#people I’d probably commit crimes for

[needfantasticstories]

If anyone needs me for the next 3-5 business days, please ask later because I have died of happiness. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

@la-sera, you are the absolute sweetest human in existence and we all treasure you so much. I hope you know this.

The detail of all the boys!!!! ❤️❤️❤️Twilight off scouting, Wild in the lead by Warrior and Time, Time taking care of Epona for Twi, the pairings they’ll break into! You nailed the knowing scowls on the faces of those who recognize the villain, and the concern looks on the others! 💚💚💚 All tired from fighting all morning already, and then this clown showing up?! I love that even Epona looks like she’s so over this. She’d like kill the villain herself.

The rain in the woods! It’s beautiful!!!!

THE SWORD HIMSELF IN ALL OF HIS MELODRAMATIC GLORY!!! ❤️❤️❤️ THE NASTY SMIRK! THE BEAUTIFUL HAIR! THE CONFIDENCE IN THAT STANCE!

I am melting from happiness. I’d love to answer any of your questions at any time! Or just chat and hang out!

I am so amazed and thrilled by the art for my fic! (Squeezing you, @estelian-01!)

For @needfantasticstories

Fic: Blood and Blade Ch.2 (Fan Joy July Day 6, my 5th pict for Fan Joy July)

Skip, I enjoy reading your fic, every time you update a new chapter, I immediately get excited to read it before going to bed. I remember you were the first to suggest this fic of yours to me because you know I like Downfall Duo. Since then I have been reading your fics continuously. I look forward to your next chapter!

You are also a good and kind person. You have accompanied me in chatting or explained to me if I was confused about something in a conversation because my English was not good. Thank you for being my friend. I always support you!

[eversncenewyork]

went on my date last night

[carnalcrows]

BAD TIMING - GYEONGSU

pairing: han gyeong-su x top male reader

synopsis: The real infection here is horniness

content warnings: 18+, semi-public sex, anal, zombies, breeding, creampie, nayeon being a bitch, slight overstimulations, spit as lube.

word count: 1.1k

Nayeon was running her mouth again, voice shrill enough to probably attract zombies instead of keeping them away.

"He’s bitten! I saw it! We have to throw him out before he turns!" she screeched, pointing an accusatory finger at Gyeongsu, who was looking one second away from committing a crime.

"For the last time, I am not bitten, you absolute lunatic!" Gyeongsu snapped. "It was a scratch. A SCRATCH.”

You, ever the voice of reason (and also, let’s be honest, just wanting an excuse to be alone with him), stepped forward. "Okay, okay, let’s settle this like civilized people," you said, patting Gyeongsu on the shoulder. "I’ll go with him to the recording room and keep watch. If he turns, I’ll scream."

"And we definitely trust your judgment." Nayeon scoffed.

"Like yours is any better," Cheongsan muttered under his breath.

But before anyone could object, you were already dragging Gyeongsu toward the soundproof recording room, slamming the door shut behind you.

“Man, she is so annoying,” you huffed, leaning against the wall.

Gyeongsu rolled his eyes, flopping onto one of the chairs. "Tell me about it. I’d rather get eaten by a zombie than listen to her for another second."

You made a thoughtful noise. "Well, since you’re not gonna turn, we have some time to kill."

Gyeongsu glanced at you, brow raised. "Yeah? And what do you suggest we do?"

A slow smirk crept onto your face. "Oh, I have some ideas."

The next five minutes were a blur of teeth, hands, and terrible decision-making.

It started with you yanking him forward by the collar, kissing him like the world was literally ending (which, to be fair, it was). It was all heat and desperation, his hands gripping the edge of the table as you practically devoured him.

"Didn’t think you’d—mmf—make a move now," Gyeongsu mumbled against your lips, breath hitching as you bit down on his lower lip.

"What, you wanted me to wait until after we’re zombie chow?" You pulled back just slightly, running your thumb over the wetness on his lips. "Nah. If I’m gonna die, I’m going out having fun."

He huffed a laugh, gripping your shirt and yanking you right back in. "Good. Now shut up."

It got sloppy real fast. Hands pulling, teeth clashing, breath hot and uneven. Gyeongsu let out a muffled noise when you practically shoved him against the table, his head tilting back slightly, giving you way too much access to his neck.

And God, the way he was looking at you—eyes half-lidded, lips swollen, breath uneven—yeah, you were definitely gonna die in this apocalypse

Your hands trailed to his pants, yanking them down. He yelped in surprise, to which you covered his mouth with your free hand.

“We’ve got to be quiet, you don’t the others to hear, hm?”

He shook his head, and you proceeded to pull his boxers down too, his dick springing out. 

“He’s more excited than I am, isn’t he?” You gestured to his erection, smirking. Gyeong-su turned away, flushed.

“Get on with it, will you? We haven’t got all day.”

You simply grinned and flipped him around, so that his back was facing you. You grabbed the firm flesh of his ass, fondling with it, wondering what to do. It struck you then that you didn’t have lube available.

His spit would have to do. 

You yanked on his hair (not too harshly), to crane his neck around to face you. Wordlessly, you poked two fingers at his mouth, pushing past his plump lips to the wet cavern of his tongue.

He swirled your digits around his tongue for a solid minute, before you pulled out and brought your fingers to his ass.

As you pushed one finger in, Gyeong-su had to cover his mouth– his eyes widened at the penetration. You really did want him to be loud, but neither of you could risk getting caught. Not now, and definitely not like this.

You held him steady at the table with your other hand, as you pushed a nother finger in, followed by one more. Three fingers were steadily pumping in and out of him, and god, he was seeing stars.

Deeming him prepped enough, you removed your fingers and pushed your own pants down, cock springing out.

You slowly pushed the tip in, hips already stuttering at the warmth of his hole. You leaned over him and held his hand, cooing in his ear as you eased your way into his heat.

When you bottomed out, you straightened your back and took your hands to his waist, holding him in a strong grip.

“I’m gonna move now, ‘kay?” He just whimpered, which you took as a green flag, and slowly started to rock in and out of him.

He was so tight, it was almost like his hole never wanted your cock to leave. If anything, that only turned you on even more.

Soon, your pace increased, the grip on Gyeong-su’s waist only getting more firm. The poor guy was shaking, hands trying to steady himself on the table but absolutely failing. At one particular thrust, he let a loud moan, quickly muffling it with his mouth.

So that was the spot.

You rammed into his hole– practically abusing his prostrate with every thrust. His eyes clenched together, his brain was feeling so, so empty.

Soon, you felt yourself on the verge of a release, your thrusts started to stutter. 

“Do you want it in or out?” You questioned, leaning down on him so that he could hear you better.

“In– please, oh fuck–f”

That was all you needed to hear,

With a low groan, you spilled into him, hiding your face in the crook of his neck– painting his insides a pearly white. He came soon after, dick spurting cum onto the desk, staining it.

Before you could pull out—there was a sudden bang from the other side of the glass.

Both of you froze.

Slowly, you turned your heads toward the window.

On the other side, standing in absolute, soul-crushing horror, were Cheongsan and Joon-young.

Cheongsan’s mouth hung open like he was trying to say something, but nothing was coming out. Joon-young? He looked like he was re-evaluating every life decision he had ever made.

You and Gyeongsu stared at them.

They stared back.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

Then—

"I told you!" Nayeon’s voice rang out, triumphant. "They’re hiding something!"

Cheongsan slammed the door shut before she could step inside.

"N-Nope! Nothing to see here! We’re leaving!"

You barely had time to process what had just happened before Gyeongsu lost it, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as he shook with laughter.

"Well," you sighed, ruffling a hand through your hair, "I guess we’re never living this down."

Gyeongsu looked up at you, grinning. "Worth it."

And, yeah. You had to agree.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time and I take genuine effort to do them.

[queensunshinee]

Two Birds On A Wire || Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+) Warnings: SMUT (Oral, fingering), drinking, very slow burn, I swear it's too slow, once again- I really don't know what's going on here

Word Count: 9.9k

Two birds on a wire

You and Art became friends only at Stanford. You had opportunities to be friends before; it’s impossible to ignore the fact that both of you studied at the same school since you were 12. But Art was friends with people like Patrick Zweig, and you, well, you were one of the people Patrick Zweig spent too much time laughing at.

So when you both get accepted to the same college, you’re aware of his presence because he’s on the tennis team, and his ugly face (even in your thoughts, you find it hard to lie to yourself so blatantly) is plastered on every poster, in every corner. He finds out you’re there at the beginning of the second semester, when you both end up at the same party. If anyone asks him, he came there with a purpose- to get drunk and forget that Tashi Duncan exists or that she’s dating his best friend. If anyone asks you, you got there by accident- you were practically dragged, and you planned to leave after half an hour. But then he saw you, and his confused expression turned into an amused one, then into a challenging one, and then into a series of other expressions that, to this day, you keep in a small box in your memories of Art Donaldson.

“This is weird,” was the first thing he said to you, and you could see from his flushed cheeks that he had already been drinking. Probably more than one beer. “What’s weird?” you asked in response, and he leaned his curls closer to you, expecting you to ask the question again because it was impossible to hear anything with that music blasting at such volume. “What’s weird?” you repeated directly into his ear. For a moment, you wondered if your breath could reach his nose. If that was something he would even notice. If that little breeze made his hair tickle the nape of his neck. If, if, if. “That you’re here, I guess?” You weren’t sure if there was a question mark at the end or if it was just his facial expression studying you intently. As if you had committed a crime, but he was both the cop interrogating you and the lawyer defending you. All roles at once. The thought made you swallow down a chuckle.

“I study here,” you said briefly and took a sip from the drink Josie had made for you. It had more orange juice than vodka because she knew otherwise you wouldn’t even agree to hold it. “I study here too,” he said, and now it was your turn to raise an eyebrow at him. “I know that, Donaldson,” you replied with staged ease. It took a lot out of you. This was probably the longest conversation you’d ever had, if you completely ignored that one time in ninth grade when he saw you crying over something one of his friends had said and just sat down next to you. Actually, there wasn’t much to ignore- he hadn’t said anything to you back then. He just waited for you to stop crying quietly, as if there was nothing he could say that would actually make things better. He placed his water bottle next to you and left when he saw that you were able to open it and drink on your own.

“You just know that?” he was amused. He didn’t seem angry to see you. He didn’t seem like your presence annoyed him, just that it confused him to his core. “Your face is on all the posters,” you shrugged, because it was obvious. Everyone knew Art Donaldson. He never tried to stand out. He never did anything special to make it happen, not even in high school. While people like Patrick Zweig reeked of effort, Art Donaldson drew people in effortlessly and quietly. With a calm that radiated from him in all directions. “Well, if your face were on all the posters, I’d know you were here too. What are you studying?” he asked, with a lightness that was impossible to explain. As if you had been friends your entire lives. As if the fact that he hadn’t known you were so close to him was a crime against humanity.

"Bio-chem," you said concisely, wondering if this would end the conversation, but his face said otherwise. There was genuine amazement at the subject. “Damn, (Y/N), I knew you were smart, but I didn’t know you were planning to save the world one day,” the amused look returned as you rolled your eyes. “What are you studying?” you asked, because it was the polite thing to do, and if there was one thing that could definitely be said about you- it was that you were very polite. “Tennis.” He shrugged and chuckled, as if it was the best joke he could tell. He saw the confusion on your face and quickly added, “Not really, Sports Management. But it’s not even a plan B. If I don’t make it pro, then all of this is pointless,” he explained. You wondered if he also felt this wasn’t a conversation suited for a party. If he, too, was asking himself why he was speaking to you so openly.

You nodded, assuming the conversation would end there, especially when one of his friends approached him, but Art stayed by your side, even introduced you- like you were an old friend from high school. Like you two go way back. Talking with Art was effortless and funny. His humor was on point. His manners weren’t far from yours. He didn’t touch you too much, only pulling you slightly closer when he felt you were drifting away. Almost marking territory when one of your friends came over to say hi. When Josie gave him a scrutinizing look, he simply smiled and introduced himself. She nodded, handed you a fresh cup of the same drink, and disappeared just as quickly as she had arrived.

“I could’ve made you a drink, you know,” he said suddenly, the amused look never leaving his face as he studied you. “Josie makes the perfect drink,” you replied, and he took it from your hand, taking a sip without breaking eye contact. “The perfect drink is just orange juice?” He raised an eyebrow as he handed the cup back to you. “There’s vodka in there,” you rolled your eyes, trying to regain some of the dignity you felt you had just lost. “Do you want to dance with me?” he asked. “Where did that come from?” You couldn’t hide your surprise. “We’re at a party, and I want to dance,” he shrugged for what felt like the millionth time, speaking as if every word coming out of his mouth was an undeniable fact. “I’m fine right here.” You tried to wrap up the conversation, assuming that would be the end of it and that he’d just let you stay in your quiet corner and eventually go home, just as you had planned when you first arrived.

But he took a few steps back, keeping his eyes on you. “Why settle for fine when you could be having fun?” he asked. And there was something about Art Donaldson, you learned in that moment- he always operated exactly like that. ‘Why settle for fine, when you could be having fun?’

So, you downed the drink in one gulp and decided that this time, you’d dance with him. After all, you wouldn’t see him tomorrow anyway, and you’d both go back to acting the way you did two hours ago. Life would return to normal. So, you danced- sometimes ridiculously, sometimes seriously. His hands were on your waist, and he quietly asked if it was okay. All you could do was nod, because why settle for just "okay" when you could have fun? And with Art Donaldson, you thought you might actually have fun.

An hour later, you were already on your way to your dorm. His fingers brushed against yours, each time a different one wrapping around one of your fingers, gently hinting that maybe he’d like to hold your hand but giving you the option to pull away. You were both half-drunk- him more than you, of course, otherwise you didn’t think he’d be walking away from that party with you. You tried not to focus on intrusive thoughts about high school or Patrick Zweig, because no one else deserved to intrude on this moment. You always knew Art wasn’t like them. He never acted like them. He always looked down, turned away when someone was messing with you. You appreciated that.

"Can I come in?" he asked, half-amused, looking at you. Completely prepared to hear the word 'no' if necessary. "Well, you're already here." For a moment, neither of you could believe you’d said that, but he didn’t wait for you to change your mind and stepped inside. He studied your room like he was looking for secrets. He stared at a framed childhood photo longer than you were comfortable with. He examined the posters your roommate had on the wall and the books you had on your shelf.

His lips were on yours a few minutes later- minutes that felt like an eternity. It started hesitant, restrained, almost cautious. You couldn’t believe you were kissing Art Donaldson. That was all you could think about- Fuck, fuck my life, I’m about to sleep with Art Donaldson. I’m about to lose my virginity to Art Donaldson. And the more you spiraled into those thoughts, the more intense the kiss became. His hands found their way to every exposed inch of your skin as you both settled onto your bed, never breaking apart. He kissed your neck like a starving man, like you were his last meal before execution, like his very breath depended on the exact spot where you had sprayed perfume before leaving for the party.

"I’m gonna go to the bathroom for a sec, okay?" Your voice sounded strange even to you for a moment. "Now?" He sounded confused but not upset, speaking into your neck, making it seem like physically separating from you would be painful. "I have to pee," you blurted out the first thing that came to mind, and he pulled back for a second, looking at you with sparkling eyes- whether from alcohol or something else, you couldn’t tell. He nodded, and you stood up, hurrying to the tiny bathroom attached to your room.

You looked at yourself in the mirror as you applied deodorant, shaved your legs quickly (knowing you’d regret it tomorrow), gargled mouthwash, and stared at yourself again, psyching yourself up to walk back out in nothing but a bra and panties to have sex with Art Donaldson. A sentence you had to repeat to yourself over and over just to believe it was actually happening.

When you walked out, you tried to move as seductively as you knew how. Like in the movies. In Josie’s heels, which were a size too small but, for some reason, were in the bathroom, and panties with a flower on them- but at least you had a lace bra on. You had to work with what you got. You hobbled toward him while he lay in bed with his back to you. He didn’t react at all, which made you frown in confusion and step closer.

"Art?" You murmured toward him, but he didn’t move an inch. That’s when you realized that while you had been shaving and putting on heels that made you wobble, Art Donaldson had simply fallen asleep in your bed.

The level of humiliation you felt in that moment could have been worse if he had been awake to see you limping toward him, half-naked, in those ridiculous heels and questionable underwear. So, all you did was throw on the oversized T-shirt that said "Science is Sexy" (you had your doubts, but it made Josie laugh, and she had bought it for your birthday a month ago), took off the heels, and climbed into Josie’s bed- she had already texted you earlier that she wasn’t coming back to the room that night.

By morning, Art Donaldson was gone, and if you hadn’t slept in a different bed, you might have thought you had imagined the whole thing. . . . Almost a week had passed since Art Donaldson fell asleep in your bed before you found him sitting on the steps outside the Faculty of Exact Sciences. His wave in your direction was hesitant as you kept walking toward him. "Hey," was the first thing that came to your mind to say, because what else could you even add? You felt your heart pounding, and you knew you weren’t doing a great job of hiding your confusion- hiding emotions was never your strong suit. "Hey," he smiled- that same familiar yet foreign smile. The kind that had never been directed at you before, and you had always wondered what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of one of his smiles.

"What are you doing here?" you asked. You didn’t mean to be rude, but seriously, what the fuck was he doing here? "Finished practice early and thought it’d be nice to invite you to eat at our cafeteria. The food there’s better," he said. If there was any hesitation or nervousness in his voice, you couldn’t pinpoint it. "Oh." Again, you weren’t really sure how to talk to people like Art. "I have a four-hour lab now, so I don’t think I can. But thanks for the invite, Donaldson." The more you spoke, the steadier your voice became.

"Maybe tomorrow?" His hand moved to the back of his neck as he shook his hair, still not fully dry from the shower. "Maybe," you nodded, because what else was there to do. "Are you on Facebook?" he asked as you started walking toward the building, and he walked beside you. "No, why do you ask?" You threw the question back, it felt safer. "Everyone's on Facebook. How are you not on Facebook?" he replied, amused, nudging his shoulder against yours. "I don't know, it just feels like a waste of time," you said, half-truthfully. The full truth was that you had no one to keep in touch with. All your friends were here, at Stanford, and opening Facebook just to stay in touch with your dad felt pathetic.

"Well, do you have a phone?" His voice cracked for a second but quickly recovered. You nodded briefly, and he reached out his hand, waiting for something. "Oh, right, one sec," you said, digging through your oversized bag, which held far too many things that had no business being there, like star stickers and shoelaces. "Here," you handed him the device, and he typed in a number, calling himself so he’d have yours too.

"I wanted to apologize for, you know, falling asleep. I feel like a dick." His hand found its way to the back of his neck again. You decided to start paying attention to when he did that. "Don’t worry about it," you waved your hand dismissively. "It’s a funny story we can tell someday if anyone asks what’s the weirdest situation you’ve been in after a party," you added with a chuckle, completely ignoring the fact that he didn’t laugh. "This is my lab," you said, pointing at the classroom in front of you. He nodded, furrowing his brows slightly, but still nodded.

When you agreed to sit with Art for lunch, you didn’t understand that you had committed to a soul friendship, but when you think about it sometimes, you suspect that he already understood. Sometimes you think he planned it all with endless devotion, from the second he saw you at that party. That he decided to tie his fate to yours without giving you any way to escape. The conversations were deeper than any you’d had with someone your age before. You found yourself telling him about pets you’d had and listening when he told you about his grandmother, who raised him when his parents didn’t have the patience or ability.

The only taboo between you during those months was the years you studied together before. You didn’t bring it up with particular persistence and he didn’t know how to bring it up without feeling self-hatred and remembering bad choices and thinking about the time he wasted. The only time he said Patrick’s name near you was when he introduced you to Tashi as his girlfriend, and even then, he said it and stared at you as if he expected you to fall apart just from hearing the name of his best friend. But you didn’t fall apart, you smiled at Tashi the warmest smile he’d ever seen. And you started a conversation about her scholarship, joked as if you had no worries. As if any connection between you and the quiet girl sitting in the back corner of the class was purely coincidental. As if no one had ever laughed at you. . . . “Do you hate the fact that I’m here?” Art asked as you sat on a carousel outside a fancy building where there was a party he’d heard about by chance. “What?” you took another sip of the wine you were passing between you and mostly didn’t understand where that was coming from. You’d hardly been apart for the past few months; you went to his practices when you had free time and he sat with you in the library during his. On weekends you studied together (you were studying and Art was dozing off on your bed or his, depending on whose room you were in).

“You know what I mean,” he shrugged like a carefree person, even though his brows were furrowed and his hand brushed the back of his neck. “Here on the carousel? Here on the planet? Here in-” you started listing all the things he could’ve meant, because who even knows what Art Donaldson ever means. “Here at Stanford. Here; where you are.” he clarified. “Why would I hate that?” you were even more confused than before. “Sometimes I think you really hate me and just don’t know how to get rid of me,” he tried to chuckle but his expression gave him away. He was really scared of that.

“I don’t think it’s possible to hate you, I don’t think anyone could even not like you, Art” you sighed toward him, and it was the truth. Art pulled people in so naturally. A magnet for humans. He made everyone around him feel like they were lucky at any given moment. You weren’t an exception. The fact that he chose to spend time with you or be around you never stopped surprising you. “You’re full of shit,” he smiled his signature smirk and took another sip from the nearly empty wine bottle. “You never talk about the fact that we already knew each other. It’s like I met you here,” he got to the heart of it.

“You don’t think you really met me here?” you asked. Because to be honest with yourself, you’re not even sure he knew who you were in high school. “I always knew who you were,” you saw in the dim lighting of the park that he was shrugging, guessing exactly what was going through your mind. “Knowing who someone is isn’t the same as knowing them,” you tried to explain, “I knew who you were, I knew who your friends were, I knew you played tennis,” you said all the dry facts that characterized Art Donaldson, “but I didn’t know you. I didn’t know you liked comics, I didn’t know you talk to your grandmother three times a week, I didn’t know you prefer writing in a notebook instead of on a computer. I didn’t know you’re in love with your best friend’s girlfriend,” you said the last part casually, even though he had never told you about his feelings for Tashi. “How did you find out?” He didn’t look scared that you knew. He looked calm, like you’d just told him it was going to be sunny tomorrow. “Because I know you now. I know how you look at people you love,” you said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Art nodded to himself, like someone who just reached a deep realization he had no intention of sharing with you. “Do you really hate him? Patrick, I mean,” he tried to break the imaginary silence pact between you two.

“I don’t hate him at all,” you said. There was a time when you did hate Patrick, because he was the villain in your story. But truthfully, you probably weren’t even a character in his. So, you learned to let it go. The anger you carried was mostly toward different life circumstances, toward the fact that some people start from a certain point, and others don’t even have a way to start. You could hate Patrick when you thought about how much luck it took for you to even get to where you are, compared to the fact that Patrick had everything handed to him to get into the best college in the world, and he decided to throw it all away to play tennis.

“How can you not hate him? He was so awful to you,” Art sounded like he was, in a way, demanding that you hate him. Like he needed someone to tell him it was okay not to always love Patrick. He knew you were the right person to tell him that. He wanted to share with you his anger and disappointment and frustration and all the negative emotions that chewed him up every time he thought of his best friend. He wanted you to give him permission to be mad. But that’s not your way. You’re not an angry person- you’re forgiving and calm and level-headed. You don’t have time to be mad. Life will leave you behind if you waste it on negative feelings.

“You know, we never had much money at home,” you started to say, while Art drank you in with his eyes, just wanting to learn more about who you are. “My dad was a taxi driver and my mom used to work three jobs at once,” you explained quickly. “When Damon Jenkins, the headmaster of the Academy, called my mom in for a meeting, he told her I was gifted and that he was willing to cover all the expenses for me to transfer to the boarding school he ran. It was like a gift dropped into our laps. Like winning the lottery, in a way- realizing I could have a different future. That I wouldn’t be stuck in that same cycle. That if I played my cards right, I could actually do something with my life. Something a twelve-year-old shouldn’t have to understand, but I did,” you added, because twelve-year-olds shouldn’t worry about money. But you’d seen your parents worry since the day you were born.

“My mom sewed me two dresses, and to me, they were perfect. Most of my clothes were hand-me-downs from my sister and brother, so two new dresses were basically part of the celebration. My dad sat me down before we left for the academy. He told me people would always have something to say. Always. But as long as I hadn’t done anything wrong, that wasn’t my problem.”

“In our first week at school, there was this welcome party- you probably don’t remember. But Patrick laughed at my dress. The same dress my mom made for me. He said it looked like something someone bought secondhand because it was so ugly. Everyone laughed, but I didn’t care, because Patrick didn’t know how much my mom loved me. He didn’t know how much effort she put into that dress. And he didn’t know that that was his problem, not mine. Because I didn’t do anything wrong.” You took a deep breath.

“So no, most of the time I didn’t hate Patrick. I was too busy being grateful for the chance I had to one day get to Stanford. He thought we were playing some power games, but the truth is- I was never playing.” You shrugged and took the last sip from the bottle.

Art looked at you like someone would look at a protected flower. And he knew it was his job to protect you. He didn’t quite understand when that became his role, but people like Patrick weren’t going to get close to you anymore. Even if it cost Art his best friend. . . . The first time you ran into Patrick was completely by chance. He walked around campus like the place belonged to him. Like he was born there- but you suspect that people like Patrick walk that way everywhere. While life taught you to be grateful for opportunities, it hadn’t taught him the same lesson. Your eyes met in the cafeteria and for a second, he looked surprised, but you looked away too quickly for it to mean anything. It shook you enough to lose track of the conversation you were in. It shook you enough to make you want to skip lunch and head back to your room.

You’d promised Art you’d come to his game, and you’re the kind of person who, for some reason, keeps promises. So you dragged Josie along and hoped Patrick wouldn’t notice you in the crowd. You wondered how Art would act if he saw you. You wondered if his personality would shift completely. You wondered if the guy you’d gotten to know over the past few months- like any of your other friends, maybe a little more, to be honest- would suddenly become unrecognizable. You wanted to believe he wouldn’t. But you didn’t want to test that belief, so you didn’t go up to him after he won.

You texted him something short about a paper you had to finish but that you stayed through the end of his game and you were sorry you couldn’t stick around. He replied with a simple "okay". And the knock on your door came after two long hours of reading an article.

“Did he say something to you?” was the first thing Art asked as he stepped into your room without waiting for an invite. “What?” “Patrick, did he say something, and that’s why you left?” He tried to explain himself, but what came out was mostly a stream of half-sentences as he paced back and forth. “Why would Patrick say anything to me?” You looked at him with the most indifferent expression you could manage, not betraying how heavy his best friend's presence sat on your soul. “He’s supposed to go back on tour in two days. He came to visit Tashi,” Art rolled his eyes. “He didn’t even tell me he was coming, otherwise I would’ve told you in advan-” He didn’t even stop to breathe in the middle of his apology. “Art, I’m a big girl. I’m not afraid of Patrick Zweig,” you cut off his guilt with a necessary sharpness. “Besides, you had a good game. He’s probably feeling threatened seeing you play,” you added, trying to ease the tension as Art dropped himself onto your creaky twin bed. “I don’t think Patrick’s ever felt threatened by anything,” he laughed, a bitter laugh that didn’t quite suit him. “I think Patrick feels threatened all the time,” you said almost in a whisper. And even if Art heard you, he chose not to answer. . . . A year and three months later, you walked into your new apartment carrying yet another box of your stuff. Until that exact moment, you still hadn’t fully understood how Art had convinced you to start your third year of college sharing an apartment with him. It had seemed like a terrible idea at first. But over the past year, Art had planted the idea slowly and patiently. Like someone who had all the time in the world to let it grow inside your head. He talked about scholarship money. About Nike showing interest in him and offering to invest in his living conditions while they considered sponsoring him after Stanford.

“It’ll be cheaper than the dorms, and you’ll have your own room- you won’t have to share with Josie,” he’d said so many times throughout the past year. “We can do movie nights with a real TV, not on my crappy laptop,” he’d add little things he knew you liked. Your privacy. Quality time- which you barely had at all during your second year.

Until you gave in. Until you found yourself carrying boxes into an apartment with two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen you wouldn’t have dreamed of in a parallel universe.

“Hey! I told you not to carry the heavy boxes,” he shouted from his room, running toward you and tripping over trash bags full of clothes scattered on the floor. “I can carry a box of books, Art,” you almost rolled your eyes at him. “You can also watch tennis matches with me- it doesn’t mean you actually do it,” he said, grabbing the box from your hands and walking it into the room that was about to become yours. It was almost ridiculously bigger than the room you used to share with Josie on campus.

“I can’t believe we’re actually here,” you said, sticking your head into the empty freezer to cool off. “Took me a whole year to convince you to live a life of comfort. You’ll never be able to go back to the dorms now- not after sleeping on a real mattress and a double bed. I’ve ruined you forever,” his voice was amused as he drank from the cold water you’d left out for him. “I don’t get spoiled that easily, Donaldson. You should know that by now,” you replied, not lifting your head from the freezer to look at him. “I’m working on changing that,” he said with the same playful tone. But if you’re honest with yourself, you didn’t look his way to catch the determined look he threw at you. . . . You stood in front of your open closet. Not really looking, just letting your eyes settle on fabrics so you wouldn’t have to think about what was going to happen in an hour. The conversation you’d have with someone you barely knew, the measured smile, maybe a glass of wine to help you forget you didn’t actually want to be there. You pulled out a white shirt, slightly misshapen from the last wash. You laid it carefully on the bed. You didn’t love it, but it was neutral. And right now, that’s what you needed. From the kitchen came the sound of a drawer slamming shut. Too loud for a drawer full of utensils. “How much quinoa does one person need to survive?” Art’s voice came from the hallway- not so much through the question itself, but the way he closed the cabinet. Like he was trying to say something without saying it. “It’s not quinoa. It’s whole wheat couscous,” you answered, not raising your voice. Not looking away from the shirt.

Twenty-seven seconds passed (you counted) before you heard his footsteps down the hallway. He showed up in your doorway with an open water bottle and a towel dragging on the floor. Standing there like it just happened to be on his way. “That new?” he asked, nodding toward the shirt on the bed. “Not really.” He didn’t move. Just looked. And you didn’t ask why.

You pulled out another shirt. Maybe jeans instead of the nicer pants. Not because you were changing your mind- just testing. “What’s this guy’s name again?” he asked, one hand resting on the doorframe like he needed to hold himself back from walking in. “Jamie. I told you already, he's in my lab.” “Huh.” There it was again. That silence. Not heavy. But not easy, either.

You sat in front of the mirror. Looked for earrings. Found a small gold pair. Put them on without using the mirror. When you looked up, you saw his reflection in the hallway mirror. Leaning there, drinking water, checking his phone- or pretending to. “You think you’ll be gone a while?” “No idea.” “Because if so, I might invite people over. Or just leave the apartment dark and play depressing music. See which one messes with your conscience more.” It was a joke. Almost. You smiled, but it was too brief to be convincing. “You want me to leave the light on for you?” he asked. “Or is this one of those nights where you come back only if you really need something from the house?” You didn’t answer. Just grabbed your bag, walked out, and closed the door quietly behind you. The date wasn’t terrible. Jamie did everything right. He wasn’t too focused on himself, didn’t go on about chemistry or your shared lab. He let you lead, which you didn’t even know you needed. You don’t think you’ve ever led anything outside of your lab. You might not say it out loud, but it was nice. Being in a position where you got to decide.

He walked you home after no more than two hours. A completely acceptable amount of time. Kissed you on the cheek. Very gentlemanly. Very modest. You didn’t know whether to be glad or disappointed that his lips didn’t land on yours by the end of the night. Maybe you were hoping for more and didn’t want to admit it. Maybe his choice to “respect” you affected you the opposite way. You deserve to be respected, your inner voice said. It’s great that there was chemistry and he didn’t kiss you. It’s exactly what you need. To take things slow.

When you opened the door, Art was asleep on the couch in the dark living room, earbuds in. Listening to music at a volume loud enough to reach the hallway. It was metal—something he didn’t usually listen to. Like he was trying to drown out any unnecessary sound, no matter if it burst his eardrums or gave him a migraine. He was blocking out noise like his life depended on it. And all you could ask yourself, as you gently pulled the earbuds from his ears and covered him with a sheet, was what awful thing he thought he’d have to hear when you came back home.

When you woke up, Art was already on his feet, coffee cup in hand. Over time, you’d learned that Art wasn’t really a morning person. Not like you, at least. “You’re not gonna ask how it went, Donaldson?” you tried to start a conversation, and he handed you a cup of coffee exactly how you liked it—with soy milk he couldn’t stand. “Are you going to see him again?” he replied instead. “You don’t want to know where we went? How it was? What time I got back?” you tried to pull a reaction from him, anything. “I’d rather stab myself in the eye with a fork than talk about that nerd before I finish my coffee,” he said flatly, placing his cup in the sink. On his way out, he passed by you, pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head, paired it with a half-hug that clearly meant: end of conversation. He threw his tennis gear over his shoulder and left the apartment without another word.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that Art was acting like someone who knew something neither of you was ready to admit. . . . “Do you want to come home with me for the holidays?” you asked one evening while you were sitting on the couch watching another episode of Friends. “What?” You could guess from his surprised tone that he was looking at you with a confused expression. “Look, we don’t really do Christmas or anything- Hanukkah is the big thing at my house. And you might have to sleep on the couch ‘cause there’s no guest room, but-” you started rambling, wondering why you even brought it up. You just figured his grandma in the nursing home wouldn’t be able to host him, and two and a half weeks in a house like his sounded lonely. “I figured I’d just stay here, maybe get some extra training in or something.” You could tell he was embarrassed, and for once, you actually looked at him. “That’s dumb. I mean- my house isn’t big or anything, but it’s full of people and everyone’s loud and yelling, and there’ll be food ‘cause my mom’s an amazing cook and-” You tried to pitch something you knew wasn’t exactly appealing: your family. “Okay,” he cut you off. “I’d really like that, (Y/N). Thanks.” You’d known Art for almost two years now, and you couldn’t imagine a more sincere look than the one he gave you just then. So you just nodded, and the two of you went back to staring at Jennifer Aniston talking, without hearing a single word she said.

“So, just a reminder- my mom’s name is Sarah, and my dad’s John. My uncles will probably be there, and my grandpa’s this grumpy guy who complains about everything, but he means well. They’ll talk about Hanukkah like the miracle happened in our living room or something. You can ignore ninety percent of what they say and still understand everything.” It was a mantra you’d repeated at least ten times over the past week. But to his credit, Art didn’t comment on it while he drove. You left at six in the morning and stopped twice for coffee, and Art insisted on picking up flowers and a bottle of wine on the way, because apparently he couldn’t show up empty-handed.

“Wanna drive?” he asked at some point. “No,” you said too quickly, making him glance over with a raised eyebrow before turning his eyes back to the road. “I don’t know how to drive. It’s not that I want you to do the whole eight hours,” you added, feeling like it was kind of rude to dump it all on him. “You’re twenty-one. How do you not know how to drive?” He sounded more amused than judgy, like he didn’t actually hold it against you- just wanted to understand. “My dad tried teaching me one summer in high school and I crashed into Meredith’s trash bin -she's our neighbor- and cried for three straight hours. After that I decided driving wasn’t for me.” You said it fast, like it was a totally obvious decision.

“That’s insane. You know that, right?” He wasn’t trying to insult you, and honestly, you weren’t even offended. “I can’t believe I didn’t know that. Feels like something I should’ve known,” he added, and you just shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. A lot of super smart people never got a license. I manage just fine,” you said, with your usual conviction. “You could manage in an igloo. Doesn’t mean you should live in one,” he chuckled, and you gave him a light smack on the shoulder. “You sure you wanna pick a fight with me while we’re on the way to my house, Donaldson? My dad will poison you,” you said, and his laugh got louder.

You parked in front of your house, and it looked exactly the way you remembered it. A small garden your dad put way more effort into than he had to, an even smaller set of front steps, and beige-colored walls. You smiled without meaning to, but you knew Art was watching you, so you looked back at him. “It’s smaller than you’re probably imagining, okay?” You tried to prepare him. You didn’t want him to be surprised. Didn’t want him to hold anything your parents lacked against them. “I’m sure it’s perfect.” His smile didn’t waver for a second.

Your mom hugged him before she hugged you, which in a parallel universe might’ve been concerning, but you knew the woman who raised you well enough to understand that she showed love exactly as she felt it- with no delay. “These are for us? You’re sweet, but you really didn’t have to,” she said, taking the flowers and wine from him. “You both look way too skinny. Fancy college and they don’t feed you at all,” she concluded after giving you both a full once-over, acting like she’d known Art since birth. “Ben, Daniela, and Lily are already here. Becca’s coming tomorrow,” she gave you the general update, nodding as you and Art followed her into the house. Your brother, Ben, is nine years older than you and married to Daniela. Lily was born two years ago. They live not far from your parents. You’d never been especially close to Ben- the age gap, the boarding school, the constant distance. But Lily was like an angel dropped into the family.

You and Becca were a different story. Three years apart, and she never got the kind of chances you did. She’d always had to give up clothes she loved so you’d have something to wear, and she was never good enough in school for anyone to offer her a scholarship. College wasn’t in the cards for her. She worked mornings at a checkout counter and evenings as a waitress. Sometimes, when you thought about it too much, you wondered if she resented you for it- for all the times you heard “yes” while she heard “no.” You could cry just thinking about it too much, because she’d never done a single thing to make you feel like that.

Dinner was full of humor, just like you remembered your home to be. Every now and then you glanced over at Art to see if he was overwhelmed by the shouting, the crude jokes, or even Lily’s crying. But he was simply present, weaving tennis stories with his usual charisma. Drawing the room in with every word out of his mouth. You could feel his hand occasionally pinch your knee, a quiet reminder that he was here with you- even as his attention stayed perfectly inside the conversation.

“Sunny, can you get some fruit from the fridge?” your mom suddenly asked. “Sunny?” Art asked, shifting a curious look from her to you. “It’s just a sill-” “When she was little and started making sense of things,” Ben cut in, “she realized the sun goes down every day. And for weeks, she’d wait for sunset, hoping maybe this time it wouldn’t happen. And then when it did, she’d cry for hours about how unfair it was that for us to sleep, the sun had to leave. Every night, for weeks. The nickname stuck.” You hadn’t known Ben remembered the story in all its embarrassing detail.

All you could do was roll your eyes and ignore the way Art’s eyes sparkled as they stayed fixed on you while you pulled out fruit from the fridge. By the time your mom basically shoved you and Art into your childhood bedroom, tossing a couple of blankets your way, it was already late. “You can sleep on the bed, Donaldson,” you told him firmly. “Don’t be stupid,” he shot back. “You’re a guest in my house and you were expecting at least a couch. I didn’t know my grandpa was staying with us for the holiday,” you said, starting to lay out a layer of clothes on the inflatable mattress you found in the storage room a few minutes earlier. “Your room’s cool,” he said, ignoring your comment as he looked over the books on your shelves and the pictures you’d once pinned to a corkboard. You felt absurdly exposed. “It’s fine. I decorated it when I was six,” you rolled your eyes, and he raised an eyebrow at you.

The compromise was that every night you were there, you’d take turns sleeping arrangements. One night you on the crappy mattress, the next one, he will. You didn’t say it out loud, but you suspected the actual mattress on the bed probably didn’t meet Art’s standards either.

“Your house is perfect,” Art said into the dark, almost whispering. It was his way of erasing the awkwardness he knew you felt, and you couldn’t bring yourself to say “thank you,” because you weren’t sure if he meant it. “They really try,” you whispered back. “I don’t think anyone in my family, besides my grandma, ever tried,” he admitted. “I’m sorry,” you said the only thing left to say. “Thanks.” And you didn’t know if he was thanking you for the chance to see a family different from his and be part of it, or for letting him say what he felt without being ashamed.

“Art?” “Hmm?” “I’m glad you came,” you tried to tell him he had nothing to thank you for. “I’m glad I came too, Sunny,” he wrapped up the conversation, and each of you closed your eyes in your corner of the room. . . . It was one of those days where you felt the wind knocked out of your sails. Your last lab was a total failure, showing the exact opposite results from the research you’d been working on, which meant you’d have to redo it over the weekend. The discussion section you TA for part-time, refused to take you seriously in any way, mostly because you were, well... a girl. Which honestly made you imagine those first-year guys going up in flames. So after experiencing failure, catching the lingering sad glances Jamie kept throwing your way since your half-baked date, and a heavy dose of misogyny- you finally made it to the apartment you shared with Art around 9 PM. Wondering if he’d finally bought a corkscrew, because that bottle of wine had been yelling at you from the fridge for two weeks.

“Did you buy a cork-” The person sitting on the couch wasn’t Art. There was no sign of Art. The person sitting fully spread out on the couch, shirtless like he owned the place, was Patrick Zweig. “Oh.” You felt stupid for walking in like that.

He looked at you like you were the one who barged into the wrong apartment, even though this was your living room. Your safe space. And now, suddenly, Patrick Zweig, of all people, was in it. “Art’s in the shower,” he said quietly, and all you could do was nod and head to your room- feeling your heart beating way too fast for someone who shouldn’t mean anything to you anymore.

You were pretty sure you heard Art mutter something like, “I told you to wait in the room, why can’t you ever just do what you’re asked?!” right before you recognized the familiar rhythm of his knock. “Yeah?” you tried to keep your voice steady as you stared at your laptop screen. There was an article open in front of you that you hadn’t read a single word of- just there to make it look like everything was normal. “I didn’t know he was coming, I swear,” Art’s voice was laced with a kind of panic you’d learned to recognize by now. “He got into a fight with Tashi and had nowhere to go, and you weren’t answering your phone all day and-” “Art, breathe. It’s fine. He’s your best friend and this is your home. You can have whoever you want here. I don’t mind.” You looked at him with a calculated calm, hoping it was enough to cover what you were actually feeling. “Wanna go get dressed?” you added, smiling as you slowly took in the sight of him- wearing nothing but a towel.

“Do you want him to leave? I can find him somewhere else to stay-” He wasn’t buying the smiles or the focus on your screen. Sometimes you thought nothing you staged ever fooled him, that he could read you like an open book. “It doesn’t matter, Art. It’s been years since he was part of my life; and even then, it was barely a role.” It was a full-on lie, but he didn’t push. Just nodded and stepped out of the room, like he already knew why you needed him to do just that. You woke up earlier than usual, hungry because you hadn’t eaten anything the day before, and mostly hoping that by some miracle, Patrick would already be gone from your apartment. But there he was. In your kitchen. Holding your favorite coffee mug and drinking from the fancy tea Art bought you half-jokingly when you were both drunk. But the point stood- the tea was yours.

You felt your jaw clench at the sight of his half-smug smile. Your body tensed in front of this person who, just three years ago, made it his mission to make your life miserable every chance he got. “Art went to practice,” he said, like he was trying to break the most painfully awkward silence either of you had ever taken part in. “I’m not his babysitter,” you answered, defensive in a way that didn’t even match what he said.

“Do you want some coffee?” he asked. “I can make my own coffee,” you replied, trying to move toward the machine behind him. “It’s fine, I’ll make it- I’m already here,” he said, and somehow, in the middle of the dumb little coffee standoff, his hot tea ended up on your shirt, and your favorite mug shattered on the floor.

“I hate you.” It came out of you half-whimpered, way out of sync with your usual control. Frustration took over every part of your body, along with tears that he didn’t deserve to see- but he saw them anyway. And he looked terrified. “You just have to ruin everything, huh?” you mumbled, crouching to pick up the pieces of your mug.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick sounded lost. “I really am. I- I’ll get you a new glass. I’ll bring it to Art next time I see him,” he said, stepping back while you gathered the broken ceramic. “It’s not a glass. It’s a mug. And it has sentiment. But you wouldn’t get that, because if you had any sentiment at all -anything beyond arrogance and smugness- you wouldn’t be such a piece of shit,” you snapped, dumped the pieces into the trash, and headed to your room to change your shirt and breathe for a second.

You tried to remind yourself that you had a long day ahead. That you needed to finish your lab work. That Patrick Zweig showing up in your life like some cursed reminder of who you used to be would vanish just as easily. That he was the weak one now. The lost one. The one who didn’t know how to appreciate anything. You didn’t need his pity. You didn’t need his apologies. You had friends like Josie and Art. You liked the life you’d built for yourself. You tried to remind yourself that people like Patrick didn’t get to shake you anymore.

“I really am sorry,” he muttered when you came out of your room again. “I could not care less, Patrick,” you said in a firm voice that didn’t sound like you at all- and slammed the door behind you, hoping that when you came back, he’d be gone. . . . When you came back to the apartment, almost at the exact same time as the night before, the one sitting on the couch, alert and ready, was Art. “Hey,” you mumbled as you walked in with way too much stuff in your hands, which made him get up to help you without needing to be asked. “You want this in your room?” he asked. “If you could put it on the desk, that’d be nice,” you said and opened the fridge. You relaxed a little when you realized Patrick wasn’t there. You felt Art’s hands on your shoulders within seconds, his lips on the top of your head, making you close your eyes for a second in front of the half-empty fridge- typical of student life.

“Hey,” it was his turn to say. “I’m a shitty roommate. I should’ve at least warned you he’d be here,” he said quietly. “Art, he’s your best fr-” you sighed. “You keep saying that, but it’s not true. You’re my best friend. And I should’ve thought about you yesterday, and I didn’t. Just accept the apology.” He said it formally, still speaking into your hair. “I’m hungry,” you replied. “I made pasta and a salad,” he said and stepped away from you. It made you wonder when you’d gotten so used to his presence that you actually felt his absence the second his body heat pulled away.

“Patrick and Tashi broke up,” he said after you’d nearly finished the bottle of wine you’d been dreaming about since yesterday, and were sitting on the couch together in front of the TV. “Oh. You gonna shoot your shot, Donaldson?” you asked what you felt like you had to, but you didn’t want to hear the answer. You didn’t want him to say he was going to try with Tashi. “I don’t need any more luck than what I’ve got, Sunny,” you caught the smirk in his tone. “I’m not into Tashi. It ended the same way it started. Some things are more important than chasing someone who used to date a guy who used to be my friend.” His hand was on your knee, giving a light squeeze with a meaning you couldn’t afford to examine. You felt that if you thought too hard about it, you’d start crying.

“He’s still your friend, Art,” you said, not moving your leg away from his touch. “I don’t think so,” he replied quietly. “Why?” you asked softly, assuming the answer would be Tashi, or distance, or time. The things life just naturally leads you to. “Because I can’t love someone who treated you the way Patrick did. I tried. I can’t,” he said with a kind of honesty that sliced through whatever defenses you had left. “Why?” you asked again, your voice even softer, slightly shaking. “You know why.” Where your voice trembled, his steadied. And his face was suddenly in front of yours so fast you didn’t fully understand how you ended up at this point.

“I-” “Can I kiss you?” Art looked at you in that moment like you were holding the universe in your hands. All you could do was nod, and his lips were on yours. His hands explored every inch of your body they could reach. It felt desperate and deep and right. Like oxygen after the two days you’d both just been through. “This is all I’ve wanted to do since the second I fell asleep in your stupid dorm,” he mumbled into your neck, running his tongue over a spot just after biting it gently.

“This makes no sense,” you managed to say as you pulled his shirt off. Your hand wandered over the muscles of his stomach like a sculptor admiring his most precious work of art. He didn’t answer, but the two of you moved silently toward his room, only breaking apart to breathe and keep shedding layers of clothes. “You’re so beautiful,” he said as his hand unhooked your bra and cupped your left breast.

It was ridiculously erotic, the kind of thing Josie would giggle and roll her eyes at when you told her about it- but you didn’t care. His mouth was on your right nipple, and for a second you forgot your own name. The high-pitched sound that came out of you came from deep in your stomach. You tried to stay composed, to hold on to some dignity, but Art’s eyes met yours just as you saw your nipple in his mouth, and your breathing completely fell apart. Your hand found one of the curls at the back of his neck, and somehow you got a groan out of him without even doing much.

His mouth kept moving across your body exactly like you’d only ever let yourself imagine in your most repressed nights over the past two years. “Can I?” he asked as his face hovered near your underwear, his voice so turned on it sounded like speaking actually hurt. You were the reason. Maybe the blame. Depending on who you asked. “You can do anything,” you declared. And it was true. You felt like if he wanted to start painting you fully nude right then, you’d let him. “That’s the sexiest thing you could’ve said to me,” he said, and your underwear ended up on the floor.

“No one’s ever-” You felt a little embarrassed as you started to say no one had ever been where he was right now, but you caught the look in his eyes. Calming. “Do you want to stop?” he asked, with a calm you had no idea where he summoned from. “No!” It came out almost as a yell.

“Okay,” he nodded, and his mouth started to explore your pussy- first in light, teasing licks, then in slow, swirling motions you didn’t think a human tongue could make. The sounds coming out of you made him moan into you. His fingers joined in, and you could feel the intensity of the orgasm building so fast you didn’t even have time to warn him, but he stayed exactly where he was, whispering into you that you were perfect. That he’d never tasted anyone like you. Only when your legs stopped trembling did he start kissing his way up your stomach, soft and slow, until his forehead rested against yours. It felt like a small victory. You didn’t know whose, but you wanted to believe neither of you had lost.

“Do you want me to...?” you asked softly, reaching for the waistband of his boxers. He was clearly struggling. But he only shook his head. “Tonight was about you. I want it to be about you.” He smiled and lay down beside you, playing with your hair while you felt your eyes start to drift shut.

You think this might be the definition of peace and calmness. And somehow, all these years had been hiding it from you. . . . In the morning, you were hit with panic when you woke up and Art wasn’t next to you. Even if you weren’t in his bed, you knew you wouldn’t be able to forget the night you’d just shared. It wasn’t like the first night -at that party- when he’d fallen asleep and you never talked about it again. This time, there was intimacy. The kind you were scared to lose. A person so deeply part of your life, it sometimes felt like he filled every inch of you.

When you came out to the kitchen, you saw your broken mug on the table, glued back together with what you could only assume was some shitty glue he found at the house. 'Went to practice. Tried to fix it, but water still leaks through the cracks. Sorry, Sunny. We’ll get you a new one.' The note was short, the handwriting barely legible. But you looked at that mug with tears in your eyes and knew that the sentiment had completely changed- and somehow you loved it just as much.

Maybe even more. . . .

So, I honestly don’t even know what this is. As always, I’d love to hear from you- my DMs are always open. And hey, I hope at least some of you weren’t bored out of your minds reading this...... Talk to me ❤️

[ironunderstands]

These Aventurine, Topaz and Jade comparisons are getting out of hand…

As much as I adore both of them, I think it’s very disingenuous to compare Aventurine and Topaz’s lore and be like “but they are the same!!!! If people like Aventurine and dislike Topaz that’s just misogyny!!! and like… no?

Topaz’s whole thing is that she doesn’t know the extent of the IPC’s evil, and believes that what she’s doing is genuinely the right thing to do. Even if she never had a choice in joining the IPC, she (incorrectly) believes what they did to her and her planet is justified, logical and moral, and for those reasons she stands with them. Part of this is likely IPC brainwashing, as she was probably very young when she became an indentured servant to them, and someone living on a planet on the brink of destruction would likely view anyone who stepped up to save them as heroes (imo the IPC likely waited for the point of no return to establish contact so her people had no other choice to except).

However Topaz got best end of the proverbial stick, her planet and its people were deemed useful by the IPC, and didn’t fight back, even if in the end they were still exploited.

Unfortunately, we have seen through Boothill, Belabog and Aventurine what happens when that isn’t the case.

Boothill’s planet got bombed and people genocided because they had a resource useful to the IPC, but were unwilling to cooperate with them or hand over their home, so the IPC decided to eradicate them.

Belabog had a debt owed to the IPC that was ridiculously high and very unfair to expect them to pay back, and had Topaz not convinced the higher ups to give them some time (which she got demoted for), the IPC would have taken Belabog by force

That leaves us with Aventurine, whose story is in no way on the same level of bad as Topaz’s. Unlike her, he has witnessed and experienced firsthand the truly awful shit the IPC can do.

They took custody of Sigonia and promised to offer the Avgin aid in their fight against the Katacans, at the very least protect them from harm. (Sidenote, since the IPC held control over Sigonia, they should have stopped the fighting in the first place). However, they simply stood by and did nothing, resulting in the deaths of around 6,000 Avgin, with around 3,000 went missing (or injured, I don’t remember, either way it’s bad).

But wait! It gets worse! Aventurine when he was still known as Kakavasha referred to the IPC as “the men in black/the men in black suits”, and his first master says he bought Aventurine from “the men in black/the men in black suits”, likely mocking the way he referred to them. Therefore THE IPC TOOK PART AND LIKELY EVEN CREATED A FUCKING SLAVE TRADE IN SIGONIA

Look being made into an indentured servant isn’t fun, but idk personally I’d take that any day of the week OVER BEING ENSLAVED

That’s not even to mention how horrible of a reputation Sigonian’s have in the galaxy, one likely spread by/resulting from the IPC themselves, as at least on Aventurines planet they do not have the mobility to make a name for themselves. (Honestly it’s a mini theory of mine that Aventurines scam is what partly contributed to this reputation, and his status as a slave is something the IPC conveniently left out in their broadcast about it-)

But, you might be saying, didn’t Aventurine have a choice to join the masked fools and leave the IPC, isn’t he free now? And to that I say, it’s complicated.

Considering the amount of suicidal shit Aventurine has done while being part of the IPC, he clearly hasn’t been having a fun time as a member of one, so why does he stick around, especially with the Fools invite? Even if he was a slave, does that absolve him of the crimes he’s committing now? What could justify his actions?

Revenge, plan and simple.

This is going to delve into some spoiler territory for the end of the Penacony 2.2 quest, something which I didn’t feel like mentioning earlier because I’m sorry but everyone and their mother already knows Boothill’s lore. Now, let’s get into it.

Aventurine accepts Jades offer to join the IPC, and when he becomes a Stoneheart, the first thing he asks about is the fate of the Avgin, to which he then learns that besides him, they are all dead. You see, from birth Kakavasha was pushed onto a pedestal as the savior of the Avgin, but now that there are no more Avgin to save, his primary motivator in becoming a Stoneheart (beyond not being enslaved anymore) is gone.

So what does he do now?

Simple, try to kill the motherfuckers behind it.

That’s why he takes on such risky gambles still, and why he wagers and wants Diamond to promote him to rank p46. The higher Aventurine gets the closer he gets to his goal of taking down the IPC for good.

Which is why his meeting with Boothill is so meaningful. I think Boothill is going to “kidnap” him and together they are gonna take down the wicked bitch that is Oswaldo Schneider for his literal crimes against humanity.

Mark my words, an IPC downfall is going to happen, and I think Topaz, Aventurine, Boothill and Ratio are going to be at the forefront of it.

However, Topaz and Ratio (and by extension the rest of the galaxy) have to learn/realize the true horrors of the IPC (although I can sense Ratio doesn’t really like them, and he’s learned a lot from Aventurine, I doubt he knows the full extent of the situation or is in any way happy about it). Therefore? Topaz mental breakdown arc? Ratio lore? PLEASE??!? The IP3 compliment one another so well and god I can’t wait for that to come to fruition.

I really want to see a Topaz and Ratio centered story leading up to an IPC smackdown, and I think we are gonna learn a lot more about how shitty they are in the later half of 2.2 and in 2.3 when the interlude and Jades release arrive.

As for the aforementioned Jade, she’s gonna need a Aventurine squared amount of trauma or reasoning behind her actions to seem in any way sympathetic, because right now she just seems like an evil bitch (in a semi good way, I will always respect the commitment to the bit) who loves her job and would make Machiavelli weep over how hard her ends are trying to justify her means.

[that-one-unfunny-hoe]

Okay i did not read the books, i only watched the show SO LET ME BE DELUSIONAL IN PEACE OKAY?

ALSO PROBABLY HANDMAIDS TALE SEASON 6 SPOILERS AHEAD MAYBE NOT IDK.

The way Nick and June just LOOK at each other?? The tension??? The “I would burn the world for you but we can't” energy??

THEIR EYES HAVE MORE SEX THAN HALF THE ACTUAL SEX ON TV.

And meanwhile June’s husband???

I’m sorry but he’s just there. Like a tree. A supportive tree, sure, but a non-sexy, beige tree. There’s no fire. No ache. No “meet me in the shadows and betray our regime for a single kiss” vibe.

Nick walks on screen and suddenly I can’t breathe. June says ONE WORD and he’s already undressing her with his soul.

LET THEM BE TOGETHER. LET THEM DO CRIMES. LET THEM FUCK!!!

If this show doesn’t give us what we want I’m writing fanfic out of pure spite.

They are out here acting like war-torn soulmates in the middle of a dystopia and STILL can’t get 5 minutes alone without someone interrupting or society collapsing???

BABES. THIS IS AN INJUSTICE.

June is out here risking her life, screaming at power structures, smuggling people, and Nick is just standing in the rain looking like he’s about to confess eternal love or rip off his coat and kiss her against a wall.

THEY’RE IN LOVE. LET THEM BE TOXIC. LET THEM BE MESSY. LET THEM HAVE ONE NIGHT OF RELEASE.

I’ll wait. But if episode 4 doesn’t deliver, I riot. Or write smut. Same thing.

FUCK. LUKE.

He can pack his boring-ass beige button-up, sip a lukewarm cup of Canadian government coffee, and go braid Moira’s hair in peaceful irrelevance because June?

June needs to be with Nick "I’d Burn Gilead for You" Blaine.

Like bro, Luke had YEARS. YEARS!!!

And all he gave us was guilt trips, confusion, and passive-aggressive trauma invalidation.

Meanwhile Nick???

Soft voice. Intense eyes. Absolute devastation every time he looks at her.

New Bethlehem Nick is PEAK HOT.

Diplomatic. Dangerous. Emotionally repressed with simmering passion underneath?

Sir, build June a life there. You already built a home in her chest.

Also… the baby???

The sacrifices???

I need therapy.

LIKE SIR, YOU HAVE POWER NOW. DO SOMETHING HOT WITH IT!!!

Nick, baby, you’re a Commander. You’ve got:

Access.

Authority.

Smolder.

A tragic backstory and incredible jawline.

USE THAT TO GET HANNAH OUT.

GET JUNE IN.

THEN GET. 👏TO. 👏FUCKING.

Like bro. You’re literally one stolen key and one whisper to Lawrence away from starting the greatest forbidden lovers’ revolution in dystopian TV history.

Meanwhile June is out here sobbing in the rain, writing trauma poetry in her eyes, waiting for a real man to commit one sexy rebellion.

AND YOU’RE STANDING THERE DOING THAT LITTLE “LOOKING AT HER FROM A DISTANCE WITH A PAINED EXPRESSION” THING???

ENOUGH.

Save Hannah.

Steal June.

Raise Nicole.

FUCK. IN. A. DUSTY. DYSTOPIAN. ROOM. WITH. A. SINGLE. LAMP. ON.

Honestly? I’ll write it myself if the show doesn’t.

I’m MAD.

JUNE is probably mad too, she hasn’t had a real orgasm since Season 2!!

Nick is out here Commandering like a sad little simp in a tailored coat and the writers are like:

“Let’s focus on Aunt Lydia’s diary instead.”

NO.

Give us:

Window sex

Desk sex

“We shouldn’t be doing this but do it anyway” sex

“We are broken people but somehow whole together” sex

Until then?

We riot.

We manifest.

We write fanfic with unholy levels of detail.

[ayrtonswnna]

"TROUBLESOME!" 〃 oscar piastri x lila morris (female!oc)

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✧₊⁺ oneshot. fluff/crack. word count: 4.2k +

✧ my masterlist! ✧ requests are open! ✧ more osc!

five times oscar went to his girlfriend's rescue; she has a history.

warnings: character facing racism, fun couple, osc being a softie, not much happening i just liked the concept, sweet and supportive couple. would probably write a texting au of this.

01. THE MCLAREN 720S

Lila wanted to drive the supercar the moment it was parked inside her boyfriend’s garage.

The boyfriend in question—a man professionally skilled behind the wheel—knew it wasn’t a good idea. But, yeah. She had those big brown eyes, round like a puppy’s, lips plump in a perfect pout, looking so damn kissable. And there they were.

"Alright. No parallel parking, no over-speeding. And—" Oscar paused, exhaling through his nose. "You go to college and come back home. Alright?" He handed her the keys, and before he could react, they slipped from his fingers as Lila jumped excitedly.

"Yes! Yes, babe! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I swear I’ll take care of her!" She launched herself at him, pressing messy kisses all over his face. He chuckled, cheeks flushing as he tried to keep his cool. "I love you! I love you, Osc! I’ll reward you for this! Byeee!"

"Yeah, love you too. See ya."

It took about three hours.

A call from an unsaved number—he already knew where it was coming from.

Another McLaren out of the garage. Another trip straight to the police department. Another worried Oscar Piastri behind the wheel, just hoping his girlfriend wasn’t hurt—or in too much trouble.

"What did you do this time?" he sighed, walking into the room where she was properly locked in.

Lila looked up at him, mischief sparkling in her eyes. "Proudly informed the officer that his mom didn’t ask me if I stole the car when I fucked her in the backseat last night."

Oscar rubbed his face. Exasperated. And yet, somehow, his heart softened.

Lila had a way of making chaos seem like just another part of her charm. She was impulsive, and he was well aware of her short temper when it came to authority. He was also aware that, as a woman of color, the scrutiny she faced behind the wheel of an expensive car was different. He could drive the McLaren a hundred times and never get pulled over. But for her? It was a different story.

"Of course you did," he muttered, scratching his face, more tired than anything.

Oscar wasn’t the type to make a scene. He had enough influence to cause trouble if he wanted to, but he wouldn’t—not with Lila around. She’d kill him for it.

"I’ll pay, and we’ll go, alright?" He sighed as an officer approached, probably to guide him through the process.

"Not your fault." Lila smiled, that same mischievous gleam still in her eyes. "Thank God you’re a millionaire, or I’d be locked up for life."

"I wouldn’t let that happen, even if we were debt-ridden." Oscar raised an eyebrow. "Wait here, alright? Love ya."

"Love you too." She grinned as he was led through the hallway.

"Is this... is this girl with you?" an officer asked, eyeing him with confusion.

Oscar frowned. "Yes. My girlfriend."

"Oh, so the car is yours, then?" The officer scoffed. "I knew it wasn’t hers. If she wasn’t so dirty-mouthed, this could’ve ended without your wallet."

Oscar’s expression darkened. "Yeah, she’s running out of patience for people like you," he said flatly. "And I don’t blame her. Now, where do I sign? How much do I need to pay?"

"Your little girlfriend committed a crime, Mr. Piastri. It’s not about patience—it’s unlawful."

"Having an expensive car was her crime, I guess." Oscar shrugged. "But it’s fine. She’s tough. She’s used to this mess. Let me pay, and I’ll take her and her car home."

The officer exhaled, reluctant but defeated. The process was quick, and soon enough, Oscar had the keys back in his hand. He returned to Lila, shaking his head as she smirked up at him.

"Let’s go, troublemaker," he said, voice laced with fond exasperation. "For once, I think you’re the victim in this."

02. NIGHT OUT

Oscar and Lila had been dating since middle school. Oscar, as calm and quiet as he was, was used to waiting for Lila at home on her nights out with her college friends. That night was no different.

He usually stayed awake, just in case of an emergency. Again, that night was no different. Her name flashing across his phone at past three a.m. meant only one thing: trouble.

"Heeey, Osc! The famous boyfriend of the crew!" a voice slurred.

Not Lila.

"Yeah, that’s me," he chuckled, already out of bed. "What’s going on? Where’s Lila?"

"So… Okay, handsome. Let me break it down to you. I didn’t know she-she could go so far! Fuckity fuck! Your girl is a beast!"

Oscar sighed. If her friend was like this, he could only imagine Lila.

Minutes later, he pulled up to the club she had surely mentioned before heading out. The moment he spotted her sitting on the sidewalk, bundled up in her coat, little purse hanging around her neck, and eyes droopy from exhaustion, he wanted to laugh.

"Babyyyyyy… helloooo, baby." She beamed up at him, lips trembling from the cold. "Hey, I missed you."

"Missed you too, bug. What are you doing all alone?" He took her purse off her shoulder, slinging it over his before crouching down. "Had too much to drink, huh?"

"No, baby. Nooo, I didn’t drink that much." She blatantly lied, letting herself melt into his arms as he scooped her up. "Wooow, that is sooo good. You’re like my prince, right? You are my prince."

"I do save you from a lot, guess I can handle that title." He carried her to the car, setting her inside with practiced ease. "Alright, saved princess. If you need to throw up, tell me. Seriously. Tell me."

"I love this car, Oscie. I would never ruin our beautiful seats." She smiled that same childish smile before sighing dramatically. "I looove you… Osc, I love you sooooo much."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "I love you too, bug."

Lila let out a dramatic gasp, eyes widening. "No, no, nooo, you don’t get it. I love you soooo much it hurts! Like, physically. Ow."

Oscar raised a brow, fighting back a smile. "It hurts?"

"Yes!" she threw her hands up, nearly smacking herself in the face. "Because you're so pretty, Oscar. It’s not fair. How do you get to be this pretty and this nice? Huh? Explain that."

"Genetics, I guess?" he teased, turning onto their street. "Or maybe you're just very, very drunk."

"Noooo, you don’t understand!" she sniffled, and Oscar’s amusement instantly turned into concern as he glanced at her again. Her lower lip trembled, eyes welling up with tears. "You’re so pretty. And I love you. And you always pick me up and take care of me and—" a small hiccup interrupted her sentence—"and you’re the best person in the whole world, and I don’t deserve you."

Oscar sighed, softening immediately. "Bug, of course you deserve me. Don’t start crying."

"But I dooo," she wailed, rubbing at her eyes and sniffling dramatically. "You’re perfect and I’m just—"

"My perfect drunk mess of a girlfriend," he interrupted gently, pulling into the driveway and shutting off the car. "Come on, love, let’s get you inside before you make me cry too."

Lila let out a tiny giggle through her sniffles, letting Oscar scoop her up again without protest. "I love when you carry me," she sighed dreamily, nuzzling against his shoulder. "You’re so strong. My prince."

"Yeah, yeah, your prince is getting you showered and in bed before you pass out on me."

Inside, Oscar skillfully maneuvered her towards the bathroom, setting her down on the closed toilet lid. She blinked up at him, cheeks still pink and eyes dazed. "You’re so pretty," she whispered again, reaching for his face with clumsy fingers. "It’s distracting."

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he grabbed a washcloth and ran it under warm water. "Alright, alright, enough of that. Let’s get you cleaned up."

The shower was more of a quick rinse—Oscar mostly helping her wash her face and change into one of his hoodies before guiding her toward the kitchen. He made her sit on the counter as he grabbed a water bottle and a snack.

"Eat this, bug. It’ll help."

She pouted but took a bite, eyes never leaving him. "M’sorry for crying."

"It’s okay."

"You forgive me?"

"Always."

A lazy smile spread across her face. "You're the best boyfriend ever. I love you so much."

Oscar pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "I know. Now finish that so I can get you to bed."

By the time he tucked her in, Lila was already dozing off, still mumbling about how pretty he was. He just chuckled, brushing her hair back before turning off the light. "Goodnight, drunk bug."

03. PADDOCK BUREAUCRACY

"C’mon, you guys! It’s me! I do this every other week! What the—C’mon, help me here! You know me!"

They might, in fact, know her. Lila was a recognizable face in the paddock—getting the wrong passes, wanting to be everywhere, causing a fuss with fans, sneaking into public viewing areas, and inevitably getting in trouble trying to come back. A security nightmare, a fan favorite. A gift or a curse, depending on who you asked.

"No pass, no access, lady. I’m sorry." The security guard stood firm at the entrance.

"Oh, man. Pleeeease. Please. My boyfriend is racing in thirty minutes! C’mon! I’m like his lucky charm! If I don’t get in, you’re going to be to blame for McLaren’s championship! I need to get in!"

"Yeah, yeah. Sure. You’d be surprised how many ladies show up here talking about Lando Norris and—"

"No! No, whew! No, not Lando! My boyfriend is Oscar! Piastri, second driver, you know? Vroom-vroom, consistent as fuck, pretty polite cat, Australian… You notice my accent, right? We’re dating, look!" She quickly flashed her lock screen, showing a picture of them together from her last birthday party.

"Sorry, miss. No pass, no access. Good story, though. I’d read that online."

She was sure he kept talking, but she had no intention of listening. Just a slight hope, a slight chance that Oscar still had his phone in hand.

And after a few beeps… There it was. "Sup, troublemaker? Hope you’re calling to wish me good luck because—"

"They’re keeping me out! I can’t get inside! Can you send someone to help me here? Pleeeease."

"They’re keeping you out? On my way, wait a minute."

It took no time; within minutes, Oscar was jogging over, his McLaren polo slightly wrinkled from the rushed movement. He barely acknowledged the security guard before his eyes landed on Lila, arms crossed, face set in a pout of deep frustration.

"What’s going on here?" Oscar’s voice was calm but firm, his eyes flicking between Lila and the guard.

"She doesn’t have a pass, sir," the security guard explained. "She claims to be your girlfriend, but without credentials, we can’t let her in."

Oscar’s brows furrowed slightly as he looked at Lila, who dramatically threw her hands in the air. "I am his girlfriend! This is so unfair! You guys let strangers in all the time—"

Before she could launch into another impassioned rant, Oscar simply stepped closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Yeah, she’s with me," he said, his tone final.

The security guard hesitated, glancing between them. Something unspoken hung in the air, a flicker of disbelief, like he still wasn’t entirely convinced. Oscar didn’t bother addressing it, just pulled Lila in closer with an easy familiarity.

Lila caught on immediately, tilting her head up at him with a theatrical sigh. "See? You almost had me standing out here alone while my boyfriend was getting ready to race."

Oscar hummed in agreement. "Would’ve been tragic."

The security guard, clearly uncomfortable, cleared his throat. "Again, sorry, sir. We were just following protocol."

Oscar waved him off. "No worries. But maybe next time, try believing her. She’s a bit of a menace, but she’s harmless."

"Hey!" Lila smacked his chest lightly, though she was grinning.

With that, Oscar tugged her toward the paddock entrance, his grip on her wrist secure. Once they were far enough from the entrance, she looked up at him, grinning. "You let them think I was some random fangirl."

"Technically, you are my biggest fan," he quipped.

"Please, I barely know your stats."

Oscar scoffed. "Liar. You correct people when they misquote them."

She gasped, hand over her heart. "Betrayed by my own boyfriend."

He chuckled, squeezing her hand as they reached his driver room. "C’mon, let’s get inside before you cause more chaos."

"You love my chaos."

Oscar opened the door, gesturing for her to enter first. "Yeah, yeah. Just get in before they ban you for life."

She beamed up at him before slipping inside, and Oscar shook his head, smiling to himself. Definitely a menace. But she was his menace.

04. DEAD WORRIED.

Oscar was halfway through reviewing race data when his phone buzzed. He barely glanced at it, assuming it was Lila texting one of her usual complaints about how bored she was in class or sharing a random meme she found funny.

But it wasn’t her.

It was her mother.

His heart dropped.

Call me when you can. Lila’s in the hospital.

He shot out of his seat before his mind could catch up, already dialing. The phone rang once before her mother answered.

“Oscar,” her voice was calm—too calm. “She didn’t want me to tell you, but I thought you should know—”

“What happened?” he cut in, grabbing his keys as he headed for the door.

“She wasn’t feeling well and collapsed earlier. They’re running tests.”

His breath hitched. “She collapsed?”

“She insisted she was fine,” her mother sighed. “She didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

Of course she didn’t. She never did.

“I’m on my way.”

—

When he arrived at the hospital, he half-expected to find Lila sitting up in bed, rolling her eyes at how everyone was overreacting.

Instead, she looked… small.

Her usual spark—the one that had her sneaking into places she wasn’t supposed to be and laughing at her own jokes—was dimmed. She was propped up against a mound of pillows, an IV in her arm, her skin pale, too pale.

And yet, when she saw him standing in the doorway, she groaned.

“Oh my God,” she muttered, throwing her head back dramatically. “She told you, didn’t she?”

Oscar ignored her attempt to downplay it and rushed to her bedside, pressing a soft kiss to her lips before anything else. “Are you serious, Lila? You collapsed and didn’t think to tell me?”

She pouted. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Too late for that,” he snapped. She blinked, startled. His fists were clenched at his sides. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down, before reaching for her hand. It was cold. “What’s wrong? What did they say?”

She hesitated, just a second too long.

“Oscar—”

“What did they say?” His voice cracked, just a little.

Her expression softened, and she squeezed his fingers. “They’re still figuring it out. It’s not… that bad. I just need rest.”

He shook his head. “You never get like this, Lila. Never. And you were going to just—what? Keep it from me until you magically got better?”

Her eyes flickered away. “Maybe.”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He hated this. Hated seeing her like this. Hated that she had to be this sick before she’d admit something was wrong.

When the doctor finally came in to say she could go home, Oscar stood up without hesitation.

“Alright, let’s go,” he said, already reaching for her.

She swung her legs off the bed, ready to stand—only to yelp when Oscar scooped her up effortlessly.

“Oscar!” she shrieked, clutching him. “Put me down!”

“Not a chance.” His grip was firm, unyielding. “You’re not walking anywhere.”

“I can walk!”

“Don’t care.”

She groaned. “You’re being ridiculous.”

He shot her a look, his eyes still clouded with lingering fear. “I almost lost my mind today, Lila. Just—let me do this, okay?”

She stared at him for a long moment before sighing, resting her head against his chest. “Fine. But only because you’re comfy.”

His lips twitched. “Lucky for you, I plan on keeping you comfy for a long time.”

And he carried her all the way out, past the amused nurses and her grinning mother, straight to the car—where he buckled her in himself.

She huffed. “You’re really doing everything for me, huh?”

He kissed her forehead, lingering there a second longer than necessary. “Yeah, I am.”

And he wouldn’t stop, not until she was better. Not ever.

05. THE FAMILY IS GROWING

Oscar knew something was off the second he stepped into the apartment. The air felt… different, like it was holding its breath, waiting for him to notice.

And he knew, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that if Lila had anything to do with it, the “normal” he was used to was long gone.

He closed the door behind him, eyes scanning the room. It wasn’t just the stillness that felt strange—there was an energy here. Something offbeat. Something… Lila.

Before he could take another step, a blur of fur zoomed across the room, knocking over a stack of books like they were mere obstacles. Lila came barreling after it, her hair a tangled mess, socks slipping on the hardwood as she slid to a stop. She lunged, all the grace of someone who hadn’t quite figured out the art of coordination—barely missing whatever had darted under the couch.

Oscar raised an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Well, this is new,” he drawled. “How long were you planning on keeping this from me?”

Lila froze, turning slowly, her expression morphing from frantic to feigned innocence in less than a second. Her smile was the kind that could melt anyone’s heart if they weren’t already in a state of disbelief. “Oh, hey! You’re home early.”

Oscar’s gaze swept over the scene—books scattered everywhere, a pillow rolling across the floor like it was trying to make a getaway, and Lila still standing there, caught with the look of someone who’d been caught red-handed. “Explain.”

She bit her lip, shifting on her feet as she tucked her hands behind her back. “Well, you see, I found her—”

“Lila.”

“—and she was all alone! She was so scared, Oscar, you should have seen her! She was shivering! And I just couldn’t leave her there.”

As if on cue, the tiny puppy peeked out from under the couch, its big brown eyes wide with guilt. Oscar’s heart softened against his will, but he had to keep his composure. This couldn’t turn into the kind of mess he couldn’t escape from. He turned back to Lila, raising an eyebrow. “So you’re telling me you’re just gonna sneak this little disaster in without telling me?”

She gasped, putting a hand over her chest in mock offense. “Sneak? I prefer ‘rescue.’”

Oscar couldn’t help but smirk. “Rescue? Really?”

Lila was already crouching down to scoop up the tiny puppy, cradling it like it was the most precious thing she’d ever held. The puppy let out a soft whimper, nestling into Lila’s chest as if it knew the game was up. “Oscar, look at her. How could I just leave her? She’s so small, so helpless. She needs someone.”

Oscar watched the way she looked at the puppy, her face lighting up in that rare, unguarded way. His chest tightened, realizing how much he loved seeing her like this—carefree, giving, and a little bit ridiculous.

“God help me,” he muttered, but there was no real heat in his voice. He wasn’t mad—not even close. He was just… helpless in the face of her charm.

Lila turned her head to look at him, eyes wide and hopeful. “I’ll put up posters, ask around. But, you know, if no one claims her… well…”

Oscar exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You already named her, didn’t you?”

Lila’s eyes widened, clearly caught. “...No?”

Oscar raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Lila.”

She sighed, looking down at the puppy as it licked her chin. “Okay, fine. Her name’s Peanut. But it’s not like she told me or anything.” She glanced back at Oscar with a cheeky grin. “Say hi, Peanut.”

Peanut licked Lila’s nose in response, and despite himself, Oscar chuckled softly. It was impossible to stay annoyed at this point—especially when Lila looked so damn cute trying to make it all sound so innocent.

Oscar dropped onto the couch, his body finally giving in to the absurdity of it all. “I swear, you’re the most adorable disaster I’ve ever met.”

Lila beamed, a proud smile tugging at her lips. “I know, right? But you love me anyway.”

Oscar just shook his head, but the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips was all too telling. “Yeah, I do. Can’t seem to help it.”

As she ran around, picking up the scattered books and pillows, Peanut following close behind like a tiny shadow, Oscar couldn’t help but watch her. The way she moved with that excitement, the way her eyes lit up every time she caught sight of the puppy’s tiny antics—it was all too perfect. All too her.

“You’re lucky I’m too in love with you to be mad,” he murmured to himself, half under his breath.

Lila looked up at him, a teasing glint in her eyes. “You know what? I think you’re right. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”

Oscar couldn’t help himself anymore. He stood up and took a step closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face, his hand lingering on her cheek. “I’m not mad, Lila,” he said softly, his voice low with affection. “I just… I think you’re the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, even when you’re doing stupid shit.”

She smiled at him, her eyes softening, and without another word, she leaned in, capturing his lips in a kiss that was gentle at first, like she was testing to see if he truly meant it. But Oscar wasn’t about to leave her hanging. He pulled her closer, his lips pressing against hers with more intensity, a kiss that said everything without needing words.

When they finally pulled away, breathless and smiling, Lila nuzzled into his chest, content. “I love you,” she whispered, the words a sweet, simple truth.

Oscar held her tight, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “I love you, too, Peanut’s mom.”

Lila laughed softly, shaking her head. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I know.” Oscar smiled, holding her even tighter as they both looked down at the little puppy—who, in that moment, seemed like just another part of their chaotic, perfect little world.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✧₊⁺ @ayrtonswnna, 2025.

[astroninaaa]

wtf is going on with cellbit - by a brazilian law major student

hey besties ever since the day cellbit released that PDF i’ve been keeping up with his shit bc as a law student (only two years to go!!!!) in brazil it’s kinda really interesting to see how it goes, specially since i don’t think we’ve ever had this sort of judicial action taken by an internet celebrity, like, ever. so i’ve decided to kinda explain what’s going on. if anyone has any questions after this i’d be really up to talk about it i love talking about law 🫶 xoxo let’s start. also sorry if anything reads weird english is not my native language okay

for those who don’t know, very recently, a judicial action taken by cellbit has made public. in this action, he’s suing over 200 people for the crime of defamation.

the action was taken to court in january, but it was under what we call “secret of justice”, which means only cellbit himself and twitter’s lawyers had access to it. now that there have been decisions by the judge and everything, the process’s been made public.

basically, cellbit started an action against twitter (NOT THE PEOPLE WHO COMMITTED THE CRIME YET), citing a little over 200 tweets that accused him of crimes like SA, psychological abuse, pedophilia, and others. all of those are real crimes in brazil — and accusing someone of committing crimes (specially as awful crimes as those) without proof is a crime in itself (defamation). he claimed that the tweets were harmful to his honor, mental health, and reputation, besides categorizing as defamation, since there’s no investigation going on against him for all these infractions he’s being accused of.

with that, he asked twitter to delete all the tweets, and to provide him with the personal information of said twitter accounts so he can sue them directly for defamation. he did these requests through something called “tutela cautelar”, which means the judge gets to decide whether or not twitter has to do these things before proof production and proper investigation, since, if twitter doesn’t do those things, the damage to his honor and reputation will be ongoing + he won’t be able to sue the proper people in time.

the judge conceded to his requests, and twitter has already deleted all the tweets. the main discussion going right now is wtf do they do about the international accounts — does our law apply to them? what’s gonna happen? we don’t know yet. that’s being discussed in court for the moment and, considering brazilian courts, it might take quite a while.

so, yeah, all those people aren’t being sued YET. but they will, probably somewhat soon.

it’s also important to mention that this lawsuit is from january and was only now released to the public. there’s probably a lot more coming after the whole fiasco that led him to releasing his statement, including a lawsuit against his ex herself.

now, other topics — could he sue other twitter accounts for cyber bullying or death threats? probably, but my personal opinion is that suing for defamation and focusing on accounts that were accusing him of having committed crimes was a much better move because it’s a much stronger case.

there’s very little room for discussion when a person has outright said “cellbit committed this crime”. death threats have more room for discussion: “oh, but they’re hundreds of miles away, it wasn’t a serious threat”, “they didn’t mean it”, “it was a joke”. same thing goes for cyberbullying: it can get too subjective.

defamation isn’t subjective. you accuse someone of a crime they didn’t commit? boom, defamation, at least according to our laws. so, to me, personally, it makes a LOT of sense for his lawyers to focus on that: he’s a LOT more likely to win than if he was suing for cyberbullying, threatening, insult, or any of that. also, he’s a lot more likely to win FASTER.

when he gets to sue the actual people who committed the crime, that is. for now, he’s only requested twitter to give him the necessary information to get to these people, which i think they’ll very likely be obligated to do. there are digital data protection laws in brazil, but a crime is a crime. digital data protection isn’t gonna protect you from the court.

another thing: LGPD (brazil’s general law of personal data protection) forces all social media companies to keep records of all the content posted by their users for AT LEAST six months. many companies keep it for way longer. that’s a law created for judicial purposes, in case something published to twitter, facebook, or instagram needs to be analysed by a court. that’s why even tho twitter has deleted the tweets, they still have them, and why it doesn’t matter if the people responsible are deleting the tweets, the accounts, the fucking app itself. the records are still there, and they will be used judicially.

i think that’s the overall for the situation, but i’m willing to answer any questions and to discuss it if anyone wants to! i’m a big law enjoyer. also personally i think cellbit is so fucking right for this like YEAH people don’t get to commit fucking crimes on twitter and get away with it. really interested in how this is gonna go law-wise, but in general also really glad to see someone take action like this.

[ceaselesswatchersspecialboy]

enamored with the bill possessing Ford's body au. If you would feel up to it, do you have more tidbits? :3

I’m happy to see so many people enjoying it!! I have a lot of additional tidbits so I’ll just stick to giving a few for now:

— Dipper finds out Ford is the author a lot earlier, for the obvious reasons of Bill being present in Ford’s body. He doesn’t put the pieces together right away, only because initially, he hates Bill, disappointed that the ‘scientist’ his parents spoke about that he wanted to impress turned out to be nothing like what he had hoped, ignoring and dismissing him instead, even taking a liking to Mabel before him! He has this idealised version of the author in his head, someone who he relates to and finds comfort in, and he doesn’t want to taint that vision by suspecting it may be someone who he hates. He may be a mystery lover but he is still a twelve year old with a grudge.

It’s only after he and Bill start getting along that he brings it up, and Bill doesn’t think to lie. He’s just that surprised Dipper found it. He does lie about not remembering things though to avoid Dipper’s questions about the paranoia and why he hid it — as on the spot kind of thing, and that becomes Dipper’s mystery fixation of the summer.

— Stan and Bill have various nicknames for each other, with Bill’s main one for Stan being ‘Fez’, and Stan’s main one for Bill being ‘Goldie’.

— Speaking of them, when it comes to their relationship, they are genuinely friends after thirty years of living together, but what that friendship entails is where it gets complicated and I don’t think I can summarise here. I’d say it can best be described as two people who have come to understand each other very deeply, and are similar in a thousand ways, but they would rather throw themselves off a cliff than acknowledge or talk about that. There’s also the lingering anger and resentment on Stan’s end, not for taking Ford’s body, he knows Bill doesn’t want to be stuck here either, but for what he did to Ford before that, how he hurt him. He, much to his confusion, does care about Bill, and Bill, much to his own confusion as well, does care about Stan back, but their friendship is built on something awful, and that doesn’t just go away.

— On a sillier note, it was in 1990 that Stan realised Bill was his only friend and that he sort of enjoyed his company, and that truly was a horrifying moment. On the other end Bill finally admits to some degree he might care for Stan in 1994, which happens while both of them are drunk, and Bill likes to claim it didn’t happen. The image below also probably summarises the lighter aspect of their dynamic better than I could word it here:

— Bill has taxidermy as a hobby and actually gives Dipper and Mabel a few lessons in it, creating some displays for the shack. Weirdly good bonding activity.

— Very specific ‘episode’ idea in my mind where Stan and Bill get framed by Faires that Bill angered a thousand years ago for a crime they didn’t commit, and Dipper and Mabel have to figure out how to prove their innocence, finding more about their Grunkles along the way, and also having to beat a fairy in a game of poker.

— Mabel at some point comes to the conclusion her “Grunkle Ford” had a bad breakup that he still hasn’t gotten over and makes it her goal to help him through it. This is part of her summer mission. It comes up frequently. It’s ridiculous I know but what is Gravity Falls without a generous amount of both angst and utter silliness.

I’ll probably leave it at that for now! But if you’d want more or have any specific questions, I shall do my best. I’m still figuring out some stuff too so input will be helpful.

[iloveyanderes]

Even more sagau and/or yandere ideas!

(realizing now i'm straying from the yandere side but it’s still there so its fine)(also heads up I will be posting the whole collection onto my ao3 account hellomelon8

1.my personal favorite, it’s a sagau idea where arlecchino picks up a random child who ends up being the creator, nobody knows at first so arlecchino thinks she’s just picking up some random ass child she found in the woods. When brought to the house of the Hearth the houses luck suddenly increases tenfold, the enemies stop being hostile, actually becoming rather friendly and help them out a lot. So many rare plants and herbs appear around the house, sickness vanishes, it was all so weird. At the time arlecchino hadn’t though it had anything to do with the child as she brings so many children to the house, all with their weird quirks and actions, trouble and blessings. But then one day the child gives her a flower-which arlecchino secretly keeps because well all know the dad of year secretly cares about her children. after 1 week the flower does not wilt, not 2, not 3, not 4. It nevers wilts again, but yet again arlecchino brushes it off.

But then one day the child gets a papercut and a droplet of golden blood falls out. Then all of a suddenly arlecchino realizes; ‘holy shit, this is the creator’ and now has to protect her child from a bunch of weirdos who are obsessed with the creator in such freaky ways.

2. Platonic Yandere Papa Neuvillette with a baby dragon reader, finding baby dragon reader while they were still in there egg. As we all know Neuvillette spoils that baby rotten as he had actually found another member of his race. I’ve seen all those fanarts why dragon Neuvillette is hugging someone with his entire body and i’d imagine him doing that to baby dragon reader, also when a mama cat corners her kitten and holds the kitten down while giving them a bath is what i’d imagine him doing. Neuvillette would be fiercely overprotective, even more than he is with the melusines. I’d imagine baby dragon reader would be very annoyed by this, especially when they’re trying to sleep and neuvillette is just towering over them. Overall it’d probably be like the relationship of a baby cat and an adult cat who have a bond.

3. Yandere fontaine trio x female dazai reader, reader also grew up in the house of the hearth and ended up committing so many violent crimes at a young age due to the previous head’s influence. Then one day one of the reader’s friends die and she completely changes her attitude, instead trying to kill herself while commiting good deeds as some sort of atonement. Meets lyney, lynette, and freminet. They become yander and are constantly trying to stop the reader from killing herself. Imagine reader sulking from a failed attempt at suicide not noticing the three idiots who had just narrowly sabatoged there plans.

4.another sagau-ish idea except it involves twins and a classic manhwa plot(ashtarte cough cough). Where a prophecy comes that a pair of twins will be born, one with powers of light who’d lead teyvat to greatness and the other with the power of darkness who’d destroy teyvat. I’d also like to throw reincarnation into this, you get reincarnated as the twin people perceive as ‘evil’, treated awfully and thrown into the abyss in hopes the abyss will just kill you while your twin (someone who also is reincarnated-who treated you awfully in your past life and was a bully) lives in luxury as they’re worship as a ‘savior’ so naturally you team up with the abyss, use your powers of ‘darkness’, team up with snezhnya, kill your twin and then take down celestia along with all the other archons as some sort of revenge. Ah, the villain reader. classic

5. Travelers aunty reader anyone? Aunty reader who took care of lumine and aether after their parents died. After a while the twins insisted that they wanted to travel on their own so the reader let them(then they immediately got trapped in teyvat) 500 years in the future aunty reader is super worried and goes down to teyvat to find the traveler. Of course the traveler is nothing short of relieved when they finally finally find someone they trust. So basically platonic yandere traveler traps there aunty down in teyvat with them because they miss her so much and who knows? Maybe other people might become yandere?

[a-polite-melody]

God, since the whole “bear vs man” thing came up again

Everything I’ve seen said in defence of using this as a framework to mean something has always relied on a cherry picking of stats and broad application of those to serve bio- and/or gender-essentialism.

The question is meant to be a direct reference to the fact that there were women hikers on TikTok actively stating that in their experience they end up more afraid coming across a man than a bear because if the bear were to attack at least people would believe that.

Great—same if a woman attacked you in the woods. You’d probably actually be believed more if your story is assault by a man than assault by a woman, even though I’d definitely agree that assault by bear would be believed more readily than either.

But men are more statistically likely to commit violent crime! So actually it makes sense that people would be more afraid to meet a man over a bear instead of a woman over a bear!

And people close to you are more statistically likely to commit violent crimes against you than strangers are, and yet I’m not seeing people out here using that statistic to demonize the idea of close friends going hiking together by-way-of “would you rather go hiking in a remote area alone and come across a bear or would you rather trade-off that bear encounter with a having gone with a friend?” Even though you’re even more likely to be violently assaulted by someone you know than some random man you encounter, so you’d think that the same people wanting to enforce fear of being in remote areas with strange men would want to enforce fear of being in remote areas with those you’re close with.

The thing is, what they’re doing is reinforcing their own bio/gender-essentialism (or sometimes reinforcing a trauma response, or both at once, but I’m specifically talking about the bio/gender-essentialism in this post (and also reinforcing stranger danger stuff they may have internalized but that’s even further digression)), as I said, by cherry picking which statistics they’re using to speak about the dangers of existing in the world.

And this isn’t even getting into how many other unstated assumptions are going on in the reading of the question and subsequent answer of it—just to quickly point out one: the assumption that we’re dealing with a potentially malicious man pops up very quickly in a lot of discussions, but I don’t often see people making similar assumption of the bear they’re considering being a bear that is more likely to aggress at you than the average bear (for example, by you unknowingly being between a mother bear and her cubs, by the bear being seriously ill or injured…)

But yeah, anyway, all of this to say that the “man vs bear” thing serves no utility beyond maybe dissecting the question further to see in what other ways we as people will create new ways to serve up the same bio-/gender-essentialism.

[citygirlyuno305]

As a lawyer, who I think would be charged with murder under American law vs who I think a prosecutor wouldn’t pursue

I’ve been a criminal lawyer for a little while now and thought I’d come at this from a different angle than I usually see just for fun and to make a note to myself of just how similar or different people’s primary concerns are going into t3 than what the law is concerned about.

This is going off of only their base crime, not anything that occurred after T1/T2.

I’ll preface by saying that murder charges kind of start when probable cause exists to arrest- cops arrest suspect and send the matter to the prosecutor, who usually has about 30 days to decide whether they want to pursue action, or otherwise, issue a DTP Notice (Decline to Prosecute). So, based on their info as of now, this is who I think would have probable cause to be prosecuted vs who a prosecutor would likely decline to prosecute:

(BTW this is different from my view of how they’d be found after a trial, so it does not factor in their defenses or any factors in aggravation or mitigation. Maybe I’ll do another post on that if people want)

*Committed Murder:*

Haruka- first degree murder with lesser included possibility of second degree.

I’m pretty sure he killed an actual child, not just an apparition or metaphorically killing himself. Tack on additional charges for animal cruelty.

Muu- First degree murder with lesser included possibility of second degree.

Being 16, with a public murder, she’d probably be tried as an adult.

If she brought the box cutter to school it would suggest premeditation or planning. It should be noted that premeditation and deliberation can form, and be legally argued of forming in a mere second- so even if she didnt bring that cutter to school or plan it out intensively it could still be premeditated and deliberate under the law. 
However second degree murder is likely more appropriate and would ultimately be an easier trial strategy to pursue in the absence of any additional evidence of premeditation.

Amane- First degree murder with lesser included possibility of second degree at worst, potentially pled down to voluntary manslaughter

Mind you she’d be adjudicated in Juvenile court as a minor below the age of 14; in some places she’d be tried as an adult, but if she had a defense attorney that was even slightly good it’d be transferred to juvenile court. So her potential punishment and sentencing would differ from everyone else’s because the guidelines differ.

Her charges would be the same though. Premeditation could be established by viewing her at the point she found the evidence that the cat died, walking home with the smile and promptly beating her mother to death. Its also usually pretty easy to establish premeditation and deliberation when the method of murder is beating to death.

Her background however would likely make a prosecutor think twice about going for first degree. Coupling that with the nature of her relationship with the victim, I think if the case wasn’t already resolved on insanity (because of the delusions and hallucinations she seemed to suffer leading up to the murder), a prosecutor would strike a plea deal for voluntary manslaughter.

Amane’s is likely the most complicated legally with both the nuances of juvenile adjudication and the specific facts of her case so this is far from comprehensive.

Mikoto- First degree murder, multiple counts because I think he murdered multiple people

Even though it seems random that he’d just murder some people he saw on the street its likely that the jury would buy into the premeditation forming quickly here. Especially if he murdered multiple people. Plus that scene in MeMe where the one guy is crawling on the ground and Mikoto smashes his head with the bat, its easy to argue premeditation formed when he lifted the bat to swing down.

I want to point out that at the moment I’ve isolated, which is the initial pressing of criminal charges, whether he is legally insane is not of consequence. There’s a lot going into this but a competency or insanity hearing wouldn’t occur until charges were filed against him. Plus, DID is not among the disorders recognized as rendering someone incompetent to stand trial or to establish legal “insanity”. I’m getting ahead of myself but absent any element of delusion or hallucination he is incredibly unlikely to succeed on an insanity defense anyways. He is also very unlikely to get a guilty but mentally ill verdict (which just sits between insanity and flat out guilty) for the same reasons but I suppose its more likely than insanity.

Kotoko- First degree murder. She planned it meticulously. Premeditation is obvious. And prosecutors love taking the opportunity to deter vigilante justice. With no obvious defenses this is the easiest case to make.

*Did not commit murder:*

Kazui- He definitely ruined her life and acted selfishly. But, he did not commit murder.

Mahiru - She was an overbearing and potentially toxic partner. But toxicity alone doesn’t make her a murderer when her partner commits suicide.

*Maybe committed murder depending on location and additional circumstances:*

Yuno- LET ME BE CLEAR, to ME, its not murder. But unfortunately whether she’s charged with murder now depends on her location. No California prosecutor would charge her. A Texan prosecutor would. Were it up to me, she’d be in the unambiguous not charged section.

Shidou- He confuses me. If he violated the standard protocol for organ donation and removal of life support (judging by his voice line of “youre in my way, die already”), a prosecutor would potentially charge him with criminally negligent homicide or manslaughter. There’s nuances to this but under the law we treat braindead people as people for the purpose of crimes committed against them. for instance, raping someone in a coma (JUST AN EXAMPLE) is still charged as rape of another person, despite being brain dead. Another example, someone random coming into another person’s hospital room and pulling the plug is still murder, because they lacked the authorization and consent to remove life support. So if Shidou acted outside of the scope of his professional duties and the standard protocol for removal of life support and organ donation, it could still be charged as murder, notwithstanding whether the victim was braindead.

BUT, if he followed the standard protocol, and was simply callous about the concept of brain death and organ donation until his wife/kids died, then it’s not murder.

*Would be charged with something else:*

Fuuta - He wouldnt be charged with murder outright but the facts of his case-stalking, doxxing victim and encouraging online hate campaign leading to suicide- would support an involuntary manslaughter charge.

[ricflairdrip20]

Rough Case, Soft Served Date (Emily Prentiss x Reader)

Symposis: You and Emily indulged yourselves with some ice cream after a rough case, and silliness ensued.

You and the BAU team spent a week in Deer Lodge, Montana investigating a child abduction case that resulted in the death of 9 children. It was a really difficult case, not only because the two UnSubs who posed as a married couple did an excellent job in concealing themselves and deceiving the community by getting involved in the investigation, but because there’s a number of families that you had to inform about their child’s death.

Your team managed to capture the UnSubs, but not before stealing the life of a nine year old boy, who was abducted just a day prior from the park after being lured to helping them find their lost puppy, which they did with the other victims.

Upon arresting the UnSubs, you and Emily went to inform the mother of the latest victim. After hearing her scream her lungs out, you and your fellow agent sadly walked back to the SUV.

It was a quiet ride back to the station, and you leaned your head on the window. You sighed woefully.

“This has been the longest week of my life,” you mumbled. Emily looked at you, as if agreeing with you. You really understood each other and it was the unspoken interaction that did it.

After relaxing yourself on the plane and drowning yourself in a world of a novel about a lady who relocated to Italy for a new life who somehow found herself testifying as a witness in a murder trial.

“Hey,” your ears shot up at the sudden sound of a familiar voice you always looked forward to hearing.

“What say you and I grab some ice cream when we get back to Quantico?” For the first time in days, a big smile grew on your face.

“Sure.”

You find yourself sitting at an outdoor table with Emily at an ice cream parlor run by a sweet middle aged couple, ordering a bowl of non-dairy ice cream. You two hate dairy. For Emily, she’s lactose intolerant, for you, you simply choose not to consume it due to veganism.

You sighed sadly as you dipped your spoon into your cookie dough flavored sweet.

“Wanna talk about it?” Emily asked. You sighed again.

“This case was god-awful. These families… losing their babies who didn’t even make it to two digits. You’d think after years of doing my job, I’d get used to it. All it taught me is that there’s some really sick people out there. Really sick people. Crazy thing is, someone out there is probably committing a crime right now that requires our attention that nobody knows is happening, except for God.”

“I know, but the best thing about what we do is that we bring closures to the families and the community nationwide.” You nodded. You were so repulsed by the ugliness of this case that you almost forgot that there’s people that really appreciate your dedication to solving the crime.

“Hey,” you looked up from your bowl and before you realized it, Emily booped your nose with ice cream on her fingertip. You laughed at the silliness, forgetting the rough week the BAU had. You can always count on Emily to make your day.

[ginxyy]

Leather, lace & Lacerations

There are a lot of unlikely couples in this world—salt and caramel, pineapple and pizza, people who willingly sleep with clowns—but none, I’d wager, more unlikely than me and Xu Minghao.

Minghao, stage name The8, dazzling performer, dancing deity, and walking human canvas of pastel aesthetics and Dior. Me? The less said, the better. I kill people for a living. Tastefully. Like, I make it an art. I’ve got a whole international network, a penthouse with a secret vault, and a body count that probably rivals a mid-tier war. But I compost. I’m not a monster.

Our thing started a few years ago. It wasn’t supposed to be anything serious—just an intensely hot, wildly emotional, deeply soul-consuming situationship built on knifeplay and emotional repression. Your standard modern romance. We were exclusive because neither of us could be bothered to lie to more than one person at a time.

And despite how different we were—him, a glowy K-pop idol with cheekbones you could use to slice fruit, and me, a shadowy figurehead of organized crime with enough weapons to take over a small country—it worked.

Oh, did it work.

He let me take him, use him, mark him, break him. And he did the same to me. We were equals in our chaos. Beautiful, sexy, slightly terrifying equals.

But, understandably, we kept it hidden. His bandmates didn’t know. The fans didn’t know. The media didn’t know. My underlings definitely didn’t know—imagine their confusion if they found out their boss disappears every other weekend to cuddle under a fluffy blanket watching anime with a man who gets paid to do finger hearts.

So it was all under wraps.

Until… the incident.

It was a Tuesday night. I remember because Tuesdays are usually when I schedule my more artistic kills. But Minghao had texted me:

“Hyung line is out for dinner. Everyone’s gone. Come over. Bring snacks. And that knife you like.”

Who was I to say no? I showed up with dumplings, a bottle of wine, and a butterfly knife that I lovingly call Gerald. (He’s got a pearl handle and everything.)

Things escalated fast. Dumplings were half-eaten. Wine forgotten. Minghao had his shirt unbuttoned halfway, straddling my lap on the couch. We were somewhere between “soft moaning” and “I am genuinely going to leave a bruise on your neck the shape of my dental records,” when it happened.

The door opened.

“Yo, Hao, we forgot—WHAT THE F—”

A full Greek chorus of “Oh my GOD???” echoed through the apartment. Standing there in the doorway were Seungcheol, Jeonghan, and Joshua—looking like they had just walked in on their son selling drugs with a demon.

Minghao froze. I didn’t. I just calmly grabbed a dumpling with my chopsticks and gave them a polite nod.

“Hi,” I said, while Minghao was still half in my lap, shirtless and gasping.

Then Joshua pointed at the table.

“Is that… a gun?”

Yes. It was. A matte black Glock, sitting casually next to Gerald, and a switchblade I forgot to name. Rookie mistake.

Seungcheol made a noise like a dying goat. “Who—who are you?!”

I smiled. “Minghao’s friend.”

Jeonghan tilted his head like a confused golden retriever. “Are we talking like, Netflix and chill friend? Or ‘let’s commit light treason’ friend?”

Minghao finally found his voice, bless him. “They’re… um. Close.”

“Oh, clearly,” Joshua said, gesturing vaguely to my hands, which were very much under Minghao’s waistband. “They’re inside you, bro.”

“It’s not what it looks like,” Minghao offered weakly.

“It looks like you’re getting railed by an international assassin with a Glock and excellent skin,” Seungcheol replied.

I smiled at him. “Thank you.”

“Okay, everyone shut up!” Minghao snapped, finally scrambling off my lap and buttoning his shirt, which honestly only made things worse because now he looked like a man trying to hide a murder and a hickey.

“Explain!” Jeonghan demanded, pointing at me like I was a game show prize.

Minghao sighed. “We’ve been… involved. For a few years.”

“A few years?!” Seungcheol yelled. “You’ve been sleeping with John Wick in a turtleneck for years?!”

“Actually, they don’t like being compared to John Wick,” Minghao muttered. “More of a Villanelle vibe.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Is this why you always disappear during tour breaks?” Joshua asked, squinting.

“No,” Minghao said too quickly. “Maybe. Look, it’s not—it’s not dangerous, okay?”

I waved. “Hi. Sitting right here. Very dangerous.”

“But not to him!” Minghao insisted. “They’re very sweet.”

Jeonghan blinked. “They have three knives and a gun on your IKEA coffee table, Hao.”

“IKEA’s replaceable,” I said helpfully. “Minghao isn’t.”

Everyone blinked at that.

Joshua narrowed his eyes. “Are you in love?”

Minghao and I both froze.

Seungcheol looked between us. “Oh my god. You’re in love. With a hitman.”

“I’m not a hitman,” I said, lightly offended. “I’m the boss.”

“Of what?!”

“…a non-profit.”

That got a loud snort from Jeonghan. “Yeah? What’s it called?”

I thought for a second. “The Deadweight Foundation. We… take people off the streets. Permanently.”

Minghao facepalmed. “Okay. Stop. Everyone stop asking questions.”

“Right,” Joshua said. “Only one more: Are we in danger?”

“No!” Minghao and I both said in unison.

“Well, not immediately,” I added.

Minghao groaned and threw a pillow at my head.

And just when we thought it couldn’t get worse, the door opened again.

“Hey, guys, I left my—WHAT THE—”

Vernon walked in, saw the scene, saw the weapons, and just backed out slowly like he’d entered a haunted room in a horror movie. “Nope. Nope. Not today. I’m too American for this.”

⸻

Eventually, they all sat down for “debriefing.” I offered them wine. Seungcheol declined but chugged it five minutes later. Joshua demanded to know how many people I’d killed (“Not important.”), and Jeonghan asked if I was open to threesomes (“No. And also… what?”).

They were shocked. Then suspicious. Then, after I patched up a splinter in Dino’s finger using an actual butterfly stitch and gave Woozi unsolicited business advice on covert logistics (he took notes), they began to warm up to me.

Minghao never stopped looking stressed, but he held my hand under the table the entire time.

In the end, they didn’t rat him out.

They were horrified, intrigued, and maybe a little afraid of me—but they could see it.

That messy, chaotic, gun-on-the-table kind of love.

And honestly? That’s the most beautiful thing of all.

[weena-mercator]

Inbetween reblogging all the fun “unnecessary feelings day” stuff, I’d like to touch on the bigger part of what’s happening here.

I think that for the most part all the giddiness about it which produces all the fanart and other “gay gay homosexual gay” posts probably originates from the same way I see it… which is that it’s fun and silly to point at Miles “Gay Disaster” Edgeworth but also understanding that this line is really more like 70% about questioning his morals and place in the legal system and 30% about Phoenix (along with some deeply buried feelings he’s not ready to admit at all yet)

(admittedly I only got in Ace Attorney in 2019 and then didn’t get really into it until this year, so… apologies if this is all very obvious. But I guess new people are joining the fandom every day, so if you’ve been around a long time this is nothing new to you I’m sure - for others maybe they’re just now exploring this stuff)

Edgeworth is struggling with the fact that he’s now questioning everything he’s been taught to believe when it comes to the law and prosecuting. And why? Because of Phoenix.

Phoenix has opened his eyes to the fact that not all those who are deemed guilty by the police are actually guilty, that not everyone lies because they’re guilty and committed the crime, but perhaps they didn’t commit the crime and they lie for some other reason (they’re not guilty but worried the truth about something will make it look like they are, they want to protect someone, etc.).

“Unease… and uncertainty.”

Edgeworth is uncomfortable with acknowledging that his whole belief system is fracturing after Phoenix comes back into his life. He is absolutely not okay with feeling anything but certain. And sure, a lot of that belief system was probably born out of a) survival under MvK’s roof and b) some self-inflicted punishment because even though supposedly Yanni Yogi murdered his father - they still managed to be found not guilty, so he can’t help but wonder if that verdict was right, maybe Yogi really is not guilty because he himself might be the guilty one… He can’t know for sure, but the last thing he remembers is throwing the gun, the gunshot, a scream - it haunts him nightly. But the nightmares are reminder enough of his possible guilt, so he tries not to dwell on it during his conscious hours if possible, he’s got a job to do: get guilty verdicts for others. But he’s not going to say either of these reasons out loud for sure (at least not for a bit), so it’s easier to try to convince himself and others that he is following in MvK’s footsteps under the guise of the man who murdered my father was declared not guilty because of a flaw in the legal system so I will do whatever is in my power to ensure all those charged with a crime do not escape the punish of the law.

And as a cherry on top, who is the one bringing all of these feelings of unease and uncertainty to the surface? Phoenix Wright. A childhood friend he hasn’t seen since he lost his father. Someone he must have really cared about as a child, surely - there’s too much indication that they were very close for a while before Miles disappeared because MVK took him away, making their reunion all the more complicated for Edgeworth. Phoenix still sees him the way he did as children, and Edgeworth knows he’s anything but the same as the boy he was back then (or really, parts of him are still buried deep down but it will take a while before he’s ready to examine things further).

Whether you want to believe Phoenix and Miles had inklings of feelings stronger than friendship as children is up to your personal headcanon (I lean on the side of yes, because I’m a sucker for kid fluff and the story just gives this whole vibe of childhood best friends who got very close very fast and felt really strongly about each other, even if they were too young to understand/seek out romantic love - but they knew they really cared about each other a lot).

Phoenix seems as idealistic as ever to Edgeworth, and it’s too much to handle that Phoenix could still be trying to see Edgeworth as someone he doesn’t believe he is capable of being anymore - someone he hasn’t been for quite a long time.

I think Miles probably tried to hang on tightly to his memories of Phoenix (and to an extent, Larry) after his father died, because Phoenix was still out there somewhere. But eventually he had to push them down… bury his feelings because he couldn’t survive that way in the von Karma household. Feelings and relationships were only distractions.

Well… now Phoenix is back and largely responsible for this crisis of conscience that Edgeworth finds himself in. That’s the largest meaning behind the line.

But I don’t think it’s a stretch to still say, yes, the gay reading of it is not inaccurate either - just a smaller piece. Those feelings of nostalgia and caring about Phoenix are being stirred back up - he thought he had been able to successfully bury them, apparently not.

On top of everything else, his thoughts are going to be that he cannot handle dealing with feelings for Phoenix. He has not allowed himself to develop relationships with others beyond what is necessary for his job, and even his relationships with MVK and Franziska are not healthy by any standards. So yeah, some of that unease and uncertainty is about Phoenix specifically, not just what Phoenix has showed him, but also what Phoenix represents to him - a past that’s not only painful to remember, but also a time where he cared about and was close to Phoenix. But he’s not at all in the right headspace to try to deal with that, so he’s going to continue to try to pretend he’s not having these feelings.

I like to think the moment when Edgeworth really goes “oh shit I have feelings for him” comes later, at a point during Turnabout Goodbyes (I have my specific moment in mind - I actually did not even ship them hard by the “unnecessary feelings” line, it was more like haha silly gay lawyers that’s fun and later it became I depend emotionally on this homosexual ship)

Um anyways is that how most people also view this? Lol

Okay back to the fun reblogging for the celebrations.

[sillysalmonn101]

The comparison I’m about to make is sort of a silly one, but it’s one that I think about a lot so I’m gonna make it anyway 😛

A big problem that Caitlyn stans have is that they love to say people just hate complex characters — typically complex female characters. Now, this falls flat for a myriad of reasons but the one I’d like to get into is that Caitlyn simply isn’t a very complex character, nor is she a well written one. This might lose some of you here — that’s okay — but comparing her to Rin (The Poppy War by R. F. Kuang) is light night and day in terms of characterization and fandom response.

It is a little silly, because the tones and message of The Poppy War vs Arcane are very different, but they’re both political statements at their core.

Caitlyn is not a good person, but the way she’s written makes it clear that she’s supposed to be. The audience is supposed to believe that, after everything that she’s done wrong and everybody that she’s hurt, she is a good person at her core. The problem arises from the fact that the writers want her to be a good person, while using the aesthetics of moral greyness for her character development. The dictator arc is never actually supposed to be bad, nor is she a bad person by the end of it — it’s simply a tool used to that Caitlyn and Vi have something to overcome (that being Caitlyn’s bout of immorality and martial law) at the end of the show. But I’ve already said all of that (and more, in better formatted posts) so I won’t regurgitate my old posts.

Caitlyn stans have an odd way of addressing her presumed complexity, however. They laud her as a wonderfully written complex character, and tell those who dislike her that they just cannot handle morally grey characters. This doesn’t really stick, though, when Caitlyn stans go out of their way to claim that she’s still a good person. Caitlyn being a good person, her actions having a just and pure motivator even if they were carried out poorly, her classism being artfully swept under the rug — it all removes any actual complexity and moral greyness from her character. She can’t be morally grey and a good person.

While The Poppy War has many of its own faults, and despite the fact that I actually don’t really like Rin, she’s undoubtedly a better representation of a morally grey, complex female character. R. F. Kuang is very, very deliberate in writing Rin as

1.) A BAD person. She’s not even really morally grey, she is a bad person.

2.) An exceptionally unreliable narrator.

These two traits are a key factor in why Rin is a better written, more tolerable version of the character that Caitlyn was supposed to be. Rin is clearly shown as a bad person — even in her own skewed, self-important view of herself — for the genocide of the Mugenese people, EVEN IF the Mugenese Federation was actively committing every crime against humanity to the Nikaran people. Moreover, the consequences of Rin’s actions — interpersonal and political — are very clearly shown. She loses friends, and people are mutilated and die because of what she does. Her wiping out Longbow Island was never framed as something just — and she had motive and knew oppression intimately, unlike Caitlyn.

Alongside her canonically being a bad person — with negative traits that are shown probably more than her positive traits — the fandom treats her much differently. It would be untrue if I said that some of the fandom didn’t absolve Rin of any wrongdoing because she is perceived as a “girlboss feminist” type of character, the majority of the fandom understands that she is — at best — a morally grey character. Her complexity is never doubted, but that doesn’t make her particularly moral or likeable. Nobody ever questions that she has done objectively immoral things that had a real, tangible effect. Caitlyn fans do.

The rant wasn’t particularly well put together, but it was something that I’ve been thinking about for ages.

Honestly? I don’t even like Rin. I think she’s insufferable even looking past the insanity and war crimes. But I think she is so much more of a better character than Caitlyn that it almost feels unfair to compare them.