your head resting against his chest. “Learning to accept myself.”

“And I’ll be here,” he murmured, his voice warm and unwavering. “Every step of the way. To remind you that you’re perfect, not because of how you look, but because of who you are.”

You closed your eyes, feeling the weight of his words sink deep into your soul. In that moment, with Viktor by your side, you realized that the person you needed to please the most was yourself. And with him, you finally understood that your worth was never tied to anyone’s expectations—but rather, to the person you were, inside and out.

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Caitlyn kiramman.

Caitlyn was never one to place much value on appearances. Sure, she knew the importance of looking presentable, especially in her position, but she also understood that true beauty went beyond what the eye could see. For Caitlyn, what truly mattered were values, intellect, and integrity. But when she noticed you often fretting over your appearance, constantly adjusting your outfit, and seeking validation from others, it tugged at her heart. She could tell you weren’t feeling your best, but didn’t know how to reach you—until one quiet evening.

After a long day at work, Caitlyn came home to find you in front of the mirror once again, changing clothes, adjusting your makeup, and constantly re-evaluating your reflection. She leaned in the doorway for a moment, watching you with a concerned expression.

You didn’t even notice her at first, your mind lost in the whirlwind of doubts that always seemed to surface when you weren’t in her company. “I don’t know, Cait. What if I’m not enough?” you muttered under your breath, pulling at the collar of your shirt as if it could make you feel better. “What if they don’t think I’m… beautiful enough?”

Caitlyn stepped into the room quietly, her voice gentle but firm. “Why do you think that?”

You jumped, not expecting her to be standing so close. “Oh… I didn’t hear you.” You gave a weak smile, clearly still upset.

“Babe, what’s going on? You’ve been like this for a while now,” she said softly, her eyes meeting yours. She stepped closer and reached for your hand, her touch warm and reassuring. “What are you looking for?”

You hesitated, glancing at your reflection before turning to face her. “I just… I feel like people judge me all the time. What if they don’t like how I look? What if I’m too much for them? Or not enough?”

Caitlyn’s expression softened with a mix of empathy and concern. She could feel how deeply you were struggling, and though she didn’t share your worries about appearances, she understood the burden of those feelings. She gently cupped your face in her hands, tilting your chin so your eyes met hers.

“Look at me,” she said, her voice low but confident. “You are enough. Right now, in this moment, you’re more than enough.”

You blinked, her words striking a chord deep inside. “But what if people think I’m…”

She cut you off gently. “You are beautiful, but more than that, you’re incredible. You make a difference. You’re kind, intelligent, and strong. No outfit or hairstyle is going to change that.”

You felt a lump form in your throat as her words began to sink in. “But what if I’m not… what people expect?”

Caitlyn smiled, her hands gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You don’t need to live up to anyone’s expectations but your own. I fell in love with you for who you are, not because of how you look. And I’ve never been more proud of you than I am right now, just by being yourself.”

Her sincerity made your heart swell, and despite your lingering doubts, you felt a sense of peace wash over you. Caitlyn didn’t care about the opinions of others; she cared about you—and that was all that mattered.

“I guess I’ve been so focused on trying to be perfect that I forgot how to just be me,” you admitted softly.

Caitlyn chuckled, her thumbs gently rubbing circles on your cheeks. “And I’ll remind you every day that you don’t need to be perfect for anyone. You’re perfect for me.”

You leaned into her touch, a sense of comfort settling in your chest. “Thank you, Cait. I really needed to hear that.”

She smiled, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Anytime. And just so you know, you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met, inside and out. You don’t have to change a thing.”

In that moment, you realized that your true beauty didn’t lie in how others saw you, but in how Caitlyn saw you—and how you saw yourself when you let go of the expectations that had once held you back.

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

Vi.

Vi had always been more about strength and character than appearances. She had a no-nonsense attitude and didn’t care much for superficial things. Whether in a fight or just hanging out, she preferred to focus on what truly mattered—what was inside a person. So when she noticed you obsessing over how you looked, constantly tweaking your outfit or worrying about how others perceived you, it threw her off. She couldn’t quite understand why you’d feel like you weren’t enough when to her, you were already perfect just as you were.

One evening, after a particularly tough day, Vi returned home to find you sitting on the couch, eyes glued to your phone, flipping through social media. You’d been quiet all evening, and she could tell something was bothering you. As she approached, she noticed you adjusting your outfit for the fourth time, pulling at the hem of your shirt, checking the mirror again.

Vi raised an eyebrow, concern flashing across her face. “You good, babe? You seem a little… distracted.”

You didn’t look up, still preoccupied with your reflection. “I don’t know. I just feel like people always judge me. I mean, look at them, Vi,” you said, showing her your phone screen, where a bunch of influencers and well-dressed people filled the screen. “Why can’t I look like that? I don’t know… I just feel like I’m never enough, no matter what I do.”

Vi looked at the screen for a moment before setting it down gently, stepping closer to you. “Hey, look at me,” she said, her voice a little more serious now. “I don’t get it. You’ve got all this beauty inside and out, and you’re worried about some picture on a screen?”

You gave a little laugh, but it was hollow. “It’s not just a picture, Vi. People always notice what I wear, what I look like. I feel like I’m always trying to fit into something I’m not.”

Vi tilted your chin up, meeting your eyes with that intense, protective gaze of hers. “You don’t need to fit into any mold, babe. You’re not some... trend to follow. You’re you. And trust me, that’s more than enough.”

You looked away, unsure. "But people don't see that. They only care about the surface."

Vi sighed, her expression softening as she sat next to you. She took your hand in hers, her grip strong but comforting. "You know what I see when I look at you? I see a person who's been through a lot, someone who doesn't need to put on a mask to be loved. Someone who's real. And that's what makes you so amazing. I don't give a damn about what anyone else thinks. And I know you don't need to change for anyone."

You let out a breath, trying to hold back the feelings bubbling up inside. Vi, with her blunt honesty and genuine affection, had a way of cutting through the noise, and for the first time in a while, you felt like maybe you weren’t as lost as you thought.

Vi leaned in, resting her forehead against yours. “You know I love you for exactly who you are, right? And if you’re worried about how others see you, then maybe you should let them see the real you. Because that’s who I love. The real you. Not some version of you trying to impress everyone else.”

You could feel her words sinking in, easing the pressure you hadn’t even realized had been building. You felt a sense of calm begin to wash over you as Vi’s embrace tightened, holding you close.

"I know I'm tough and rough around the edges," she whispered, a playful smile tugging at her lips, "but you don’t need to be anything other than what makes you happy. And if that means wearing your favorite old shirt or going makeup-free, I’m still gonna think you’re the best thing in the world."

A small laugh escaped your lips, and you found yourself relaxing into her warmth. “Thanks, Vi. I needed that.”

Vi grinned, kissing the top of your head. “Anytime, babe. Just remember: you’re perfect to me, just the way you are.”

In that moment, surrounded by her love and honesty, you realized that the only opinion that truly mattered was the one that came from within—and with Vi, you were finally starting to believe it.

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

Jinx.

Jinx was many things—chaotic, unpredictable, and loud—but when it came to you, she was surprisingly sensitive. Her world had always been in a constant state of madness, but there was something calming about being with you. You were her rock, her one constant in the storm. That’s why it bothered her so much when she noticed you obsessing over how you looked, always fidgeting with your clothes, your hair, or your makeup, constantly worried about how others saw you.

One evening, after a particularly wild day of mayhem (courtesy of Jinx, of course), you sat on the couch, staring at your phone screen. Your brows were furrowed, your thumb scrolling through social media, comparing yourself to others. Jinx had been watching you for a while, and it was starting to get under her skin.

"Hey, you!" she suddenly called out, practically throwing herself onto the couch next to you, her usual enthusiasm filling the room.

You jumped a little, distracted. “Oh, hey, Jinx. What’s up?” You didn’t look up from your phone, still fixated on the images that seemed to be making you feel worse with every swipe.

Jinx tilted her head, studying your face closely. Her blue hair bounced as she moved, and her expression softened just a little. “You’ve been like this for a while now,” she said, a hint of concern lacing her voice. “Why do you keep looking at that stuff?”

You sighed, showing her your phone. “I don’t know. I just feel like I’m always trying to keep up with everyone else, you know? They always look so… perfect. I feel like I don’t measure up.”

Jinx blinked, her usual manic energy quieting for a moment as she processed your words. "What do you mean, perfect?" she asked, her voice almost childlike in its confusion. “Perfect’s boring, though! I mean, sure, it’s fun to be perfectly insane, but... you’re way cooler than perfect! Who needs to be that?”

You looked at her, a little unsure. “I just… I don’t know, Jinx. I feel like I’m always trying to be someone I’m not, trying to look like everyone else. But nothing ever feels good enough.”

Jinx leaned back dramatically, her arms spread wide. “You wanna know something? I don’t think you need to look like anyone else, ever!” she said, her eyes wide and full of her usual chaotic energy. “You’re already amazing the way you are, and I don’t get why you keep looking at that stuff. I mean, look at me—no one can look like me and that’s what makes me awesome! So you just need to be you, okay?”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at her randomness, even as a weight still sat heavy in your chest. Jinx smiled brightly, completely oblivious to the way her words were beginning to work their magic. “I know you think you gotta be something you’re not, but I love you just as you are. You’re like… the best thing ever! You don’t need to change anything to impress anyone, especially not me.”

She leaned forward then, her hands clasping yours tightly. Her wild eyes softened as she looked at you with an intensity that was rare for her. “I love you, okay? You—with all the stuff you think isn’t perfect. I don’t need a perfect you. I need you, the one with all the quirks and the weird little things that make you you!”

You blinked, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at her words. Jinx had a way of making things seem so much lighter, her chaotic nature always breaking through the heaviness of your own doubts. Her laugh was like music, and the more she spoke, the more you felt the pressure you had been putting on yourself start to lift.

“Jinx,” you whispered, squeezing her hand. “Thank you. I think I just needed to hear it from you. I’ve been so focused on trying to change, I forgot what made me… me.”

“Exactly!” Jinx exclaimed, throwing her hands up like she had just made the greatest revelation in the world. “Just be you, and if anyone else doesn’t get it, then they’re the ones who are messed up! You’re freaking awesome, and I’m lucky to have you.”

She pulled you into a tight hug, her arms wrapping around you with surprising gentleness. "Don’t ever try to be anything other than you again, okay?" she whispered into your ear. “I think you’re perfect just the way you are.”

You rested your head on her shoulder, feeling a sense of comfort in the chaos that only Jinx could provide. With her by your side, maybe, just maybe, you could start to let go of the expectations that others had placed on you—and just embrace the person you were.

And with that, Jinx’s chaotic energy became the balm you didn’t know you needed, reminding you that in this world of uncertainty, the most important thing was being true to yourself.

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

Ekko.

Ekko had always been a little different. The way he saw the world wasn’t about appearances or surface-level stuff—it was about people, their hearts, and their actions. It wasn’t lost on him that you seemed to care a lot about how others perceived you, constantly stressing over what to wear, how to look, or whether you were keeping up with the trends. At first, he didn’t really understand it. Why would you care what other people thought when you were already so incredible in his eyes?

One evening, after working on his latest invention in the workshop, Ekko was looking forward to spending some quiet time with you. He’d been busy with the repairs and inventions for the underground, but when he finally entered the room, he immediately noticed something different about you. You were sitting on the couch, flipping through a magazine, occasionally staring at the mirror, then back at the pages. The quiet tension in the air told him something was off.

He walked up to you and gently sat down next to you. "You okay?" he asked, his voice softer than usual. "You seem… distracted."

You looked up, surprised to see him. You hadn’t realized you were being so obvious about your self-doubt. "Oh, I’m fine," you lied, trying to smile. "Just… you know, trying to figure out what to wear tomorrow. Something that’ll make me look good enough for the crowd, y’know?"

Ekko frowned slightly. He could see the uncertainty in your eyes, the way your fingers were nervously flipping through pages. He didn’t need to be a genius to see that something was bothering you.

He leaned back against the couch, giving you a moment to breathe before speaking up again. “What crowd? I thought you were more about being yourself, not some image you’ve got to keep up with.”

You shifted uncomfortably, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah, well… sometimes it’s hard. I mean, look at everyone else, Ekko. They’re all perfect—well-dressed, confident, always looking like they’ve got it all figured out. I just… I don’t know. I want to feel good about myself, but it feels like I’m always falling short.”

Ekko let out a small sigh. He had seen you struggle with this before, but hearing it out loud always tugged at his heart. He knew what it was like to feel like you didn’t measure up, especially in a world that made it easy to compare yourself to everyone around you. But to him, you were already more than enough.

"You don’t need to be like anyone else, you know that, right?" Ekko said, his voice calm yet serious. "I get it, everyone around here seems to care about appearances or ‘keeping up with the Joneses,’ but that’s not what makes someone special. You’re already incredible. The real you—not some idealized version of yourself—is what I love."

He took your hand, gently guiding you to face him. "It’s not about looking like someone else. It’s about being you. And when you’re you, that’s when you shine the brightest. You’re unique, and that’s what makes you stand out. Not some perfect look or what other people think."

You felt a lump form in your throat, his words piercing through the insecurities that had been building inside. Ekko was always so patient with you, always grounding you when the chaos of the world started to feel too heavy. His belief in you, in who you were as a person, was unwavering.

"Ekko, I’m just so used to trying to fit in," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "It feels like everyone expects me to be perfect, to look a certain way."

Ekko shook his head, his hand moving to brush your hair behind your ear, his touch gentle and tender. "You don’t need to fit into anyone’s box. You fit into mine, and that’s all that matters. You’ve got something they don’t—your heart, your mind, your creativity. You’ve always had it, and I see it every single day."

He stood up, giving you a playful grin. "You know what’s really cool about you? You can pull off anything—whether it’s a fancy outfit or a worn-out hoodie. You make it look good because it’s you. And honestly, that’s way more impressive than anything I’ve ever seen."

You couldn’t help but laugh, a little of the weight lifting off your shoulders as you finally met his eyes. “You really think that?”

Ekko nodded, his eyes full of sincerity. "More than anything. I’m proud of you, just the way you are. You don’t need anyone’s approval, especially not when you’ve already got mine."

You stood up to face him, feeling the warmth of his words sink in. There was no need to change for the world. You had Ekko, and that was more than enough to make you feel seen and loved.

"I love you, you know that?" you whispered.

Ekko grinned, his eyes lighting up as he pulled you into a hug. "I love you too, more than you’ll ever know."

In his arms, you felt safe—safe to be yourself, flaws and all. Maybe it wasn’t about perfection after all. Maybe it was about finding the people who truly saw you, the real you, and loving you for exactly who you were.

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

Sevika.

The quiet buzz of the dimly lit workshop was disrupted by a small, sudden sigh. Sevika paused, her fingers lightly gripping the wrench she was working with as she looked over at you. You were at the far corner of the room, your attention focused on the full-length mirror. Your gaze was distant, eyes scanning every inch of yourself, your expression more tense than usual.

She could see the way your shoulders tensed, the slight frown on your lips, and she knew that look all too well. It was the look of someone caught in the trap of self-doubt, obsessing over things that didn't truly matter. Sevika, who always carried herself with quiet confidence, couldn't help but notice how much you seemed to care about things that didn’t define your worth—things like appearance, status, and the opinions of others.

Without saying a word, Sevika set her tools down and walked toward you, her large frame cutting through the space with the same assured steps she always had. There was something about your current mood that tugged at her, an instinct to take care of you when she saw you struggling.

She came up behind you, leaning her back against the wall and crossing her arms, just watching. There was no rush to intervene. Sevika had learned that sometimes, you needed time to process things on your own before anyone could help.

After a moment, you spoke without turning to face her. "Do you think they’d like me more if I looked different? I mean… everyone seems to have something special about them. What if I’m just… not good enough?"

The words hung in the air, fragile and raw. Sevika stepped forward, her voice calm but firm. "Hey," she said, her hand resting on your shoulder, urging you to meet her eyes. "You’re not ‘just’ anything. And you’re not here to be ‘liked’ by anyone else but yourself."

You swallowed, still unable to fully meet her gaze. "I don’t know, Sevika. I just—sometimes it feels like no matter what I do, I can’t live up to… to what they expect, to what everyone else has. I don’t know how to be comfortable with myself."

Sevika’s eyes softened, her hand gently turning your chin so that you finally faced her. "You don’t need to worry about them. You don’t need to worry about being perfect, because there’s no such thing. No one is perfect—not even the ones who pretend they are."

Her voice was steady, filled with that unwavering confidence that made her so impossible to ignore. "You’re one of the strongest people I know, and that’s not something that comes from looking a certain way. It comes from what you’ve been through, how you keep going despite everything. That’s what I admire about you. Not how you look, but the person you are."

Your breath caught, the frustration in your chest softening with her words. For a moment, you let yourself believe her, feeling the weight of your insecurities ease just a little.

"I think you forget sometimes that people who truly care about you… the ones who matter, don’t give a damn about your looks," Sevika continued, her thumb lightly tracing your cheek, her touch gentle yet powerful. "You think I’m here because you’ve got the perfect image? Nah. I’m here because you’ve got heart. You’ve always had it."

A rare, soft smile tugged at her lips as she leaned in slightly, her voice lowering to a near whisper. "And you think I’d let someone like you get away with being anything less than amazing?"

You chuckled softly, the tension melting away at the sincerity in her words. Sevika’s tough exterior had always been there, but in moments like this, she allowed her softer side to show, especially when it came to you. You could see in her eyes that she didn’t just mean what she was saying—she believed it wholeheartedly.

"Sevika, I—"

She cut you off, her finger lightly tapping your lips. "No more self-doubt. No more comparisons. You’re incredible. Just as you are."

For once, the mirror didn’t seem so important. It wasn’t about how others saw you, but how you saw yourself through her eyes. Sevika may not always say a lot, but in moments like this, her actions spoke volumes. You let yourself lean into her touch, the assurance in her presence becoming your anchor.

She leaned in close, her voice softer now, just for you. "Now, let’s forget about everyone else for a while, yeah? Tonight’s about you, about us. You don’t need to impress anyone but yourself."

And as you let her embrace you, a weight lifted, one you hadn’t even realized you were carrying.

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

Authors note: I really do apologize if this isn't to ur liking my darling or it feels repetitive I just really could not come up with different scenarios dear God I was about to crash out..

[tapenbreak]

𖦹. “𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐏𝐄.” —(𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐍𝐄𝐘)

𖦹. — 𝐬;𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬. losing a stupidly made bet has its consequences, it seems. oh, what a moron he can be. although, too late to back out now, is it—dearest whitney? a nice , round 5.0k words.

𖦹. — 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞, 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 . . . younger, therefore underclass man whitney who thought it was such a nice idea to suggest a bet, only to lose in the process, ‘first’ kiss, whoever lasts the longest wins, quite tame, actually—in comparison, though it’s mostly unspoken yearning. fat, puppy crush on upperclassman!reader (amab) that may or may not be worse.

𖦹. — 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬, doc? : “I’ve wanted to stretch this on further than intended, but I got something else planned for this fucker, so never mind. I’m not all that fond of this one since it’s quite more heavy on the feelings than actions, but to each their own.”

Alright, so, let’s supposedly say that he’s already somehow impulsively roped himself in an intangible mess due to an irrefutably dumb bet he’s made on the spot with you, none the wiser—of course. Inexplicably caught himself in a sticky, spider web akin to a precarious trap most starving predators would’ve predictably laid bare for their meddling preys to eventually sink into and—would y’a look at that, like the actual dumbass he can seldomly be, he can’t possibly hope to back out now, can he?

No, no, because y’see—if Whitney were to humiliatingly do such an idiotic thing, then surely that’d just be directly admitting to that irritatingly pretty face of yours that you were apparently correct all along. Not that you are, fuck no. Like that’d ever occur in a million goddamn years, you intolerable bastard. God, that being his sole intention from the pure beginning to crudely wipe that frustrating smile plastered upon your. . . ugh, cherry perfect lips whenever the delinquent-in-the-making merely happens to be in your tedious presence.

Or is cruelly teasing him till he’s unabashedly grown hotter in the fullness of his blazing cheeks a conclusive hobby of yours? Probably, considering your blatant sadism when it comes to endlessly poking fun at someone until they’ve inevitably snapped dead in your face before you oh, so innocently claim that it was simply a meaningless joke. Mindlessly shrug the entire ordeal off as if it were meant to be truly nothing more than an obsessive overreaction on his part. Yeah, yeah—motherfucker, well he’s got a precious one-liner for y’a, also.

“Bet I could.” Confidently proclaiming with an overly arrogant tone that you notably took seriously due to the aforementioned circumstances for some unspoken reason. And that, you see—was specifically when the blonde irreversibly dug himself in the depths of a narrow pit which he can’t possibly climb out of now. So, fuck it, alright?? Fuck his sheer idiocy and muddling arrogance that’s shamelessly come forth to screw him over right in the balls for having previously accepted a seemingly doable suggestion.

Uh huh—‘doable’, he said. Cuz’ it’d be so irresistibly, fucking ‘easy’, another moron in his cocky mind chimed along in turn. Speaking of apparently ‘easy’, maybe next time, think twice before actually acting upon your stinging urges to uselessly prove someone else, like your shitty upperclassman, by the way—wrong, huh. Ever thought of that? No, ‘course he truthfully didn’t consider it thoroughly beforehand because it’s Whitney, the stubborn, hard-headed bully of a underclass man we’re namely speaking of here, after all.

Slippery, sliding slope doesn’t truly begin to particularly cut it either, honestly—yeah, he’s gone and undeniably fucked it up, this time for sure. Hasn’t he?

Hence why his clammy palm is currently placed atop your rather. . . uh, firm chest which he’ll never be outwardly uttering out such an exceptionally odd statement unless he inherently wishes to never live it down till the day he literally dies. That is, including this one ceaseless thought incessantly creeping within the remnants of his blurring mind—about how annoyingly nice the dizzying scent exuding from the warmth of your nearby proximity is. Shit, are those your natural pheromones too? Cuz’ he’s already going fuckin’ crazy from a mere unsuspecting whiff like a bitch in heat. Not to mention, the mind-boggling fact of being comfortably perched along the neat spreading of your thighs for his slimmer legs to settle upon, intimately hook themselves around your hips like a delicate lifeline solely intended to be unperturbed for the remainder of this intimate encounter. And no, this isn’t remotely on purpose, goddamn it—get your filthy head out of the gutter, you pervasive freak. It’s not like that, okay? Just. . . give him a moment, pretty please.

And perhaps at best, a generous minute you’d so graciously offer the blonde to discreetly adjust the sweltering heat that’s come forth to prettily stain his face in a similar crimson manner along with its unending path downwards and—well, y’know. . . below, there. Hardening cock certainly stirring with peeked interest at the subtle press of your laidback figure securely held against his own, shit. . . admittedly, smaller one. Sometimes, the considerable size difference shared amongst you two really does get to him in an albeit, fucking degenerative way. Enough so to inwardly curse at how utterly unhelpful that provoking detail was to the pulsing blood swiftly rushing down to his impatient length—hah.

Fuck, there’s no way this is realistically happening, right—but, it is, dammit. All due to prideful banter that may or may not have unreasonably translated to blatant flirting between you both despite his general lack of interest to other surrounding assholes slightly older than him in age.

Listen, you’re just tolerable enough where he doesn’t inevitably blow a sensitive nerve in return to some mild pestering on your end while simultaneously beating his dumb, idiotic self for regarding you in such high esteem—and yeah, that does include the sheer awed admiration visibly apparent in each of his movements. Intricately foolish in every one of his subtle gestures in hopes of successfully imitating your usual mannerisms, coincidentally catch your straying gaze to finally rest upon his uncharacteristically starving own.

Hell, the fucker even went through the irritating trouble of having the delicate muscle of his slippery, pink tongue wholly pierced for the sake of you possibly taking notice of it. Gleaming bud prettily flashing back towards your reflected, half-lidded gaze partially hidden by fluttering lashes, boringly snuffing in light interest at the sudden sight of it all. Taking notice, huh? That, you offhandly did, but merely for a few meddlesome seconds before eventually sinking back into your settled routine, as per usual. Well, said system of vaguely appreciating the sheer extended lengths he pathetically forces himself to endure in an unending pursuit of altering his appearance befitting of the ‘wilder’ types you habitually go for—due to something along the lines of, what’d you say again? Oh yeah, ‘they’re funnier to mess with when they lose their tempers, is all’—sickening asshole that you are, and still, remaining his unchanging crush nonetheless.

Although, whether or not he truthfully vocalizes that childish adoration akin to how a little brother would towards his elder one—is probably not ever fucking happening. As he still retains some semblance of pride to selfishly keep to himself, too. Don’t you forget that either.

Which is reasonably why despite the lurking remnants of embarrassment sourly creeping within the tensed coils of his tummy, a tightly-knitted cousin of shame, mind you. There’s still indisputable trepidation that traverses throughout the length of his shivering, curved spine; deepens his barely concealed smugness at having you like this. Because finally—fucking finally, has your shortly lived attention lastly settled upon the blonde’s awaiting own as purely intended.

‘Course, knowing your blunt self that either chooses not to attentively read the tense atmosphere currently residing within the spacious room or being merely oblivious to it, altogether—you eventually break that pleasurable silence with a singular insistent reminder or rather, a query to snap him out of this shit show. Ah, always the annoyingly persistent one when it comes to waiting for him to defy your set expectations, aren’t ya?

“Something the matter?” Sweetened voice of yours seamlessly passing through the foggy murk of his momentary daze by the slightest tilt of your head in a questioning motion. Still, remaining conscious that there’d be no such thing as worrisome concern on your part considering the utter bastard that you openly are and, yet—the persistent indication that this will be. . . obviously, nothing more than some meaningless wager whose sole intent is to be ultimately fulfilled in the end, leaves an exceptionally sour taste in his closed mouth.

Yeah, something’s the matter, alright—and he’s just about to recklessly give in to that sugary tone lest it weren’t for the automatic switch in your previously gentle inquiry, abruptly interrupting him from slipping out some mumbled confession in turn.

“Say, are you actually chickening out on me now? Is that it, Ney-Ney? Cat got your tongue and you actually can’t do it after all, can you?” Hah—again with that shitty nickname that bears no remote significance besides literally getting on his fucking nerves whenever, which you do impressively possess the sheer knack to repeatedly do so. Uh-huh, he’s gotta hand it to y’a.

It’s like the second you tentatively part your open lips to randomly speak—does his incessant yearning to restlessly press his starving lips against yours immediately shift instead, to this seething urge to meanly tug upon the strands of your hair like an angry kitten scratching at its owner. Oh, way to ruin the goddamn mood, dumbass.

“Will you shut up? I’m tryna concentrate here, but your fuckin’ mouth keeps on talking and talking and—ah, hey! Can you quit it and keep still for just one second or does the thought of sharing spit with your shitty underclassman actually turns you on that much?” Perverted bastard. Blearily aware of his shoddy excuse at some backhanded lie or whatever, as though you wouldn’t easily see through those tactics you’ve come to know of. Particularly becoming defensive once he’s ceremoniously brought back into a difficult corner and shit, you just can’t help but to gleefully tease him for it, can you?

Noooo, of fuckin’ course not! Must be solely imprinted in your bastardized nature to be so thoroughly insufferable at this point, huh? So much so that he’d desire nothing more than to tortuously crane your neck further to then—give forth to a salivating glimpse of your surely vulnerable neck for his glinting fangs to dreadfully sink into, greedily paint its pristine surface a melding velvet instead as pure revenge.

Because that’s entirely what it is, not some other bizarre, obscure fetish of this mean delinquent. Poorly hidden away in the withering depths of his unexplored memories or y’know. . . numerous times he’s come close to almost slobbering all over your veiny dick along with a generous amount of drooling, translucent spit to coat it with. And shit—he’s predictably derailing once more without meaning to.

Judging by the molten pupils that steadily expand in face of this less than desired situation, at most. Evasively trail towards whatever seemingly unimportant spot is etched amongst the boring surface of your bedroom’s blank walls in a futile attempt to soothe the pumping blood presently coursing throughout his thin veins. More or less, yeah. That’s all there is to it, so can you like, eventually cease with the constant staring on your end or something?

“I think you’re lying.” Unexpectedly bringing him out of his overly distracting fantasy for a stuttering second by flashing that signature grin of yours that’s only seeming to be confidently growing by the second, and—double fuck! You’re totally seeing through his barely concealed ploys, aren’t you? “I think you actually can’t do it and you’re just tryna play coy with me right now.”

“Wha—?“ Unsure wether to plainly deny your unjust statement that may or may not unfortunately ring true, regardless of if he painfully insists the opposite or to take actual offense at the likely suggestion that he doesn’t have the fucking balls to go through with it. Sure, sure! He totally can!! Albeit, a minute was all he scarcely asked for—despite it being way more than a single minute having passed, so don’t trample on the boggling nerves occupying the swelling of his drying, bobbing throat.

But before then, your indecently mocking voice somehow slips past the aforementioned comment Whitney was oh, so ready to renounce—because that’s all you ever do, managing to conveniently earn the upper hand in either situation, no matter the contextual circumstances at play. And damn you for it, too.

“See, what I think, honestly—I think you’re nothing more than a pussy who’s all talk and no bite, really. Too fucking dumb to even properly lie to me about it, too. Cuz’ the thing is, you actually haven’t kissed anyone for real yet, have you?” Inwardly flinching at the abrupt scorning on your part since sure, you’re one mean asshole sometimes, specially with others hopelessly clinging to your sides—but, not with him, no. Preferring to play the part of the considerate, older brother figure that’ll happily follow along to his unsatisfied whims.

So, strictly speaking, being unusually harsh on him without any spoken warning shouldn’t be so disgustingly hot to him nor heavily affect the thrumming blood rushing below to his leaking cock. Further dampen the already present, sticky stain against the now tarnished fabric of his trousers, but fucking shit—does it so. Like those untrained masochists, better put freaks, he regularly bullies on the daily, savagely snickers at for squirming beneath the hardened heel of his shoe. Idiots, is what they are.

Yeah. God, it’s so utterly, fucking filthy.

And funnily enough, here he is—shamefully experiencing that same warmth of degeneracy for being caught in his puzzling act, yet simultaneously thrilled at the various consequences that await for doing so.

“I don’t—“ Fuck, fuck, fuuuuckkkk!!! Mere sentences shouldn’t be humiliatingly failing on him now and neither should the withering breath pitifully falling forth from between his lips left agape—be this fucking telling of the unforeseen reality at bay. “. . . —I don’t know what you’re talking about, really—“

“Sure, you don’t. Then, you must also not have a single goddamn clue as to why you’re leaking like a fucking girl all over my lap right now too, huh?” Instinctually knowing better than to wearily spare a glance downwards since, well. . . yeah, about now—your not-so-precious jeans are notably soaked in the melding evidence of his unspoken arousal if nothing else, but did you fuckin’ have to truly word it like that either? Doesn’t necessarily lessen the sheer absurdity of the unbecoming predicament the delinquent practically pranced himself into like he hilariously owned the place or something.

Unfortunately, here’s to learning the harsh narrative that things, when seamlessly played out in the narrow space of your head—don’t invariably turn out the exact same as foreboding reality itself, do they?

Dumbass, he should’ve seen it coming the second he carelessly chose to lie to your face to begin with.

“Fuck, it’s not like tha—“ And there goes his irreparable mistake altogether, knowing fully well that it is indeed like that, if nothing else. Since it’s always been, every single time—without a literal, precious fuckin’ second to scarcely spare—you, you, and you solely. Plus sincerely speaking, he would’ve undeniably chosen for it not to be this way instead, y’know??

Not have his usually unaffected body so effortlessly react in face of your own, whether it’d be the discreet breaths of yours teasingly brushing along the rim of his blazing ears whenever you get the distracting urge to whisper some unimportant gossip during class.

Truly, do you feel the absolute need to remain so unbearably close in his personal space at times? To the point, it has him dizzyingly peering downwards to his clenched fists that greet him in turn. Too goddamn cowardly to steal a glimpse from below lest he realized the shockingly near proximity you’re both collectively sharing, without you bearing the slightest bother, too—and automatically curses as sweating palms land upon your chest and has you barely stumbling back. Cuz’ shit, the blonde’s downright terrified of the increasingly hasty beat of his annoyingly straining heart stuttering against the firmness of his ribbed cage. Fuck. . . it might as well be leaping out at a certain point, although he acknowledges he appears more like some dreadful lunatic if he were to audibly yell at some minor touches.

Reminiscing upon such pointless bullshit won’t necessarily get him anywhere and it’s not like he does it willingly either, no—not when your hand is now currently gripping at the shape of his gaping jaw. Actually, when the hell did you supposedly manage to get ahold of him like this when he wasn’t in the brightest of moments to do so? Momentarily caught off guard by the sudden press of your fingertips digging in the softened surface of his flesh, albeit with no sense of care in the fucking world as you habitually do with the majority of your things. Which, shit—doesn’t mean he’s the equivalent of your outright property since if that were the case, he’d most likely blow an imploding fuse as he knows it, and you certainly do know it, too.

As that was the initial plan presently swirling throughout the mumbling mess of the bully’s mind—only to be swiftly interrupted by a lingering kiss your. . . shit, annoyingly soft lips tenderly placed amongst the crimson hue that is his heated face—too dizzyingly close for his liking, near the mere corner of his pursed mouth. Frankly speaking, he has no clue what to make of this other than the likely scenario that you’re borderline amused by this and fuckin’ toying with him like your other various stress balls, as per usual.

“Earth to Whitney. I’m still tryna’ speak to you, but I guess you’re too far gone thinking about us sucking on each other’s tongues or something like that, am I right?” Drawling out lazily as though, you’d bear no semblance of interest for this little game of cat-and-mouse you collectively play on the daily basis and if not for that slight, adorning glint in your gaze—maybe he would’ve stupidly fallen for that easily concealed facade altogether, too. But no, he does know it’s a selfish thing of yours, or rather. . . some intricate fetish would be a better word to scarcely describe this sheer high you get from witnessing the gritting of his teeth, fluttering eyes narrowing in mere irritation. To say, it’s progressively building into something else until he’s undeniably pissed at your continuous mockery—that being, what others around you call ‘salacious flirting’ or something like that. Sheesh, he holds no importance for random spectators at your school besides you two.

Uh-huh, isn’t that what they refer to it as? ‘The boy likes to tug at the girl’s pigtails to draw her attention, after all!’—yet, he’s no squealing girl swatting at your insistent touches, is he? Fuck no. Truly, it’s nothing like that. However, sometimes with the way you constantly pinch and prod along the bruised surface of his perched figure atop your own, patiently await his expected curses like an anticipating dog wanting to be scolded. . . Well, can’t say it looks like anything else other than apparent sexual tension. Unsure whether or not he should be seldomly pleased at that somewhat late realization or temporarily concerned as to how you treat your usual girlfriends—or boyfriends, sometimes, that come and go like the blowing wind. Not to say, he treats any of his disposable sluts any better, either.

Eh, shit. No time to necessarily delve further in something he isn’t meant to supposedly poke at, is there? Yeah, cuz’ frankly speaking—he’s always been the goddamn impulsive type that’ll do as he pleases, expectant of yours truly to follow along to his baseless whims.

“Let’s quit with the bullshit already and do it, I don’t got all day to be sitting here on your lap like your prissy bitches.” Yup, yup. Carelessly ignoring the minor and important aspect that he cleared up his busying schedule regardless of his friend’s muttered pleas—going on and on about something at the shady pub that’s down the farthest street in this shit town. Oh right, he didn’t remotely listen to what those fuckers had to honestly say so, here goes that. Discreetly swishing at the messied strands of platinum blonde hair partially obscuring his vision, huffing at its burdensome concealment until he’s face to face with you. Almost clumsily bumping the curvature of your two noses together in an impatient haste to interlock each other’s lips in a. . . what others call it, huh; shitty, goddamn kiss.

However, rather uncharacteristically—he silently waits instead, hazy pupils traversing lower to where your curled up lips are solely a melding breath away from his dumbly hanging own. Maintaining eye contact like this. . . till your foreheads are nearly pressed along one another like this, inwardly shuddering at your unwavering focus upon his straying eyes. Gosh, do you seriously wanna fuckin’ do this with your eyes open or something, like a freak would??

“If you say so, Ney-Ney. I’m sure you wouldn’t wanna be kissing a boy either, huh. I’ll try to make it nice for you as best I can.” Ever the oh, so charming type that tries to accommodate to the blonde’s ill tempered tantrums, aren’t ya? Uttering so forth in an unspoken promise even if actually, he wouldn’t wanna be sharing spit with anyone else other than you. Whether he ever eventually admits it or not is an entirely different story, though.

Wordlessly so, he lets you do as you joyously please, at your own steady pace—‘course, which is to trace the softened pad of your cushiony fingertip along the sharp line of his tightening jaw. For it to ultimately land to where his chin awaits your yearning touches, brief moments of lingering contact to subconsciously gawk at in desolate secrecy. Y’know, how a drooling puppy would when awaiting its sweet treat; which he’s not, at all—no. Especially not your questionable pokes as you childishly peer to the side, rub soothing circles across the nape of his tensed neck as if to ease him into this, all the while idly playing with the shortened strands of hair settled there.

“Slacken your jaw for me, will you?” You gently order in a. . . shit, soft lull and he doesn’t like to be commanded around neither, but he calmly does so regardless. Solely to get it over with, nothing else extra that’s simmering deeply in the background. Especially not the unspoken crush he withholds for you whether you’re both mutually conscious of it or not, well—regarding how exceptionally cunning you tend to be that you can seamlessly read through him like a tattered heap of pages thrown atop your lap—yeah, maybe it’d be arrogantly dumb of him to assume otherwise, huh.

Plus it’s not like the delinquent here, is particularly used to his usually pursed lips wholly parting in an expectant nature for yours to plant featherlight kisses against. Since they’re generally brought up in a dismissive scowl for all to wearily witness—either when passing him in the hallways as his snarky laughter resounds with each echoed step, or the occasional glimpse of his shadowed figure sneaking between deserted alleyways, is seen.

Which, he would’ve indeed protested in stingy opposition at your insistent need to meticulously comb through the glistening locks of his hair. Sure, if it didn’t feel so damn good. . . to have your cupping palm carefully easing him into this, gradually melting in the imprinted shape of your entangled limbs settled together, atop this pillowed bed. One used thumb lightly nudging across the pouty flesh of his bottom lip in a silent gesture of the familiarity both shared between the two of you as your face nears closer to his. Intimately inspecting at the accumulated saliva that drips forth from the other’s open maw, nearly suckling at the intruding digit that is the continuous rub of your curled finger pressed across his drooling tongue. ‘Course, you gotta get a whole mouthfeel of its heated sensation before ultimately—diving in, don’t you?

“Yeah, there we go. . . You’ll be a good boy for me, won’t you—pretty boy?” It’s meant to have him inwardly seething towards this blatantly obvious taunt of yours, openly scorn at the unwanted nickname he’d like to jab at until that irritating grin of yours disappears altogether.

And shit, did he really want to—nothing more than that, honestly. But, he’s immediately interrupted from doing so once you’re ceremoniously covering the cushiony surface of untouched lips with yours, instead. Utterly pissed at himself with how easily it eases up from the experienced brush of your tongue inviting itself in its warmth depths. Those same arms that’d stubbornly stick to his sides like it’d never leave such a place either; now finding themselves to be clutching at the wrinkled fabric of your shirt draped along your reassuring back. Instinctually arching in your enclosed ones in return, loosely held around the width of his waist to absently pinch at in humming thought.

Fuck, fuck. . . fucking shiiittt. Was a kiss always supposed to be this mind-numbingly good that he’s out here losing all utter senses besides taste and touch? Neither struggling against the sudden weight of his eyelids shutting themselves in favour of greeting pitch darkness—goddamn it, not if it’s your mouth is perfectly made for his to mold against.

Even more so as an unwanted keen resembling that of a trembling prey, just about ready to be wholly devoured by the predator looming above its eventual demise—slips past previously sealed lips. Ugh, dammit. . . and here he is, upper lip wobbling in response to the added stimulation of your slippery tongue sliding against his own. Nearly wavering over the tempting option to hurriedly scratch along the delicate skin of your neck and—ah, speaking of, he’s gotta have a fixation with that bobbing throat of yours or something, shit. In some vain attempt to signal the sheer suffocation overtaking him from having his mouth crudely stuffed in repeated fucks of your impatient own, practically devouring his breathy moans in musing delight.

Accompanied by shuddering breaths collectively intermingling into one steady beat that’s bound to hurriedly quicken if he somehow keeps this one up, stretches it any further lest he doesn’t obviously get it over with soon. Which is the actual prime objective here! Don’t get him wrong! The sole plan, here—he’s intricately envisioned in the deep receding of his mind is to prove you wrong of his so-called loss, either way.

Quite literally, if it weren’t for the intolerable amount of pride residing within the swelling of his heaving chest—caught up against your own effortlessly casing over him; he’d have already done so, by now, without the slightest trace of hesitation.

But, y’know. . . It’s proving to be quite difficult for no reason whatsoever to necessarily pull away as he’s originally intended to do so. Partially disgusted by his own weakness when it comes to you and ‘course, it has to be solely you to wholly encase him like this. Whether or not it’s through plain obliviousness of his muddled protests swiftly concealed by your lips covering his own—or maybe, the sheer stubbornness of the mere possibility of letting him out of your sight. Either way, the numerous kitten scratches he’s subconsciously leaving along your treaded skin isn’t letting up itself.

Because even as he somehow manages to draw further backwards, your mouth instinctually follows his in return. As though the absurd thought of him teetering away from your emboldened grasp isn’t one to remotely ponder upon due to its ridiculousness, and neither is the way you both ultimately fall onto the bouncing mattress in a heaping mess with a resounding oomph! Although, he’s suspecting it was his quick-witted gesture of dragging you downwards—to where he’s predictably atop of, that landed you two in this precarious position.

“M-Motherfucker, you didn’t even give me a chance to catch my breath.” It’s rather an uncharacteristically petulant complaint than it is a fitting scolding on his part. Peering from underneath messied hangs that do oh, so well to conceal those narrowing eyes of his when he desires to. Yeah, they’re especially useful when it comes to evading your zeroing gaze hovering right above his own—like you’re actually surprised he hasn’t attempted a punch in your stirring guts for suddenly taking the lead like that.

“Hmm, was the kiss that unpleasant for you?” Pouting sorrowfully in response to the aforementioned statement like such a thing would potentially hurt your veiled sentiments, altogether. ‘Course, he knows better than to ceremoniously cave in to that pitiful nuzzle you offer along the crook of his neck since the thing is, your amusement of things comes first and foremost.

“Eh, don’t know. Why don’t y’a take another try at it and I’ll tell you how much you suck at it then.” It’s a tainted falsehood, at most—however, for the sly grin of pearly teeth flashing in your direction and the renewed sense of competition that swells within your chest at the provoking taunt. Well, he supposes that it’ll be worth the excuse so that his tongue better remembers the melding taste of your own upon one another.

And maybe, he’ll garner a measly chance to actually win this time. Rarely catch you off guard during one of those make-out sessions that are bound to grow more frequent, one way or another.

Though, it’s unlikely. Huh. You never do give him the chance to do so when it comes to your bets, do you?

Fucking prick.

[marscardigan]

freak like me

ellie williams x fem!reader

summary: since you started dating ellie, you always wanted to do something with her. so, when one day, she asks about your favorite fetishes, you decide to show her yourself.

word count: 0.9k

content warning: smut (minors dni), kind of exhibitionism(?, porn with plot, don't know what this is I just had to write it down

You loved your girlfriend. You loved how caring and understanding and kind she was. How she would never judge your actions, and how she always made you laugh.

You also loved how she supported every crazy idea that ran through your mind. But maybe this idea was sick and twisted.

But how could you lie to those pretty eyes? Ellie kept looking at you with a sly grin, cheeks flushed from her previous comment.

"C'mon babe, I already told you mine" she whined, hiding her pouty face in the crook of your neck.

You scoffed, "Ellie, you just said you like being praised while you fuck."

"So? It's still something that turns me on!" You could feel her shy smile hiding beneath your touch. "You need to tell me."

"Nah, I'll pass."

"Come on! Is it really that bad?" She looked at you like a kicked dog, caressing your inner thigh softly.

You closed your eyes, not wanting to see her face because you knew you would surrender. "It's so embarrassing."

"I'm sure I had worse thoughts, try me."

Her cold fingers touching your skin didn't help. At all. After opening your eyes and seeing her soft gaze towards you, you knew you were a goner.

Fuck it.

"I had like this thought about... Us making out on patrol..." Ellie kept her eyes locked on yours, shifting only to see your lips for a second. "While some infected are like... close to us? I-ugh, I don't know, it's fucking weird- I don't know why-"

Ellie's hand stopped right above your belly, making you dizzy. Both of you stayed quiet, but for different reasons.

You were so ashamed of saying that out loud, that you would've gladly died in that exact moment. Ellie, on the other hand, couldn't erase that dirty image from her head.

Neither of you spoke about it anymore, and you thought Ellie might have forgotten about it, but you were so wrong.

The next time you had patrol together was nine days later. Ellie counted them.

The plan was easy: clean infected from a mall close to Jackson. But the auburn had other plans. She'd have time to kill them after.

She promised you not to talk about it any time soon, but it was hard when it was all Ellie could think about.

When you first entered the mall, you killed a few from the first floor. But when you entered the parking, you could sense Ellie's focus was... indistinct, to say the least. On patrol, she was always behind you for security, but you could tell her eyes were definitely not on the possible threats. When you caught her staring at your ass for the second time, you knew this wasn't a coincidence.

"What are you thinking about?" Your funny tone only worsened the redness on her face.

Ellie could not believe how naive you sometimes were. "You should know what I'm thinking about."

Oh.

She smiled at your reaction. "Yeah, you know."

Was she teasing you know?

A clicking sound interrupted your conversation, and Ellie's smile only widened.

"Ellie." You warned, but she didn't notice the alert in your tone. She only noticed the need. She whispered your name back, grabbing your hips and trapped you between her body and the wall of the parking.

"You do remember what you told me the other day, right?" She whispered in your ear, making your legs shake.

You couldn't answer her, even if you really tried. You pushed your thighs harder against each other, almost moaning her name. Ellie whimpered.

"We should focus on the-ahm...the infected..."

Her hand ran lower every breath you took, getting closer and closer where you needed her the most. You kept calling out her name, and just before you close her eyes, you saw a clicker on the end of the hall. Ellie kissed you before you could alert her, and she kept swallowing every cry of pleasure your body echoed. Her knuckle kept brushing your panties as you nodded at her, the pleasure building inside your belly.

You were shamefully wet by the time she lowered your jeans. She laughed with pride at the sight, and looked up at you, her index finger brushing her lips. "You'll need to be quiet f'me, okay?"

You nearly came at the sight. You nodded, and brushed your fingers through her auburn locks. The finger that was just in her mouth brushed your core just the slightest, and you had to cover your mouth, but Ellie was quick to stop your action, shaking her head, “No-huh, baby, you need to keep making those pretty noises f’me.”

Her tongue slid through your cunt repeatedly, as if she was a starved woman. She grabbed roughly your thigh and pushed it above her shoulder, forcing you to keep it there.

A sob left your lips at the sight of Ellie on her knees, her strong arms making your whole body feel like jelly.

If you died here, you would die happy, you thought.

Your clit throbbed when she put the first finger, her eyes not leaving yours. The clicking sounds only made you harder to think about what was happening.

As she whimpered, her other hand between her legs, your walls finally broke down, and Ellie kept watching.

Your head was still numb when Ellie cleaned the corners of her lips, she pushed you gently and helped you put your jeans back, and a glass shattered.

A gasp sounded, and a clicker came running and-

A gunshot. Ellie’s grunt. The clicker fell right to the floor.

“Oh my god.”

“Shit, I think I came too.”

“Fuck off!”

[flycoffee]

Man! you have no idea how much I wanted Loid to have conversations with dads where it’s from school or parks, preferably school! My brother and I have this conversation about his daughter/my niece being too popular for his liking because sometimes my niece doesn’t the other kids keep wanted to be friends with her while she plays in the park, and my brother tells me it him puzzled him that she would always get attention like that, and it worries him a bit for the her future, and I jokingly said maybe he should enroll her to some self defense classes while she is young for future troubles, and he genuinely think it’s a good idea. It’s a funny memory.

Anya after the bus hijack becomes very popular among her peers, it showed in the school dance and winter sheep festival, Twilight as a spy has yet see the problem and he wanted her to make friends and they are just kids so why worries plus Anya seems to enjoy the attention, but what if there will come to an opportunity where Loid would be socialized with other parents and have some dad conversation I don’t knows what dad talks about, but I hope some of the conversation will awaken the deep father instinct in him.

“You most be Anya Forger’s father I am some rich name my son admired your daughter so much after the bus incident said that he wanted to be as brave as her”

“My daughter too! And wanted to know how she can be so carefree even after she got her second Thunderbolt!”

And in true Loid fashion Twilight socializes with them with ease.

They talk, have some other topics Twilight gathering data, and so on then one of the dad said.

“It’s nice that she is popular amongst her peers now it will make the years after easier but you must have some worries too hmm? My daughter tell me she was quite popular among the boys in the school dance and lot of boy want to dance with her, I have an elder daughter and the boy she chooses to go out with” the dad signed and looked sad.

Some other dad said my daughter who is in 10th grade some rich name, who is the emperor scholar and they heard of her before with her achievement in Eden.

“The boys that surrounding her sometime and send those gift to my doorstep just make me want to pull out my guns” who look displease and angry, all the dad there agree.

At this moment twilight tries to imagine Anya as a teenager and the boys who asked her to dance at the party are also teens in a similar scenario asking Ayna to dance, and he quickly shakes the thought away “Calm down twilight you won’t be there when she reaches to that age, hopefully. And Yor would probably pull her out of Eden because of the fees I just need to think of the excuses for Yor to let her study in public school before I exit this mission.” But then the image of regular teenage boys wanting to go out with Anya startled him too, “would it be better if Anya chose to be with someone from the higher social circle of Ostania? But she is such a care free girl to think she will get in to a family of strict rules and manners would she be happy in those kind of relationship? wait what am thinking here I have no saying in Anya’s distance future, who ever she chooses will be her choice I just need to trust Yor would guide her through those phases, the worst Anya could chose is properly someone like Franky, a boy who is active from underground world, hopefully not.” all these happened in 0.9 seconds in Twilight’s head. But one of the dad said

“My wife have been reading a book about raising teenagers and want me to spend more time with our daughter apparently little girl will base lover preference on their father, how I treat her and her mother will be the mobile for her future spouse”

One of the dad said “what? then it’s already too late for me!” All the dad laughed at it except for Loid.

“No twilight! The worst isn’t someone like Franky at least Franky is genuinely want to be with someone the worst possible outcome is Anya falling in love with someone like ME!!!” At the point Loid had excused himself from the dads.

“Did we scare him” one of the dad ask.

“Base their future lover on me as Loid Forger might have been okay but I know all too well that Loid is a fake he is too perfect and nice if Anya bases her preference on that she might be fooled by an Espionage someone who is too perfect to be true, what if this mission get discovered in the future and enemy spy trying to find my weaknesses and use Anya as a pawn, what I did to those women will come back biting Anya” it is this moment Twilight couldn't imagine the worst karma that might happen on him/his daughter for the mission.

I have yet to know how Twilight will snap out of it but it's hilarious to imagine him as in parenthood turmoil for the mission!



[imjustatorturedpoet]

Meet me in the Hallway

chapter 7: I remember now.

Pairing: Hwang In-ho x Reader

also available on ao3💘

word count: 6.1k

————

”Lights out in ten minutes. Please prepare for bedtime."

The announcer’s voice echoed through the dormitory, artificial and indifferent.

Your group moved with quiet urgency, working together to execute Gi-hun’s plan. The idea was simple—cluster the beds together to create a barricaded sleeping area, a makeshift shelter beneath the bunks where mattresses could be laid out on the floor. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than being exposed.

There was an unspoken understanding between you all—this wasn’t just about comfort. It was about survival.

Dae-ho, Jung-bae and Young-il handled the heavier lifting, dragging the mattresses around.

Others were watching. Observing. You could feel it. Some players had already claimed their spots in isolated corners, eyeing the way your group worked with something between curiosity and calculation.

Meanwhile, you and Jun-hee gathered pillows and blankets, tossing them onto the newly formed sleeping space. You weren’t just setting up beds—you were creating a stronghold. A space where no one could slip in unnoticed. Hopefully.

Jung-bae exhaled loudly, adjusting one of the mattresses with a skeptical glance. "Is this really necessary? I don’t like sleeping under there."

Gi-hun didn’t hesitate. "Once the lights go out, somebody might attack us."

Dae-ho crouched beside Jun-hee. "What? Who?"

Young-il approached, wordlessly extending his hands to help you move the stuff around. You should have ignored him. Pretended not to notice. Pretended you were too busy, too focused, too anything to acknowledge him. But you weren’t rude.

Even if you wanted to be. At least, not to him.

Your fingers twitched around the fabric in your grasp, the weight of his presence pressing against your senses like an unwelcome reminder. You had barely spoken since dinner. Since the vote. Since the moment his name had been paired with a word you weren’t prepared for. Wife.

The thought still sat heavy in your chest, thick and cloying.

You weren’t stupid. You weren’t naïve. You knew what kind of man he was. Controlled. Always a step ahead. He could say so much without saying anything at all. And yet, earlier, when that word had slipped into the conversation, he hadn’t said much of anything at all.

And that was what bothered you most.

Not the fact that he was married—okay, maybe that did bother you a lot—but the fact that when Gi-hun said it, Young-il hesitated. Froze. And looked at you.

Like there was something he wanted to explain but didn’t.

Like he had expected something from you.

And that was dangerous.

Because what the hell was he expecting? And more importantly—why did you care? You only met him yesterday.

Right?

It should have felt that way, but it didn’t. There was something about him—something that lingered just beneath the surface, threading through your thoughts like an old memory you couldn’t quite grasp. Like a name on the tip of your tongue, just out of reach.

And if you had met him before, if he really was the man from the rain—then why was he acting like you were strangers?

You clenched your jaw, shoving the thoughts down as you forced yourself to move.

Without a word, you handed him a blanket. Your fingers brushed his for half a second longer than necessary, and you swore you felt the slight shift in his posture, the way his grip adjusted just a little too slow.

You ignored it. You had to ignore it.

Because if you didn’t, you’d start thinking about the way he looked at you across the dormitory earlier. Or the way his hand had rested on your thigh at dinner. Or the way his voice dropped when he spoke to you alone, low and deliberate, like he wasn’t just speaking—he was choosing.

And you couldn’t do that.

So, instead, you exhaled sharply, turned away, and pretended that handing him that blanket hadn’t felt like handing him something much heavier.

Gi-hun continued, his voice steady but firm. "The prize money still goes up if we kill each other. It’s part of the game they designed."

Young-il, after positioning the last mattress beneath one of the bunks, finally spoke. "Gi-hun, I think you’re overreacting. Even if that were true, people wouldn’t do that."

The shift in the room was immediate.

Gi-hun’s head snapped toward Young-il, his gaze was full of hurt and anger. "In the previous games, dozens of people killed each other at night. Right here."

He stepped closer, his posture rigid. "You have no idea how people can change in this place."

Silence stretched between them.

Young-il didn’t flinch, but something unreadable flickered in his expression. Then, after a beat, he inclined his head in a slow, measured nod. "Alright. I guess I didn’t know what I was talking about. I’m sorry."

The words came easily, too easily. You weren’t sure if he meant them or if he simply didn’t see the point in arguing.

Gi-hun studied him for a moment longer before finally shifting his focus back to the group.

"We need to take turns keeping watch after lights-out. I’ll take the first watch. You should decide the order for the rest."

——

September 6th. The day the world ended. Not for everyone—just for you.

The speckled linoleum stretched endlessly beneath you, tiny cracks splitting across its surface like fault lines. You traced them with your eyes, again and again, mapping their paths like they meant something, like they were trying to tell you a story. But there was no story. No meaning. No reason.

The hallway was silent. Not the kind of silence that came with peace, but the heavy, suffocating kind. The kind that swallowed you whole, that pressed against your ribs until it hurt to breathe.

The machines had stopped beeping. The nurses had stopped moving. The world had stopped making sense.

Jonah was gone.

You thought maybe if you didn’t move, if you sat still enough, you could pretend it wasn’t real. If you kept your hands in your lap, fingers curled so tightly into the fabric of your jeans that your knuckles ached, then maybe you could keep yourself from shattering. Maybe you could stop time. Maybe you could pull him back.

But you couldn't.

Because the machines had stopped beeping. Because the nurses had stopped moving. Because the world had stopped making sense.

Now you were truly and utterly alone.

Your body didn’t feel like yours. It was too heavy, too empty, too cold. Your arms felt like they weren’t connected to you, your legs stiff and numb. You weren’t crying. You weren’t breathing. You weren’t anything.

You just sat there. Frozen. Hollow.

Somewhere, a clock ticked. A door opened. Someone whispered. The world kept moving.

Didn’t they know? Didn’t they realise?

Everything should have stopped. The walls should have cracked, the ceiling should have caved in, the earth itself should have split apart. The sun should have burned out. The sky should have fallen. Something. Anything.

But it didn’t. People were still walking. Talking. Breathing.

And Jonah wasn’t.

Your stomach clenched.

That wasn’t right. That wasn’t fair.

He was supposed to be here. He was supposed to be laughing, teasing, rolling his eyes at you. He was supposed to be alive.

But the machines had stopped beeping. The nurses had stopped moving. The world had stopped making sense.

A buzzing sound curled at the edges of your mind, dull and persistent. Your ears were ringing. Or maybe that was just your brain, trying to drown out the truth. Trying to drown out the nothingness swallowing you whole.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to sob. Because all the love you had for your brother was clawing at your chest trying to get out. You loved him so much. You still do. Where are you going to put it now?

You also wanted to rip the stupid linoleum tiles off the floor, to claw your nails into the cracks until they bled, to make the world feel the way you did—broken, jagged, wrong.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t. So you just sat there. Alone.

And the world kept turning. Your fingers twitched, but they didn’t feel like yours. Your skin was ice cold, just like his now. You wanted to do something—anything—but you couldn’t.

Because if you moved, if you let the weight settle fully, you might shatter.

You didn’t know how long you sat there. Time had lost its meaning. It stretched and folded in on itself, minutes bleeding into hours, into nothingness.

Then you heard it. At first, it was distant. A sound curling at the edges of your awareness, fragile, barely there. But then it sharpened. Louder. Raw. Broken.

A sob, choked and gasping. Then another. And another.

It clawed its way through the heavy quiet, through the walls you had built around yourself.

Your breath hitched. You knew that sound.

It was the same one crawling up your throat, pressing against your ribs, desperate to escape. The one you wouldn’t let out. The one you didn’t want to. Because you knew once it was out, it would never stop.

Your head lifted, your gaze pulling away from the lifeless floor for the first time.

And then you saw him. Sitting on a bench at the far end of the hall, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed low. His body curled in on itself, his fingers digging into his skull like he wanted to rip something out.

The man from the rain. Young-il?

You didn’t know how you knew—it was just instinct. Recognition without reason. Like something deep inside you had already decided before your mind could catch up.

For a moment, he didn’t see you. Then—he lifted his head. And your eyes met. Something in your chest cracked, sharp and sudden. A hollow ache you didn’t have a name for.

You didn’t know why you moved. Maybe instinct. Maybe something else.

You pushed yourself to your feet, your legs shaky, unsteady. He watched you as you walked toward him. He didn’t tense. Didn’t flinch. Just sat there, his gaze flickering between you and the floor.

You hesitated when you reached him. Too close. Not close enough.

Without thinking, you sat beside him. Neither of you spoke.

The hallway was quiet except for the distant hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled voices of nurses in another room. The world kept moving. It always did.

A sharp, shaky exhale. A sound caught between a sigh and a sob.

"She’s gone."

His voice was barely above a whisper, hoarse and hollow.

You didn’t ask who. You didn’t need to. You already knew.

"So is he," you murmured.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t move. But something in the space between you shifted, heavier, thicker.

You didn’t tell him you were sorry. You didn’t tell him it would be okay. Because it wouldn’t. Because words were meaningless here. Instead, you reached into your pocket.

Pulled out a cigarette. Held it out to him without a word. He looked at it. Then at you. Then back at it. And then, finally, he took it.

You pulled out your lighter, flicked it open, let the flame dance between you. He leaned in, letting the fire catch, the orange glow casting flickering shadows across his face.

For the first time, you really looked at him.

The exhaustion was carved into his features, deeper than just a sleepless night. His shoulders were hunched, his jaw tense, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he brought the cigarette to his lips. But he was still beautiful. In a cruel way.

You exhaled, lighting your own, taking a slow drag. The two of you sat like that, side by side, smoke curling around you in quiet spirals.

Strangers. But not alone. After a while, he spoke.

“You asked for my name.”

You exhaled, watching the smoke drift toward the ceiling.

"Does it matter?”

The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Barely there. But there.

"No. Guess not."

The silence stretched again, but this time, it wasn’t suffocating. It just was. You didn’t know how long you sat there. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. But eventually, your cigarette burned down to the filter, the ember flickering out.

But you still sat there. Till he ran out of tears.

You stood first. He didn’t stop you.

You took a few steps toward the door before pausing, glancing back over your shoulder.

He was still there. Watching.

Your lips curved, just slightly. Not quite a smile, but the closest thing to one you had in you.

And he nodded. Like he understood. Like he had always understood.

——

Your eyes snapped open, your chest heaving, lungs pulling in air too fast, too shallow.

The ceiling above you blurred in the dim light of the piggy bank, your pulse pounding in your ears.

You turned your head, struggling to piece together where you were—what was real. The steel bed frames above you, the concrete walls, the distant sounds of breathing. The dormitory. The games.

A nightmare. But not really. More like a bad memory, finally breaking through the thick walls your brain had built to keep it out.

Your brain does that—it buries things, tucks them away in the darkest corners, convincing you they never existed. Just so you wouldn’t hurt anymore. But now, the barriers had crumbled, and the truth stood bare. You remembered.

You looked at the makeshift bed to your left, but it was empty. Glancing at the stairs, you saw that Young-il was taking watch.

Your stomach twisted painfully, like you were going to puke. You pushed yourself up slowly, careful not to disturb Jun-hee beside you. The cold floor bit into your palms as you steadied yourself.

Young-il’s eyes scanned the room with quiet vigilance. The light cast shadows across his sharp features, making him look even more unreadable. Detached.

But you knew now. You knew. Finally.

Before you even processed what you were doing, you moved. Crawling out from under the bed, you crossed the small space between you. He didn’t react when you sat down beside him, only his eyes flickered to you for a moment.

For a long moment, you said nothing.

The weight of it sat in your chest, pressing down, making it hard to breathe. You stared at your hands, your fingers twisting together in your lap.

Then, finally, your voice came—soft. Unsteady.

"Why did you lie?"

Young-il stilled. A pause. Now, he looked at you.

You swallowed, your throat tight. “I remember now.” The words came out quieter than you intended, almost fragile.

Young-il didn’t look away. His dark eyes studied yours, with a hint of regret. For a second, you thought he might pretend not to know what you were talking about, might brush it off the way he always did. But he didn’t. He exhaled slowly, a breath that barely made a sound. “I know.”

You blinked. That was it? No denial? No feigned confusion?

Your fingers curled against your knees. The memory was still raw, still bleeding at the edges. Jonah, lifeless in that hospital room. The cigarette smoke curling in the dim hallway. The way the man from the rain—no, Young-il—had sat there, just as lost, just as broken.

"You knew who I was this whole time," you whispered. He didn’t answer.

I wasn’t imagining things.

Your chest ached, something sharp and tangled clawing its way up your throat. “And you—” Your breath caught. You weren’t sure which hurt more: the fact that he had remembered you and still chose to lie, or the fact that, for a while, you had believed him.

Young-il’s gaze flickered downward, toward his hands. He rolled his knuckles absently, like he was testing the weight of the silence between you. Then, finally, he spoke. “I thought it would be easier that way.”

Easier? You let out a bitter, hollow laugh, shaking your head. “Easier for who?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw twitched, his eyes flicking back to you. And this time, for the first time since you’d met him, there was no smirk, no teasing remark, no shield of indifference. Just something quiet. Something almost… resigned.

“For both of us,” he murmured. You stared at him, the breath hitching in your throat.

Easier. Like it was some kindness. Like pretending he didn’t remember wouldn’t make it worse when the truth came crashing down. Like there wasn’t a big hole inside your chest. You clenched your jaw, looking away, focusing on the cold concrete beneath you.

“That’s bullshit,” you muttered, barely above a whisper.

Young-il sighed, tilting his head back against the metal railing. The exhaustion was etched into every inch of him now, but you didn’t care. You weren’t going to let him off that easily.

“I needed to know,” you said, forcing the words out before you lost your nerve. “I needed to know if I was crazy. If I was just seeing things. If—” You exhaled sharply. “If you were real.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.

Young-il exhaled and looked away, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly.

“You were real to me too, you know.”

And just like that, you weren’t sure if you wanted to hit him or let yourself fall apart right there beside him. The silence between you stretched for a moment before he spoke. “I’m sorry.”

You raised your eyebrows. “About what?”

He clarified. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about her sooner.”

You already connected the dots, but you still let him speak of her. He needed this. And you secretly did too.

“She was very sick,” he said. His voice was calm but carried a weight that made you hold your breath. His eyes fixed on the ground as he continued, “Acute cirrhosis. She needed a liver transplant, but she was pregnant.”

Your eyes widened, and your face fell as his words sank in. He kept going, his tone growing heavier. “When the doctor warned her about the risks and advised ending the pregnancy, she wouldn’t hear it. She was resolute. determined to carry the baby, no matter what would happen to her.”

You stayed silent, letting his words wash over you, as he went on. “When she felt worse everyday and no donor appeared, I borrowed as much money as I could from my brother to find a solution. But it was not enough.”

You turned your gaze away, unsure what to say. His voice softened but didn’t lose its seriousness. “I was desperate. A criminal heard about my situation and offered me money. I borrowed from him. But when you’re a police officer, that kind of stuff will get you fired. But I didn’t care. She needed it. My boss, however, saw it as a bribe. He fired me the next day. I’d devoted my whole life to that job. It was one of the few things I truly enjoyed, truly loved doing.”

You frowned deeply, feeling an ache in your chest for him.

“Then I was invited to join the games,” he said, his voice dropping even lower. “I was gone for a week. As you probably noticed, in the hospital. By the time I won…she was dead.”

That’s when you noticed his eyes, glistening with tears. They silently fell, the weight of them was undeniable.

“It was horrible. There were so many times I became angry. Angry at my boss. Angry at those who didn’t step up to donate a liver. Angry at the world. But I was mostly angry at myself for leaving her when she needed me the most. That evening with you in the hospital… I wasn’t angry then.”

The room felt heavier with every word he spoke. You listened intently, unable to look away as he continued.

He exhaled deeply, his shoulders slumping slightly. “And now, I have decided to come back. Because the last time I was here I felt useful for once.”

The tears in his eyes and on his cheek caught the dim light, making them shimmer as he gave a single, solemn nod.

His voice was steady but carried a note of vulnerability. “I didn’t- I couldn’t tell Gi-hun. Couldn’t tell anyone actually. Except you. Talking about her is really hard for me. But, with you it seems natural in some way.”

He took a deep breath.

”All I wanted was to play these games and… find the slightest bit of purpose in life. Even if it was the last thing I did.”

Suddenly, all the anger you had felt towards him the last few hours had completely vanished.

He was just a broken soul. Like you.

“And I think I found it again. I mean- what were the odds?”

Oh my god. Did he mean me?

You swallowed. Then, softly—almost too softly—you answered. "Better than you think."

You stared at him, at the way his hands curled into fists against his knees like he was bracing for something. The space between you felt heavier than before, like it was holding something fragile, something unsaid.

Then, before you could think about it, before doubt could creep in, you moved.

Not just a brush of fingers. Not just a hesitant touch. You reached for him fully.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his jumpsuit as you pulled him in, holding on like he was the only solid thing in a world that kept shifting beneath your feet. Like letting go wasn’t an option.

And for a second, he didn’t react.

He stiffened—caught off guard, unprepared. For a single, agonising second, he didn’t move. You almost thought he wouldn’t.

Then, he exhaled fully. Like he let go. Slowly, his arms came up. His hands pressed against your back, hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you. If he should.

But then something broke.

He tightened his grip, pulling you flush against him, his chin resting near your shoulder, his breath uneven against your neck. His fingers curled into the back of your shirt, not rough, not desperate—just there, like he needed something to hold onto just as badly as you did.

Neither of you spoke.

The dormitory around you disappeared, swallowed by the sound of your own heartbeat, by the way his breathing evened out against your shoulder. His warmth bled into you, steady, grounding, like an anchor in the middle of something vast and merciless.

His fingers curled around the fabric of your shirt. The message was clear, don’t let go.

You exhaled, barely above a whisper. “I get it.”

Young-il let out a soft, humourless laugh, the vibration of it sinking into your skin. “Oh, I bet you do.”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

And you did.

Not just because of Jonah. Not just because you knew what it was like to lose someone who was supposed to be there forever. But because you understood the hollow space grief left behind. How sometimes, survival wasn’t about living. Sometimes, it was about finding something—anything—that kept you moving. Even if it didn’t make sense. Even if it killed you a little more every day.

Young-il buried his face in your soft hair and inhaled deeply, rolling his shoulders like he was trying to shake something off. But he didn’t let go. Not yet.

“When I saw you here…” His voice was quieter now, lower, almost lost between you. “I thought I was imagining things.”

You swallowed. “Me too.”

He huffed out a breath, shaking his head. “I wasn’t sure if it was a coincidence. Or if it meant something.”

A long silence stretched between you. Then, softly, you said, “It means something. And… I’m sorry for how I acted earlier. If I had known—”

Young-il stilled. “It’s okay. I’m sorry too.”

You felt him exhale again, his breath ghosting against your neck. His grip on you loosened, just slightly, like he was grounding himself. Then, finally—reluctantly—he pulled back.

Not all the way. Not far. His hands lingered at your waist, your arms still loosely looped around his shoulders. His face was close now, closer than it should have been, his eyes searching yours for something unspoken.

You weren’t sure if he found it. But he nodded. Like he understood. Like he had always understood.

You pulled back fully and moved to sit beside him. But his hand remained on your waist. Like it belong there. It felt like that, at least.

The silence between you wasn’t heavy anymore—it just was. Steady. Quiet. A fragile sort of peace.

You pulled your knees to your chest, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. His face was unreadable, but his shoulders were no longer tense, his breathing even. He looked… tired. More than tired. Exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the games.

Eventually, you let your head tip to the side, resting against his shoulder. You expected him to shift away, but he didn’t. He just stayed there, solid and warm.

Minutes passed like that, the two of you sitting together in the dim glow of the piggy bank. The distant sound of steady breathing filled the dormitory, the world outside this moment fading into something far away.

For the first time since arriving here, you didn’t feel entirely alone.

As your head rested against Young-il’s shoulder, the exhaustion finally started catching up with you. Your body, tense for so long, slowly began to relax against him, the warmth of his presence lulling you into something close to rest. Not quite sleep—but something softer. Something quieter.

A small noise from behind you made you stir. You pulled back from Young-il. The absence of his warmth made you shiver slightly, but you ignored it, pushing yourself upright.

Dae-ho. You barely noticed him at first, still caught in the haze of half-awareness, but when you finally blinked, you saw him standing a few feet away, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

His gaze flickered between the two of you, something unreadable flashing across his face before he exhaled and stretched his arms above his head.

“My turn?” he asked, voice rough with sleep.

Young-il nodded. You both stood up and made some space for 388. Dae-ho settled into the spot where Young-il had been, shifting his weight as he adjusted to the watch position.

“You should both try to get some sleep,” Dae-ho muttered, his usual easygoing tone softened by the quiet of the room.

Young-il hummed in response, offering you a hand. You hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking it. Neither of you spoke as you padded back toward your sleeping area, careful not to disturb the others.

When you reached your beds—placed right next to each other—you both hesitated.

For a moment, the only thing that existed was the space between you. The unspoken understanding hanging in the air, thick and palpable. Then, at the exact same time, you both moved.

Neither of you said a word. You just pushed your mattress toward his. He mirrored the action, closing the distance until there was no gap left. Until it was just one space instead of two.

It wasn’t about comfort. It wasn’t about warmth. It was about not being alone.

You settled in first, pulling the thin blanket over your shoulders as you lay on your side, facing him. Young-il followed suit, his movements slower, more deliberate.

In the dim light, your eyes met. No words. Just a glance. Just a silent agreement.

You exhaled, closing your eyes. You felt Young-il shift slightly beside you, the faintest rustle of fabric as he adjusted, and then stillness.

For the first time in a long time, your mind wasn’t plagued by nightmares.

——

You barely noticed it.

Your body was warm, your mind floating somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, caught in that hazy space where the world didn’t quite feel real yet. The concrete floor beneath the thin mattress should’ve been uncomfortable, but it wasn’t. Not really. Not when there was warmth pressed against your back, solid and steady.

Not when there was an arm draped over your waist.

Your breath hitched, the realisation hitting all at once. Your body stiffened. The weight of it was undeniable—the firm press of muscle through the thin fabric of your uniform, the slow, even rise and fall of his chest against your back.

Young-il.

A slow warmth crept up your neck. You swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of where your bodies touched. His arm wasn’t just resting against you—it was holding you. Not tight, not restricting, but there. His hand was relaxed against your stomach, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of your uniform.

You should move. You should wake him up. You should do something.

But you didn’t. It felt too nice, too right.

You stayed still, barely daring to breathe, your mind racing through the events of last night. The weight of his grief. The way his voice had cracked when he spoke of his wife. The way you had pressed yourself against him in that desperate, suffocating hug, needing him to hold you together just as much as he needed you.

And then, the mattresses.

The quiet, unspoken decision. The way neither of you hesitated when you pushed them together, filling the space between them, letting your bodies rest closer than they should. You hadn’t thought about what that meant last night—hadn’t let yourself.

Now, in the dim morning light, with Young-il’s arm wrapped around you, you couldn’t ignore it.

A slow inhale. A shift. His breath stirred against the back of your neck—barely there, but enough. Enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Then, a pause. A slow tensing of his body. He was waking up.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, squeezing your eyes shut, pretending to be still asleep.

For a second, neither of you moved. His breathing slowed, like he was processing what he was feeling. Then, you felt it—the tightening of his grip, his fingers twitching slightly against your uniform like he was anchoring himself, pulling you closer to his chest.

The warmth of him seeped into you, steady and grounding, his presence a solid weight against your back. You could hear the slow, even rhythm of his breathing, feel the faint rise and fall of his chest as it pressed against you with every inhale.

It should’ve been suffocating. It should’ve been uncomfortable. But it wasn’t.

You stayed still, barely daring to breathe, unsure if you even wanted to move.

Young-il’s arm was firm. There was no hesitation, no awareness of the line you had crossed last night when you’d pushed your mattresses together. Just quiet, instinctive closeness.

You weren’t sure how much time passed like that. A few minutes? An hour? It didn’t matter. Because for those few stolen moments, you weren’t in the dormitory. You weren’t in the games. You weren’t fighting for your life. You were just warm.

Then, the music started.

That familiar, eerie swell of classical strings echoed through the dormitory, signalling morning, pulling you both out of the fragile cocoon of sleep.

You felt the shift before anything else. The tensing of Young-il’s body. The slow, dawning realisation sinking into him like a stone. His breath hitched, and then his arm moved. Fast.

He withdrew from you like he’d been burned, fingers jerking away from your waist as he shifted back onto his side of the mattress. You felt the absence immediately—the cold rushing in where his warmth had been. For a moment, neither of you moved. You opened one of your eyes, hoping he wasn’t looking at you, to see what he was doing.

From the corner of your eye, you caught it—Young-il rubbing the back of his neck, his gaze flickering anywhere but at you. He looked flustered.

You almost laughed.

But instead, you waited. Just a second longer. Then you stretched, exhaling like you had just woken up, rolling onto your back and blinking blearily at the ceiling.

You made a sleepy sound of protest at the music, rubbing your eyes before glancing at him. “Morning already?” you muttered, voice groggy.

Young-il cleared his throat, sitting up fully. “Yeah,” he said, voice a little rough.

God, his morning voice was sexy.

You didn’t mention the waist-situation. Didn’t acknowledge the way his arm had been wrapped around you, the way his body had been pressed against yours. And neither did he.

But when you sat up beside him, feeling the ghost of his warmth still clinging to your skin, you swore you could feel the weight of something else, too. Something unspoken.

Around you, players began to stir, and the familiar voice of the announcer filled the dormitory:

“The third game will begin momentarily. All players, please prepare.”

You stretched, exhaling a quiet groan as the weight of sleep clung stubbornly to your limbs. The dormitory stirred around you—murmurs of waking players, the rustle of blankets, the low, grating snore of Dae-ho still lost in whatever dream he was still having. Jung-bae shifted nearby, Jun-hee rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

Next to you, Young-il sat still, watching. His expression was unreadable at first, but then—there. A small, amused smile.

“Sorry,” he murmured, voice lazy, playful. “Didn’t mean to stare.”

You blinked at him, catching on immediately. Tease.

With a roll of your eyes, you pushed yourself up, shaking off the lingering fog of sleep as you followed the others toward the centre of the dormitory. The room was cold, your movements sluggish as your mind struggled to fully catch up. You were walking along side Gi-hun as you tumbled a little bit.

Then—warmth. A touch. Steady, deliberate. Fingers curled around your waist, stopping you mid-step.

Your breath caught, your body tensing on instinct. But before you could react, Young-il was already there, closer than before, his hand firm at the dip of your waist. He pulled you closer into him. Like it was nothing. Like it was natural.

“You walk like you’re still stuck in your dream,” he murmured, voice dipping lower, amusement threading through it. “Thought you were gonna run into me.”

Your skin burned where he touched you. His thumb pressed slightly against your hip, the motion slow, absentminded, like he wasn’t even thinking about it. But you were.

You exhaled sharply, smirking up at him. “So instead of moving, you just—grab me?”

Young-il smirked. “Didn’t hear you complaining.”

Your lips parted, but no retort came. Because he was right. And you hated that.

His smirk deepened, like he could hear every thought running through your head, like he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on you. And then, just as easily as he touched you, he let go, stepping past you without another word.

Leaving you standing there, fully awake now, pulse hammering against your ribs, his warmth still ghosting over your skin. You exhaled, steadying yourself before moving forward, ignoring the way your body still buzzed in the wake of him.

The guards herded you through the dormitory doors, leading you into the labyrinth of the massive staircases. With every step, the tension in your chest coiled tighter. Another game. Another chance to live or die.

The uncertainty was suffocating. What if it was something unfamiliar again? What if you weren’t good at it? Worse—what if it was a game that turned you against the very people you had come to rely on? The thought sent a sharp pulse of unease through you.

Eventually, you were guided into a large room, the path ahead obscured by a heavy white curtain. Four triangle-masked guards stood at the forefront, weapons gripped tightly, their presence a silent warning. The crowd stilled, uneasy whispers fading into tense silence.

The curtain began to slide open.

The announcer’s voice rang out, calm and detached, cutting through the stillness like a blade.

"Welcome to your third game."

[kittendreaw]

Actor! Satoru x F! Reader.

Mainlist

Pt.2

Satoru was on top of the world, he was the prince of Hollywood, the new heartthrob of the big screen, sounds fantastic, doesn't it?

It was for everyone except you, his poor manager, the only reason you haven't quit is because of how ridiculously good the pay is.

"Just Please make my job easier Satoru." You couldn't help but be frustrated, Dealing with Satoru was sometimes like dealing with a spoiled brat and sometimes it was just worse.

"Well, I'll pay you for that."

"You pay me to be your manager, not your babysitter so please stay here and cooperate."

And of course he didn't because it was complicated, no matter how long he had been in the industry he was still a pain in the ass for assistants, makeup artists, directors, photographers, etc. Basically anyone who had the misfortune to work with him.

It was always the same, you should be used to it by now but it was impossible.

"What do you mean you're not going to come with me?"

"It's not that hard to understand."

He rolled his eyes while his arms crossed over his chest. No matter your size or how high your heels are, Satoru was simply giant in front of you. "Don't be a Smartass, Yn, you're my manager, you have to come with me."

"Nanami will do the job of going with you that night."

"but I don't want Nanami! "

"I'll be busy with some paperwork that night."

" Well, have Nanami do the paperwork and you come with me."

" It's not that easy."

Yes, it was that easy but you hated big events and going to the Oscars was torture for you, you had managed to get away on most occasions but Satoru was getting more and more insistent.

"Why?"

You let out a sigh, you could make up as many excuses as you could he just always kept asking.

"Satoru, look, I don't want to go."

"Why?"

"I don't know I just-" You could deal with people, that was no longer the problem but you still don't get used to all the cameras ready to capture every second.

"Why do you mean? It's not that hard, you just have to get pretty and come with me, you can do that."

"But I don't want."

"But you don't want." He repeated, clearly he was not happy and clearly not the day was not going to end without him getting what he wanted. There was a pause in which no one said anything. "I'm your boss, you can't tell me no."

"You should review workers' rights, Satoru."

"Dammit." He muttered. "Just say yes, please. I swear it won't be so terrible, besides I already bought you a dress, it would be rude of you to refuse it."

A pair of puppy eyes and a few more pleas and just as he wanted it, there you were with the pretty burgundy dress, the high black heels and gloves of the same color.

"Look at you, you are beautiful."

Satoru approached you, observing every detail of your appearance. It was true that the dress was pretty and that the makeup artist had done an excellent job, but you couldn't help but make your stomach churn every time you remembered the place you were going.

"But I know how to do it even better."

Satoru called one of the attendants who held out a box from which he pulled out a diamond necklace. It was beautiful and also damn expensive, it was the kind of thing you'd never pay for but always admire from afar. Satoru put it around your neck giving the final touch to your look that night.

"I-" It was too much for you, you couldn't accept it.

"Not a single word, tonight you have to stand out, after all you are my date." You felt your soul leave your body for a few seconds, you had planned to stay as hidden as you could but Satoru wanted you next to him posing for the cameras, this was definitely too much, much more than you were ready to do, you couldn't, Your mind was only thinking about all the negative possibilities this could bring and all the embarrassing things you could do. You wanted to throw up, was it too late to get back to the paperwork plan?

"What?"

[cakepoppresent]

You Lead I Follow

Veronica: There's two stores I plan on going to today. Are you ready?

Vaghun: Like I said Princess I'm ready to do anything for you today

Veronica: Do you remember when you were chasing after me the first time? All those items you left in my dorm room?

Vaghun: Of course. You still have all those things I bought?

Veronica: Don’t ask stupid questions. How much did you spend on them?

Vaghun: Around 12k give or take. Nothing too crazy

Veronica: Is that right?

Vaghun: No price is too much when it comes to you

Veronica: God. You’re so cringe. Just keep quiet

Veronica: Your name? Since you’re standing will you be assisting today?

Natasha: I'm Natasha and that’s right. Mr. Leary called ahead of time and set up a private room for you to shop comfortably

Veronica: Perfect. I’ve already seen a pair of Hermes slippers and a clutch that I’d like to add to my tab. If you could set those aside for me that would be great. I'll be adding more shortly

Natasha: That won’t be a problem, Miss Reeves. I can also set up some wine and an excellent charcuterie board for you.

Veronica: That sounds wonderful. Make sure its your most expensive bottle, the whole bottle

Vaghun: Understood.

Veronica: You’re so sweet. Thank you

Veronica: Now back to you Lover Boy. I hope you’re ready

Vaghun: When it comes to you I’m always ready and I notice everything

Veronica: Lets put that to the test. I changed something about myself. Real subtle can you guess what it is?

Vaghun: You changed your hair color...its darker now. I like it

Veronica: You observant freak how could you even notice something like that. Not even my mom noticed

Vaghun: I’m serious when I say you’re important to me. You are...everything

Veronica: I don’t want to hear that right now. Lets go, its time to run your pockets

Vaghun: Of course. You lead I follow~

Veronica: That’s what I like to hear

Vaghun: Tried on enough shoes Princess?

Veronica: Lucky for you I have. I’ll take all these boots...one in each color

Vaghun: I’ll get them to send these over to your apartment

Veronica: Im still hungry. Lets get something to eat after this

Vaghun: No problem

Vaghun: Veronica

Veronica: My first name? You must want to talk about something serious

Vaghun: I wanted to clear the air. We haven’t spoken about what happened

Veronica: I don’t think I’m ready to have this talk with you....or ever

Vaghun: Just humor me Princess

I’m sorry. I know those words mean nothing to you after hearing them all these times. The only way I can show you how much you mean to me is through patience, through actions that prove my sincerity. But I need you to know that I love you. I’ve loved you long before I confessed to you on that rooftop. Do you remember? You were talking about taking my Grams out shopping and I stood there wondering how a woman like yourself was so entwined in my life. I couldn’t believe my pestering got you as close to me as it did, I know I’m a man that doesn’t deserve you. But knowing that won’t stop me from trying. I have to try. Because losing you isn’t something I can bear

Veronica: You always had a way with words

Vaghun: Hahaha I could fill a whole library with how I feel about you Princess

Veronica: Is it a massive library?

Vaghun: The biggest one. I know you aren’t the type to be emotional I don’t expect you to say anything but I just want you to know. I’m ready and willing to wait

[elpeadro]

I diagnose the Jentry Chau vs. The Underworld gang with QPR (queer-platonic relationship). It is so blatant and I love them so much.

Jentry-Michael: childhood best friends who haven't seen each other for half their lives after one of them accidentally burned down half the town (including her best friend’s home) with her magical fire powers and got sent away to Korea. Hit it off like nothing ever happened the day Jentry gets back in town. Gugu teases her about him because Jentry is not subtle at all. Protagonist girl x stereotypical love interest boy. Get to bond over being pressured to be someone they’re not by parental figures and being lied to about their powers. He dreams about her at night. (Don’t worry it’s not creepy.) She nearly kills him while he’s at work. Dating life stop-starts like 5 times because of shenanigans and poor communication and also maybe because their relationship isn’t meant to be romantic in nature.

Jentry-Kit: shapeshifter-adjacent demon who stalks, flirts with, seduces, lies to, threatens, and makes and wears a skin-suit of his mark only to fold after one (1) conversation, when she suggests he already has a soul, because he is that desperate for love and validation. Oh, and he’s working for the main villain who killed her parents, her great-aunt, and is actively trying to kill her. Protagonist girl x cool aloof bad boy love interest. Get to bond over being manipulated into fighting their authority figures’ feud/war. Lowkey is responsible for her almost killing stereotypical love interest boy. One kiss is enough to make him crash out when she rejects his advances afterwards. He falls for the oldest trick in the book, which is falling for your mark. He nearly dies distracting Cheng so that she can save the day (fuck you canon; you can’t take him away from me). He does this by wearing his Jentry skin-suit. They share the most homoerotically-charged scene in a TV-PG show while he’s building and putting on said skin-suit. Him nearly stealing her qi is so intimate and also please don’t do that without her consent sir 💀.

Michael-Kit: did you not SEE episode 5? They’re the nastiest parallels to ever parallel, to the point that their narrative energy warps reality and makes the lunch lady go on a comically direct lecture about how they need to choose for themselves what they want. This lecture is somehow about their identity issues and entire life’s course, and also about what they want for lunch. It is entirely unprompted. Kit nearly got him killed at work. They’re two-thirds of a love triangle, and a triangle can only be a triangle if it has 3 sides. (You get what I’m saying?) They were brothers-in-arms at the Alamo. They’re both incapable of not lying. Michael dreams about him the same number of times he dreams about Jentry. (Don’t worry it’s still not creepy.) They somehow avoid the stereotypical “high school love triangle drama” plot points between the two of them only because they’re busy fucking up their relationships in even bigger ways. Oh, and he prom-posed to Kit.

Michael-Stella: walking cliche of the high school “it” couple that was doomed the moment they set foot on the show. They were going to go to college together ffs. They dodge love triangle cliches regarding Jentry because they both think she’s that cool. She makes him protein bars. (Which suck, but it’s the thought that counts.) Football player x comphet lesbian. No seriously, she’s the most comphet lesbian to ever comphet lesbian.  They have cliche “romantic chemistry”, but then they break up because he lies to her about wanting to be a shitty flute player over a superstar wide receiver recruit (except it’s not really a lie, but also it is), and they move over the “awkward exes” period and are much better characters and friends. He dreams about her at night as well. (Again, still not creepy.)

Jentry-Stella: the girliest girl friend duo in the world. Stella helps her adjust to a new school in a way that is so nice and sweet that it’s one of the more unrealistic parts of the show. They have a scene in Jentry’s bedroom. Their male love interests fumble them at roughly the same time, and then they do spirit week together and are having the time of their lives. She braids Jentry’s hair. They’re both so cool, but also so lame in their own ways. Also there’s no way Stella doesn’t have somewhat of a crush on her because 1) Jentry is that cool and pretty and awesome, and 2) Stella is a certified girl lover.

Kit-Stella: look they didn’t really interact in canon, but he’s on her shit list. She’s got her eye on him at all times, because Jentry may have forgiven him, but she’s watching out for her friend. She 100% gave him the shovel talk. Things get REALLY awkward if Jentry and/or Michael aren’t there, because these two are easily the weak link of the QPR.

Also all four of them are some form of queer.

[angelsdean]

hot take maybe but actually i do expect my mom to comfort me and make me an ice cream sundae when i’m sad even when i get to 40 and she’s 70. my grandma does that for her still. it’s not. limiting her. it’s not saying she only has to be my mommy. i have taken care of her too. it’s saying we love each other and want to take care of each other. mary struggling to be able to interact with grown up sam and dean was very very valid and understandable and i love her for it. she also could’ve maybe tried a little more anyway. they could’ve lent on each other. idk.

Yea i've said before that I think it's a bit outrageous the way people seem to think someone stops being a parent once their child reaches adulthood. Maybe it's a cultural thing, I don't know, but the whole idea of "once your kid turns 18 they're out the door and not your problem anymore" is so deeply flawed IMO. But yea I focus more on "debunking" the claim that Dean expects some sort of motherly coddling / babying from Mary because that seems to be the deancrit take I see the most with regards to this arc / the "i'm not just a mom" scene.

But for sure many people seem to have some weird ideas IMO about what it means to be a parent. Like I think you can feel for Mary and understand that parents can and are more than just parents, but also understand that they will never stop BEING a parent either. Their kids will always be their kids. It's why people always say being a parent is a full time job, not something to go into lightly, that you should be sure you actually want kids and understand that having them is a lifelong commitment etc etc. And having kids makes them become your priority, even when you want to be selfish you always have to try to put them first. Obviously that lessens as they grow up but like, if your adult child were injured or had some kind of health issue / challenges as a parent it's still your job to be there for them, to support them, to care for them. That doesn't just end at 18. It's why *I* know that even though I like the idea of kids I probably never will have any because it's so much responsibility and because those kids are always always going to come first, forever! That's kind of part of the parental "contract" IMO. And even when they're adults, a parent should still be the one person in the world your kid can turn to, rely on, seek comfort in.

And I understand these expectations are complicated in this particular narrative by the fact that Mary died young and is not equipped to be a mother to adults. I think that's such a delicious component that I wish they leaned into more. She is grieving her babies. She is allowed to feel those feelings and feel confused and unsure and struggle with accepting this new dynamic with her children. But a big part of Mary's arc in s12, which culminates in 12x22 with "I need you to see me" is that she is the one stuck in the past, needing to accept her reality and "SEE" her children for who they are now. That's what the arc is moving towards, that acceptance. And after s12 we see her and Dean have a better relationship. We see her still getting to be Mary the person AND Mary the "mom." She hunts, she comes and goes, but she's someone Dean can talk to, share a meal with, spend time together. It's what he always wanted most. He tells her in 14x11 that "just knowing you're around, that you're alive has meant everything to me."

Anyways, I won't ramble about all that again because I've made a bunch of posts about it already. But yes, I think it's normal for Dean (and Sam) to want Mary to comfort them, do nice things for them, the way any parent or really a family member in general might do. They are not asking for kisses on their boo-boos and getting tucked into bed with a bedtime story, which is how a lot of deancrit posts read. What they want is some sort of familial reciprocal care. Like the way Dean spends quality time with those he loves. The way he baked a cake for Jack. Cooks for his family. The way he gives people gifts. The way he fixes Cas's truck. The way he calls to check in on people. He doesn't do these things out of some obligation or playing some "role", he does them because he cares. Because he loves his family, and that's just what family does for each other.

Someone in my tags last night said it very well that what Dean really wanted was just, another family member, to spend time with, to share their joys and burdens with. Someone like Bobby, that he could turn to if he needed. Bobby was a parent figure but he wasn't "parenting" them, y'know? He was someone Dean could lean on, but he didn't expect Bobby to shoulder all his burdens. And I think that's what Dean wants most. Just someone he can lean on and rely on, since he's been having to be the strong one for everyone his whole life.

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

Orlok’s Backstory Gives Meaning to “Nosferatu” (2024) Ending

And we have Bill Skarsgård to thank for that, because this top secret backstory influenced his entire performance:

“And while Bill [Skarsgård] was also doing what I was asking for, he brought more to the table too, particularly with binding moments where Orlok was vulnerable. I was so sick of the tropes of the sad vampire that I didn't want to go there. But Bill knew that it was important to still have the vulnerability in some places. And I think it makes the performance.” (x)

“I sent [Bill] a backstory of Orlok that I wrote. So we came to it together to achieve what I was after. Because I’m so tired of the heroic and sad vampires, I was just like, ‘He’s a demon. He’s so evil.’ Bill was like, ‘Yeah, but there needs to be some times where he has some kind of vulnerability.’ It’s very subtle, and it’s not there often, but it is enough. I think the ending of the movie is much more effective than it would have been without Bill’s acute sensitivity to that – while still delivering on this big, scary, masculine vampire”.

Robert Eggers Reveals How Bill Skarsgård Influenced the Ending of 'Nosferatu'

What do we have of “human” Orlok at the ending? This entire sequence, as the dawn starts to remove the decay from his face, and he starts to appear more human-like (indicating the Nosferatu curse is being lifted from him; the blood pouring out of him has another meaning and is rooted in Balkan folklore).

And this is connected to Ellen, because not only she’s the only other character in this scene (with lilacs on her hair), but she’s also the only “humanizing” trait on his strigoi self; as this curse removed all of his humanity.

And these “binding” moments with her are few, but enough to give meaning to all of this, as both Robert Eggers and Bill Skarsgård have said and we know from the film itself, and they are also connected to Orlok’s backstory (“enchantress”; Yet even now we are fated”; Your passion is bound to me”; “Yet I cannot be sated without you. Remember how once we were? A moment. Remember?” and “you are mine” and they kiss).

This meaning is most likely connected to their union of souls (separated by death; united by death). Has she “remembered” at last? Or did she already know?

And now I have to laugh. Because Robert Eggers is out here saying he’s tired of the “sad vampire” trope when he delivered the most sad, tragic and romantic vampire story of them all, only perceived by the knowledgeable in folklore themes.

“What kind of trauma, pain and violence is so great that even death cannot stop it?" Robert Eggers asks on his own essay to “The Guardian”, where he talks about his “Nosferatu” and vampire folklore.

And he created a strigoi lover story about a tormented spirit who wants to merge souls with the reincarnation of his wife/lover because the trauma of their separation by death created a pain so deep and so powerful it unleashed an atual monster to bring plague and death upon civilization, in their yearning of being united by death, again.

Come on, Mr. Eggers not all of us are fooled by marketing techniques, nor are the masses. But I have to admire the commitment of this man to his own artistic vision. While the studio wanted to capitalize on the “hot couple”; he’s not giving any fucks on his own interviews, and even told the studio executives to fuck off in his own film. They wanted a last “look of love” between Ellen and Thomas probably because they felt his original ending was too “depressive”? This man really made it be a post-mortem contradiction because Ellen was already gone at that point. Legendary. We would have better art if all creators were this committed.

[semipreciousgemstonejade]

A great point that is touched upon here is that ultimately this is a company and we are consumers. Like this post says, if we continue to pour our time and money into this game when they continue to push these predatory practices, they will only become worse.

I've said on the subreddit many times that what they're doing with Sylus affects every player, since we're all playing the same game. How does it make sense to paywall one and not the others? It doesn't. They absolutely will start doing that with the other characters and that process has already begun.

This isn't their only game, so this isn't their only revenue stream. They are also creating a AAA game for console, Ballad of Antara.

All this to say that they can afford to treat their consumers better. Why don't companies ever understand that the more they understand the target demographic and better they treat the consumer, the more money we will spend? People want high quality in exchange for brand loyalty.

Always remember how much power we hold... There is a reason that women are a target demographic for marketing strategies and not just for fashion and makeup. We aren't a monolith.

In simple terms, it’s because marketers think women are making most buying decisions. Research cited by Forbes suggests that women drive 70-80% of consumer purchasing decisions (source: Forbes), and more detailed research by Girl Power Marketing shows that this influence isn’t limited to the clichéd trifecta of household goods, cosmetics and clothes that modern media has taught us to associate with female shopping behaviour. (Source: Girlpower Marketing).

In total, experts think that women control over $31.8 trillion of worldwide spending (Source: Catalyst). And when you look at statistics like that, it's easy to see how a lot of marketers fall into the trap of assuming that they'll meet success if they start targeting women.

While there is some truth to the idea that women are household managers and the key decision makers in many business organisations, there's also an equally strong body of research to show that they are much more discerning than their male counterparts when it comes to engaging with digital marketing material.

https://www.redevolution.com/blog/why-do-marketers-target-females

The last part is a warning... We won't just continue to spend our money willy nilly. We will take our money elsewhere. There is talk of competition in the future...

I've seen a lot of the suggestions people have given in their surveys and honestly we're telling them how to make this game more engaging for us. If only they would listen. But as my mother says, "those who can't hear must feel". And since money talks, I guess hurting their revenue is the only way they'll understand.

Ultimately we all want this game to succeed, but not at our expense and using predatory practices.

And always remember, we give Papergames and Infold free marketing with all the things we write, draw, our video edits, YouTubers and social media accounts etc... Not to mention all the cool and extravagant things the CN whales do that promotes the game. Of course, no one asks anyone to do any of this, but it adds to the success of the game by bringing in more players.

No matter what I choose to do in the end — to pull or not to pull 😔 — I will, in solidarity with the CN kittens and the ongoing boycott, refrain from pulling within the first 3 days. I'll only log in on the first day and choose Sylus as my precise wish. That's it. And I will absolutely not spend real money. I have 0 plans to ever do so until Paperfold course corrects.

If you too wish to help with the boycott, then I urge you to do the same. You can still get the card you desire ofc but please wait until after 3 days or at least 24 hours have passed in that case.

For more info on the boycott, please check my pinned post or my hashtag justice for sylus. You can also take a look at this Reddit thread .

[the-fyre-flie]

So... people hating on Justice League × RWBY, the two cross-over movies for DC and RWBY, has to be blown out of proportions or a joke... right? Cuz these movies are great. At least, in my opinion. They're fun and a bit stupid and incredibly entertaining for me, who's a fan of both DC (my current biggest fixation) and RWBY (my friend likes it so I must like it too) (Link to the movies at the bottom btw!)

Sure, I'll relent they're a little boring at times, and they completely butcher both DC and RWBY characters sometimes, but like... I finished watching a review by The Judgemental Critter (who I love btw and I think their opinions are pretty agreeable most of the time! No hate to them at all!) but a lot of the points just... don't make sense to me?

More Yappage Below

The animation and models being bad was said a lot, and while I can agree in some places like Weiss' weird skirt, saying the hands and faces look weird just... does feel right? They look fine to me? I'm a 3D artist, I make thumbnails and promotional art for youtubers as a job and animate as a hobby, and the models look more than okay. The proportions are a bit wonky, but RWBYs animation has always been wonky. Calling the lowered framerate lazy and ugly also bugged me, cuz like... lowering the framerate to showcase sudden motions or lame actions is REALLY common. It isn't lazy, it's saving resources for moments you care about... like the fights. RWBY and DC both love their big flashy fights. Why would they waste time animating Blake picking a lock? RWBY itself is 90% fightscenes, so on top of that, why are you against big drawn-out fights?

I do agree that some of the designs suck specifically the heroes... I really really hate Bruce's Remnant costume being all black and gray. It's a personal pet peeve of mine when Batman isn't allowed color because I feel like it's antithetical to his entire character if he's all dark. Bruce needs to have some color, some light, or else he risks slipping right into the darkness that is Gotham. The same reason Robin is so brightly colored. It represents his hope for the city. So seeing all black/grey Batman with no color AND no cowl shape language bugged me. Anyways, here's my redesign, lol. Includes real bat ears, a half mask, and blue and yellow splashes! Nothing major!

The way they didn't really include Cyborg, Vixen, or Flash in the story for 70% of it bugged me too, but trying to say the Teen Titans would be better irked me slightly Sure, they might relate better as teens, but a major part of the story's conflict is Ruby being young and struggling to control her team because it's easy for people to overlook her or ignore what she has to say while Clark feels all that confidance from normally being an adult dude running an adult team. The JL being adults turned into teens puts them into a unique position where, unlike with the Teen Titans or Young Justice back home, they they have no real power or leverage over RWBY or JNPR. This is a conflict for both sets of people, and simply wanting "better character moments" feels like a cheap way to just nitpick. Especially when you also claim you dislike how much standing around and exposition there is. If Raven of all people showed up to brood, she would have to explain why she's so broody, which is just more loredumps you stated you didn't like. The movies over explaining of Semblance and Dust would have been way worse they were also forced to explain every DC heros past. This movie is very clearly targeting DC fans who have some knowledge on RWBY but are not super into the series. Note how the movies never once explain Batman, Superman, Vixen, Flash, or Cyborgs powers, and the time they spent vaugly talking about Wonder Womans it's turned into a trauma dump between Blake and Diana? They expect you to already know their stories. They way Clark and Bruce talk about their parents but not his planet is simplified down for RWBY fans because DC fans are expected to know this stuff.

On that note... Bruce was never debating leaving Gotham behind. It's pretty obvious in the movies. When Weiss offers for him to stay, he never responded. When Diana brought it up to him, his top priority is helping more, but he doesn't specify if he means Remnant or Gotham. As dumb as someone might think "they've been turned into teens" is as a point, it's very much an important plot point for Bruce. When he was a teen, he was the only man of the Wayne household, training to be Batman, still dealing with his grief over his parents. He truly never got to be a real teen. This is also the first time he's had real actual powers (at least in this very messy canon), and it's important to him, and it's clouding some of his judgment as a teen. But him liking having powers is not him willing to ditch Gotham. As soon as he was back on Earth, he was in Gotham, helping. There was never a debate. It was him dealing with the fact that he felt inferior. Literally, it's hormones and anxiety about not doing enough as Batman without powers. Is it a little goofy that Batman is insecure? Yes. Is it him abandoning his code? No.

Tho I do hate how he pretends his father literally didn't become batman in an alternate reality. Like Come on Bruce, Thomas was willing to throw down the same way you are, you did not "let go of their expectations".

More Bruce rant, his Semblance is very clearly not heat vision. It's Detective Vision (as named by the wiki). In the first showcase of his Semblance, he's not seeing the heat off Weiss or the electrical wire. It's noting the most important features of the room and how to escape. This is showcased more in the fight with Kilg%re!Barry, where his Semblance specifically notes the Morse Code and translated it. It's just super investigation powers. Which is lame... but it's not heat vision. I felt like I had to correct that.

I'd like to end this rant here even tho I said a lot more in dms to my friend... I feel bad just... 'responding' to someone who will never see it or care about my opinions. I really do like Judgmentals judgments (lol) 90% of the time, but I also feel really passionately about these particular movies, seeing as it combine me and my friends' two favorite things. It feels very close to home in a way, I guess. I hope people go and watch the movies and enjoy them!

I've linked both parts here to Internet Archive! The rips are a little weird in quality (very dark for some reason?) But they are the full movies!

Part 1

Part 2

[jumpingjoltiks]

Um hiii!! Could I request an x reader for ingo and emmet (seperately) with a reader who is autistic but like. REALLY masks? Like a level of masking where the boys don't even know that they're autistic at first, and they're VERY different when they aren't out in public/don't feel the need to mask. I love ur writing btw >_<!!!

AAAA Thank you smmm! I’m so happy you’ve enjoyed my work! <3 <3 <3

I’ve already written a little bit about the twins being autistic already, so I’m happy to get to finally write some x reader stuff to go with it!

Biiiiig mood. I've spent most of my life masking, so I think a lot of this will probably come from my own experiences. I ended up making this a few different sections instead of just one, all coming out of different ideas I had. :)

The twins with someone who is also autistic, but masks heavily

Ingo Gets It. He understands the fear and the pressure to fit in. Emmet doesn’t, but he tries his best to respect your decision (though, secretly, he wishes you’d be more yourself. Both boys love when you’re being the most authentic version of you, but Emmet really wants to see it all the time).

Being actually comfortable around them takes a while (as it would with anyone) – its hard work to decondition yourself like that, to convince yourself you’re really, genuinely safe being yourself – but the twins’ (especially Emmet’s) refusal to mask is enormously helpful in this regard. Their unabashed devotion to being exactly who they are is inspiring.

Emmet devotedly listens to your infodumping, especially if it’s something he’s also interested in. Ingo is thrilled to find someone else who will listen to him too. Late in the evening, when Ingo is cooking and you’re all three in the kitchen together, you all talk like no one has ever looked at you strangely before – open and honest and genuinely excited just to share knowledge and enjoy this moment together.

There’s a certain amount of bluntness between you three, but none of you really mind. If hurtful words are ever said, you can be sure that they weren’t really meant to be cruel. You can always talk things out. Emmet, in particular, has trouble with his straightforward attitude, and sometimes says things that come out wrong – do you as well? He knows how hard it can be to find the right way to say things.

And if you don’t feel like spending time together right now, the twins understand that too. There have been plenty of days when one or the other will come home and lock themselves in their room for a while, just to cool down. If you should come home from your job or a grocery run and need some time, they’ll handle the rest.

Decompression

Would it surprise you to know that it’s Emmet who catches on first? There’s a good reason for that! He’s had a lifetime of keeping an eye on his brother, who also used to heavily mask.

Your own tells are different then Ingo’s, to be sure, but they’re there regardless.

After a tough day, you’re taking the subway home. He notices that your posture and gait are different & your expression is stiffer. You’re clinging to your sense of self-control.

He’s got things he needs to attend to, but you’re a dear friend… your wellbeing comes first, he decides. Emmet doesn’t hesitate to fall into step next to you as you traverse through the station.

“Good afternoon! Are you doing alright?”

You know he’s not one for small talk… so what is he doing? The flash of a puzzled look crosses your face before you smile up at him. It’s humiliating, but you can’t seem to summon up words right now. This will have to do.

Emmet knows smiles. Yours is tight and strained, not at all like your usual smile. And you haven’t answered. He doesn’t like this at all. All signs are pointing to a systems crash.

“Your engine is overheated. I can tell. Do you need a place to step aside for maintenance? My office isn’t far.”

You stare at him blankly, trying to parse exactly what kind of metaphor he’s making.

But you’re too overstimulated and tired to put too much thought into it. Eventually, you sigh and nod. He leads you through the crowd with swinging arms and legs, and people part before him.

The office is an open space that is fastidiously tidy. A sofa is tucked against one wall, opposite is a set of shelves with all kinds of books and files neatly arranged. A pair of matching desks are stationed toward the back of the room. You’ve never been in here, but somehow you instinctively know that this is a safe place for you.

“I have a mini fridge. You are welcome to any of the snacks and cold waters I have. There are also noise cancelling headphones if you want. I know that Gear Station can be verrrrry noisy when overstimulated.”

You think that’s the longest stretch of words you’ve ever heard Emmet say, and you can only stare up at him wordlessly in response. You didn’t realize he had you figured out. Shame threatens to creep in, but then he smiles as he holds out a bottle of ice water to you. He smiles like he knows. There isn’t a single trace of pity or belittlement in it, only understanding.

You take the bottle of water with a small, genuine smile of your own. It’s the first one you’ve had all day.

When you sit down on the couch, Emmet takes off his coat and places it over your shoulders. It’s pretty big on you… but it’s also really heavy. You hadn’t realized it was weighted this whole time. The pressure feels nice, and you bury yourself into it. Emmet seems pleased, like he knew this would happen.

“I am going to do some paperwork at my desk. Would you like the lights off?”

You nod wordlessly and he flicks the light switch off in response. The only light in the room is the warm glow of a desk lamp, focused down onto his work station and away from you. Even the faint hum of electricity that would usually come out of a lamp like that is silent, which is an enormous relief.

The only sound for the next hour is Emmet’s pen near silently sweeping across the pages of his work. You stay quiet and buried under his coat, eyes closed and dozing somewhere between sleeping and waking. You feel safe.

After what feels like an age, you shift from under the coat and re-emerge, feeling much better. Emmet’s eyes flick up to you.

“Do you feel any better?” he asks. His voice is quiet.

“Yes.” You answer, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

He cuts you off. “Do not apologize. Ingo and I have spent many afternoons doing the same. I’m just glad I was there to offer help.”

From that point on, things are… different between you and the twins. Emmet must have told his brother about what happened, because Ingo is more open around you.

You’ve been friends for a long time, but something seems to have unlocked now. The three of you quickly catch like a struck match.

Parallel Play

You spend a lot of time over at their place, and they at yours. Expect Ingo to politely ask if he or Emmet or both can come spend time with you.

This worried you at first, when you were still friends and not yet dating, but the twins don’t actually want your attention, per say. They just want to be in the same room as you while they do their own thing. Not having to “host” takes so much pressure off of you that you wonder why anyone entertains any other way.

Ingo will be reading, curled up in one of your chairs or on a couch, so still you’d think he was asleep if not for the intermittent turn of a page. Emmet is reviewing battle plans and notes, spread out across your table, one leg bouncing. Occasionally, he gets up to pace and mutter to himself, not looking at either you or his brother. You’re working on one of your hobbies in the living room. Not one of you bothers the others. It’s… peaceful. And nice, just having them unobtrusively nearby.

Do you stim? They have a cache of puzzle-y, twisty toys and clickers in a drawer. You’re more than welcome to them, or to anything else you need.

Eventually, if you’d like, you can curl up with Ingo underneath the weighted blanket he’s got spread across his lap. He’ll swing an arm around you without looking up from his book, and you listen to his heartbeat and steady breathing as you nod off.

Or Emmet might come over to you and quietly offer you a warm mug of hot chocolate. The two of you sit back-to-back in silence, sipping your drinks and working on your respective projects.

How nice it is, you think, to spend time with those who understand.

[seventeenlovesthree]

Digimon Adventure Reboot Sequel AU - Chapter 0: Weird

Summary: Despite his best efforts, Mimi, Sora and Koushirou have, indeed, noticed that Taichi has been acting rather off recently. Unwilling to accept his weirdness as the status quo, they meet up to discuss how to handle it...

Based on: [Prologue] [Concept] [Designs] [First Idea]

Word Count: 885

„No matter how you look at it – Taichi-san has been acting weird lately!”

Mimi’s voiced oozed with frustration, as she flopped back down on her personal chair in their “hideout” with emphasis. As Palmon blinked at her, she gracefully flipped her hair over her shoulder, grabbed the cup of lavender tea in front of her and took a small sip, letting her statement sit for a moment.

A moment Koushirou and Sora used to exchange a worried look. Mimi may have been the one to order them all to gather due to “an emergency!” – which, as it turned out, was “Taichi-san being weird” –, but if they were being honest… They had noticed it too.

“I think I’m aware of what you’re referring to”, Koushirou agreed after a while. “My personal verdict is that he hasn’t gotten a lot of sleep, since he’s been spacing out frequently. But whenever I try to address it towards him, he says everything is fine.”

“As he usually does, but I think it’s all deflection”, Sora added, leaning against the computer table while Koushirou went back to trying to fix the blue screen Mimi had caused by accidentally ripping out a cable during her heated rambles from earlier. “He’s just… Smiling it away and, I mean, that’s always been him, but…”

“It’s like he’s hiding something”, Koushirou concluded without looking up from the screen.

“I know, right?!” Mimi put down her tea cup with a clinking sound, causing Piyomon and Tentomon to make inquisitive noises as well.

“And really, it’s not just that, it also feels like he’s forgetting things or getting them mixed up”, elaborating, Sora fumbled at the hem of her college jacket. “Last time I asked him if he wanted to have an extra training session, he just looked at me like a deer in headlights and asked if I wasn’t already meeting with Yamato… Who’s in Shimane. I have no idea where that came from all of the sudden. It’s hard enough to get the group together these days and I didn’t understand why he was so confused about me not traveling to Shimane in the middle of a school week.”

It really had been a chore to “keep the whole gang together” these days. While Yamato and Takeru had always been living in Shimane and, outside of Summer and Winter breaks, only joined them on their digital adventures in the net through a port in their area – usually it were only Taichi, Koushirou, Sora and Mimi that ended up gathering physically at their meeting points, namely the club house Mimi’s grandfather had sponsored a few years ago. With Hikari going to a different middle school and Jyou thoroughly focusing on his management career, their group of eight really was somewhat decimated.

“Super weird…”, Mimi pouted and Koushirou actually lifted his gaze this time.

“Speaking of which, he was asking me if I had talked to Jyou-san about college entrance exams for medical school…”

“He did what?!”, Mimi screeched. “Where’s that coming from?! Jyou-senpai has been so determined to take an internship at our company, grandpa would be devastated if he had suddenly changed his mind – and I would know, Jyou-senpai hasn’t shut up about it, I can show you our texting history, it’s-“

“That’s what I mean by him getting things mixed up”, Sora tried to intervene, smiling at Mimi serenely, so she immediately calmed down a little. “Even though these things really come out of nowhere…”

“Well, maybe high school is getting to his head?”

“His grades seemed to be fine overall though, even if… He’s never been the most studious”, Koushirou thought out loud. “Perhaps we could ask Hikari-san about it?”

“It didn’t seem like they had problems at home either.” Once Sora had said these words, the room got quiet. An aura of worry and confusion that was only disrupted by Mimi sipping on her tea again – more nervously than before as well. They had all known Taichi for several years by now, he had always been their beacon of confidence, a leader to look up to in every situation, positive and unshakable, especially during their gate hopping shenanigans. Seeing him so scatterbrained really was a novelty for all of them.

“There’s another possibility…”, Koushirou eventually broke through the silence with a low voice, drawing all attention towards himself.

“And what would that be?”, Tentomon asked curiously, flying over his head.

“Well… There is at least a tiny chance it’s caused by a Digimon he encountered the last time we went into the network.”

“So what, you believe there is a virus in the net messing with his head? Like… Giving him a cold that made him forget things or something like that?”

Hearing how peculiar it sounded by Mimi’s skeptical tone, Koushirou wasn’t so confident in his theory anymore.

“We will have to test it first of course. By talking to him once more and scouting the network for irregularities.”

“Well then, what are we waiting for?” With that, Sora pushed herself onto her feet again. “You’ll keep investigating on the digital side of things, Koushirou-kun, and we’ll, once again, try to get something out of him in person.”

“Spoken like a true lioness, Sora-san!”, Mimi cheered happily and raised her fist encouragingly. “Let’s solve this mystery once and for all!”