#the principles of contrasting shapes have something to them

[solidagotea]

when the vegetable

yayy tutorial for how to make your art look sorta like this? perhaps??

aka the way i render when wanting to make a doodle look more interesting without following any principles of light and color

yippee

draw the lineart and the flat colors of your character. i’m drawing @chrometheraptor ‘s oc because silly, and using the syrup brush for everything but gradient overlays . (usually i use something more textured but this works for now probably maybe)

on the same layer as your coloring, use a darker color to add some basic shading to the more flat-looking areas of the design. bbut. not the whole character because i am lazy.

dots are good when you’re using a flat brush and don’t have the option of adding smooth painterly shading. they help to break up the planes to make everything look a little more natural

on the same layer, add minor highlights on places where the light would probably hit the character a little harder, like for here, the frilly edges of the moss. on moss. moss’ moss.

then, if there are parts of the character that would probably be smoother or more shiny, add lighter dots for highlights on top of the darker highlights. like on the horns. you can never have enough highlights.

you can also imply some texture while making the shading more complex. here, i put down some Gay Lines to make the moss texture look rougher, as well as the leafy v-looking shapes.

now, go to your lineart layer and set it to alpha lock. ignore the fact that the stuff i told you to put on the base layer is actually on a clipping mask

set it to multiply too. this way, you don’t actually have to bother with hue-shifting to make a darker color look decent

use the colors within the design to subtly color your lineart. i usually keep more important features like the eyes and horns black, and only lighten lesser details

make a new clipping mask layer over your base colors. with a gradient or any soft brush, pick a side of your character where you want to pretend to have a light source, then add a gradual fade into a brighter version of a color found in the character’s design. (heheh. yellowe) set the new layer to like 30-50 percent

from the opposite direction, add a new clipping mask layer and make a gradient with a darker color found in the design. set it to 20 percent ish

make a new layer above everything else. with a really light color, in this case muted yellow, add more highlights. too many. this is a great stage to outline more important features, as well as imply more texture with extra v’s and Gay Lines.

since the highlights looked a little too gaudy, i muted them in the darker areas around the spine by setting the layer to alpha lock and coloring over it with the soft brush from earlier

because this clearly isn’t textured enough, you can optionally add random markings with any textured brush. (i used a facet brush from my personal brushpack. might share that too if people want)

set it to color burn or overlay, or really anything that looks alright, and lower the opacity until it’s no longer stabbing your eyeballs out with contrast

wow look it’s a vegetable

@nevermore-ramblings hope this helps with. something

a

[the-hydroxian-artblog]

Any tips or guides on how you draw such wonderful mechanical/toy-like characters? It feels robust but not overwhelming, love it.

Thank you! So a lot of it is just knowing how to slap the joints on a normal humanoid body. If you research stuff like figma action figures and real life robots, you'll quickly build up a mental library of mechanical joints that correspond to different body parts. Many things that apply to robots apply to toys and things, though it always depends.

Once you have this library built up, you can kinda just do Whatever. Answered a similar ask a long while back that goes into more detail as well.

Some robots are much more detailed than this though, and the main inspirations I have for Normal Robots in particular are from Portal 2, particularly in Atlas and P-Body; the trick they use is having all the mechanical bits (usually pistons) being colored black and dark-grays, with the shells and casings being white or some other contrasting color.

This is an excellent way of having your cake and getting to eat it as well, because the colored casing draws your eye, and you get rewarded with taking in all the finer mechanical bits without getting distracted by them first.

This main principle is what I use for Kaita, who has mechanical parts, but often shows more subtly in her neck and torso/abdomen.

If you just quickly glanced at this closeup of Kaita from this older bit of art I did here, you'd probably not completely realize she's a robot, but seeing the strange geometric shapes etched into those areas might clue you in. To reiterate: while robots like Kaita are more complicated than toys, they share a good deal of mechanisms for stuff like rotating the arms, turning wrists, etc.

It's also just kinda a character design thing in general, is using strong shape language and going for something... toyetic. Which sounds redundant, but you'd quickly understand what I mean when you look at something like, say, Fortnite characters, or the designs to Ben10 aliens. They're not toys, but they all kinda have that Look to em, and they look like that not just because they do in fact have merchandise, but because that kinda blocky look is really readable, and excellent for action scenes and poses. Just that blocky shape language and strong color-schemes can do a lot of heavy lifting on even the simplest designs.

My main inspirations are Sonic and TF2, which I feel is weirdly obvious when you look at someone like Victor if you look at the blockiness of his body and the way I stick to a limited color palette. As-is he wouldn't fit in either universe visually, but you can kinda see how the design principles bleed into how he looks now.

[tofupixel]

Thank you for getting me to finally try pixel art! I‘ve always wanted to get into pixel art but I never knew what to start with and always ended up procrastinating. Your blog and the post you made on learning pixel art were what finally pushed me to give it a go. It was really helpful and I managed this little animation in Libresprite.

I definitely want to improve and your art is like the ultimate goal lol. Do you have any tips or instructions for how to get better or on what to focus on in the future? I‘d appreciate any kind of criticism/input you are willing to give! How do you manage to make such gigantic and beautiful landscapes?

thank you!! and i'm so happy you decided to give it a real go, you're doing great already!! the rendering on the body and the pink shading is really nice.

i can help a little with animation stuff but i'm not an expert, ill write something out about backgrounds at the end

i hope you don't mind but i edited the sprite a little, just to illustrate some stuff

🤺Animation stuff

i added an extra frame near the top of the arc so it slows down. this is called ease or slow in/out and usually happens at the beginning and end of movements. u can do even more slow but this is just a quick version

i also removed the middle frame (where the tail is straight down) to make the swing appear a bit more powerful. this could be the principle of timing in the same video. you can exaggerate smears if you do this, its up to you!! lately i tend to exaggerate stuff a lot, things arent super noticable in motion

i also got a good bit of advice from nickwoz that helped me, basically when you begin to animate, it really puts the rest of the sprite being still into focus. try to think of how you could animate other parts of the body, even subtly. and sometimes if individual pixels stay still they can catch the eye in an unintended way as well, just keep it in mind!!

if you want to learn animation more, you could take a look at duelyst sprites, they have incredible idle and ability animations, i study them a lot

heres one i downloaded a long time ago. i recommend just downloading stuff you like and looking at it!! i have a huge collection of pixel inspo. slowing animations down can really help you understand whats going on. its just a bunch of simple elements put together that makes it look so good.

IF U WANT MORE RESOURCES/ARTISTS I REOCMMEND TO GO AND STUDY LMK!!! IM LIKE A WIKIPEDIA, I AM A BIG FAN of pixel art and love to share

🌿 OK lets talk about landscape stuff

it looks like you have art experience already, but im gonna talk as if youre a complete noob cos it might help some other people who read this!! ur doing great 👍

❓ how to learn: study (and practise a lot)

what i mean by study: draw it, copy it, try to understand it. you can try to change characteristics about it. changing the angle or lighting can help u understand how something works in 3 dimensions.

sometimes it takes time, dont worry, you will figure out your own style through doing studies, its all a process

❓ how to draw landscape details?

study pixel artists and how they do it recommendations: fool, slym, jubilee, deceiver

also please look at real world references!! you got to build that visual library

❓ how to learn composition?

study traditional artists or animation. i did a ton of studies of ghibli backgrounds which i think helped my growth a lot recommendations: arcane, studio ghibli, traditional painters

im gonna break down a piece as well and maybe that will help. this is one from 2022 but its still one of my most popular and its pretty simple too!!

if we remove all the fancy stuff what we have is actually really simple. just a few large, overlapping shapes that all point towards our focal point. it's the brightest area with the most contrast and many edges point into it.

go to pinterest or google and just search "pretty landscape" or "mountains" or something and you can see what i'm doing is nothing special or unique!! break it down into bigger shapes to begin with, its just different areas of material mostly.

and heres how you can make any landscape from any colours. purple sky or mountain? orange grass? ok !! it all works, it doesnt matter. i just blend the colours.

when parts of the landscape are in the distance they become closer to the sky colour as there is more "sky" in between you and it. its called atmospheric perspective. so if the sky was red, the clouds would fade towards red.

OKKK i dont know what else to say so i hope that helps!! honestly 90% of what i do is intuitive and hard for me to really explain, so you dont have to know The Rules, you just kind of pick up stuff as you go.

GL and thanks so much for showing me your art!! please keep going!! 💕💕💕💕

[bixels]

I'm so in love with everything about your art!! I wanted to ask something about your MLP human designs in particular. all of them have really lovely and interesting face shapes/details. even though all the pony designs have the same head molds (save for eye shape), all the unique characteristics you gave them just... look RIGHT. is there a particular method or design principle you used? thanks for your time!! I can't wait to see more of your work!

It's all about shape language and how they inform a person's read on the character.

I talked about this before, but each of the Main 6 were paired together so I could design them in contrast with each other. For RD, I wanted her short hair to have a wind-swept look, as if she's constantly running. So bare forehead and hair spiking out at the bottom. She contains lots and lots of sharp lines and shapes to give her the look of a speeding arrow.

Felice, on the other hand, droops down a lot to reflect her solemn, shy disposition. I didn't want her hair to be perfectly straight though, as that'd suggest she spends a lot of time fretting over it and isn't outdoorsy, so I made it a bit of a tangled mess too.

In short, RD's features are sharp and point upwards, Felice's features are round and droop downwards. (Think Joshua tree vs. weeping willow.)

For these two, I specifically wanted to include non-Western facial features, as I found I haven't really included them in my character designs up until now.

Pinkie's bold and loud, so I gave her bold eyes, bold eyebrows, a bold nose, etc. I worked on Thea's nose for quite a bit and ended up abstracting the shape a bit to look more cartoony, borrowing from Pixar's Soul's character design notes. In cases like these, I recommend finding ways to simplify features and break them down into easily-recognizable shapes and forms (Cartoon Saloon are masters at this). The less visual noise, the easier their expressions are to read! And it's generally more fun to draw.

In short, diversify, exaggerate, and simplify. Figure out what works for you and get a little wacky with it. Character design is all about finding a balance between maintaining your voice and vision and creating something unique and lively.

[ptr-sqloint]

may a poor little wee boy ask how your colors / anatomy became so good? what are the practices? i might die of the plague soon so your secret will be safe with me

well the obvious answer is lots and lots of practice, but i'll do my best to give more specifics

alright so for anatomy:

it's pretty straightforward: i look at naked people( a lot of naked people)(including myself) and draw them. It helps a lot to make it more interesting by adding gore and/or being horny about what i'm drawing

It doesn't have to be neat or good it's just to get familiar with the shapes

Looking at how other people draw anatomy helps too. Medical anatomical illustrations are a great resource & i have a big skeleton poster right above my desk where i draw

for colours:

uhhhhhhhh man. uh.idk. i look at other people's art (including photography,film, anything visual) and if i find something i like a lot, look at how the colours are used. maybe make a palette from that and make art using it

a basic understanding of colour theory , especially types of contrasts is also very useful

to figure out a piece's colour palette i use photo references:

and i make my palette by colour picking from the images (and then messing with the colour balance and adding a colour blending mode layer if i think it's not coherent enough

it's a bit less straightforward for traditional art but the same principles apply

ALSO!! thumbnailing!!! especially if i'm indecisive or i have no idea where to start. I make multiple of them with diff colours and mess with them till one of them looks good

(keep in mind that i'm still learning myself and i don't have any formal art education so take all that with a grain of salt)

also here's a shmowder for your plague issue

[theamityelf]

Who all has who in the mini thh au

Great question!

Hajime- Kyoko

Both forgot their talents, both kind of on the abrasive side. Kyoko will be frequently sneaking out to investigate stuff on her own, which stresses Hajime out because he gets in trouble if he loses her. Built-in conflict.

Nagito- Makoto

Lucky students, and I love imagining the drama of Makoto necessarily being present for everything Nagito gets up to and trying to stop him and maybe succeeding in talking him down from some stuff. And just the idea of Nagito talking while they're in the cabin together each night, saying his usual weird stuff about talent and hope to Makoto while Makoto is all the way in his terrarium and so he can't reply loudly enough for Nagito to hear. So maybe instead he breaks something, just to make enough noise to interrupt. Honestly, there would just be so much going on with them.

Chiaki- Celeste

The gamers, lol. Chiaki would do her best to indulge Celeste's vibe, and I think that could be very fun, because she really does not know how. They reach a point of common ground when Chiaki starts making bets with Celeste about the outcome of her video games, and getting the other senpais and kouhais in on it.

Teruteru- Yasuhiro

This matchup was by default, but Hiro not liking smoke does add some tension.

Imposter- Junko

Imposter and fashionista are super compatible talents, and imposter and analyst are super compatible talents. Both of them read people and put on personas. They would see right through each other.

Mahiru- Hifumi

Both have visual art talents, and Mahiru would whip him into shape.

Peko- Mukuro

The loyal warriors. Very similar vibe. They would be very polite and impersonal to each other. Protecting Mukuro is secondary to protecting Fuyuhiko, of course, but having to care someone so similar to herself, but tiny and powerless, might be a very moving experience for Peko.

Hiyoko- Sakura

Both masters of a particular physical art form. Sakura's steady presence, both respectful and demanding of respect, would be a good influence on Hiyoko. Oh, she would still be super rude, but her interactions would shape up differently and she'd eat a more balanced diet, lol.

Ibuki- Sayaka

Musicians. Sayaka, being more on the calculated side, would be interesting to have as the person whispering in Ibuki's ear. She might try to convince Ibuki to do something she wouldn't normally do. It most likely wouldn't work; Ibuki is very independent. But Sayaka is pretty resourceful, and as a side note, one might think about the despair disease...

Mikan- Kiyotaka

This one was also kind of by default, once the more obvious ones were sorted away. Personality-wise, his bold presence contrasts with her more meek disposition, and she would be really proud of that. Taka argues with bullies! He cares about making sure everyone behaves. She loves him. She loves that someone so principled depends on her. Also, important note: When murders happen on the island, usually the kouhais are left alive. (Though murdering specifically the kouhai so that the senpai gets killed as punishment for losing them is also potentially a thing. Most people would consider it too low a blow to murder someone who's four inches tall, but still. Worth considering. The kouhais' role in this adds a new dimension to the kinds of murders that can happen.) When a murderer is executed, their kouhai is also left alive. Mikan always volunteers to take in the unattended kouhai, because she just really likes this dynamic. (If the Undead AU is Nagito's best timeline, this genuinely might be Mikan's, lol.)

Nekomaru- Leon

Because sports. I could have had Akane and Nekomaru trade, but this was the alignment I chose. (Anyway, if one of them dies, the other will take care of their kouhai, so there's a good chance Akane will have Leon later on.) Nekomaru is a good enough coach to make Leon actually enjoy practicing baseball. Just, you know, tiny baseball. Or, he's a good enough coach to identify what Leon likes and dislikes about baseball and direct him to excel in a way that emphasizes the aspects he likes.

Gundham- Toko

Another "by default" one, where breeding animals and writing romance novels are kind of close if you squint. The idea of Toko being in the care of someone like Gundham is actually super heartwarming; he would make sure she has everything she needs, he would tolerate any lashing out on her part in the same way he does the bites of his Four Dark Devas of Destruction. Toko would be very unused to being so cared for and accommodated that way. If Gundham dies, Sonia will take Toko. Which...would be interesting in a lot of ways, starting with Sonia's enthusiastic interest in serial killers and Toko's romantic obsession with Sonia's assigned kouhai.

Fuyuhiko- Mondo

Both gangsters with a need to present as strong. Fuyuhiko takes it farther than Mondo does (to the point where Mondo is often protesting the things Fuyuhiko says), and they butt heads a lot, but they also have each other's backs.

Kazuichi- Chihiro

Both STEM. I feel like Chihiro would be constantly blushing about everything Kazuichi says and does, and they would also be fascinated by his work. I think it would change his whole deal for the better, if he had the constant company of someone like Chihiro. I think he would be less comfortable openly bugging Sonia if there was an underclassman sitting in the fold of his beanie.

Akane- Aoi

Athletes. Their personalities would go really well together, and Akane would be so serious about making sure Hina is okay, getting enough exercise, eating enough food, etc. It's like she has a new little sibling. Like I've mentioned, she would get a fishbowl from the market so Hina can swim when they're in the cabin. (When Hina has trouble scaling the side of the fishbowl to get in, she would teach her a few parkour tricks.) She would take her to Mikan every time she hurts herself exercising.

Sonia- Byakuya

Heirs. And it's really funny to imagine Byakuya being his cold-blooded self while he's sitting on the shoulder of someone really nice. I also like imagining Sonia trying to make a luxurious enough living space for him. Using her own jewelry to decorate, a silk scarf for bedsheets, etc. She's very proud of her handiwork.

[blackflash9]

Unwavering Faith: Aveline and the Colonial Assassins (Analysis)

Over the years, I've come to notice a dual parallel and theme between the premise of AC Rogue and the side title, Liberation:

The loss of faith. Despite its intentionally ambiguous portrayal of the Assassins, Liberation compellingly explores their flaws, contradictions, and hidden layers through characters like Agate and François Mackandal respectively. This, in turn, profoundly impacts Aveline's mental state and her faith in her sect of the Colonial Assassins and their Creed.

Mackendal, in particular, was a very fascinating character not just in the historical context, but in what he encompassed for the ideals and values of the Assassins when pressed to their logical extreme in using their Creed as a policy for aggression, violence, and unrestrained use of power. An example of this is how he aimed to poison the colonists in Saint-Dominique.

The Mackandal Rebellion (1750-1758) | Haitian Revolution (1791-1804)

What's interesting is that despite his atrocities, Mackandal didn't think he was a traitor of any kind to the Brotherhood or what it preached. Much Like Altair who didn't believe so when he killed his Mentor. Neither did Pierre Bellec when he killed Mirabeau in Unity. Mackandal, in fact, firmly believed he was an Assassin, even truer than the Colonials themselves. From his perspective, he didn't kill "innocents." He just didn't see any of the "white masters" at the time as remotely innocent. Clearly, he was wrong from any other point of view, but it doesn't make him less of an Assassin. After all, the Creed does allow it if you want it to.

In some regards, he shares a sharp contrast with Adewale himself. Both men are shaped by their brutal experiences as slaves, embodying contrasting conclusions with the Assassin's Creed. Mackandal, corrupted by deep-seated anger, employs ruthless and indiscriminate methods such as poisonings, reflecting a radical approach that often causes collateral damage that ultimately catches up to him destroying himself and his Brotherhood. In contrast, Adewale, motivated by a strong sense of justice and compassion, remains steadfast in his convictions and humanity for himself and others. As a result, Mackandal's legacy is often treated as a cautionary tale, while Adewale retaining his morals and principles through the Creed is still remembered and admired by even individuals like Evie Frye an entire century later. This duality between them underscores the larger internal struggle that individuals within the Brotherhood face in response to both oppression and their endless fight for and to preserve freedom. This era of the Assassins, especially, is faced with this dilemma where the very freedom that they fight for is often short-lived, imperfect, nuanced, and bittersweet. 'Laid to Rest' Transcript

Connor: "My father is dead. Charles Lee now leads the Templar Order in his place. I see now why ours is an eternal war. For each piece taken from the board, another is placed upon it. Back and forth we go. Across the world. Across the ages. Some days, mine feels an impossible task, but I cannot afford to be consumed with doubt. The people need me. Now, more than ever. I must stop the Templars. I will kill Charles Lee." Connor's Forsaken Epilogue Soliloquy Connor: "So many voices, each demanding something else… It has been hard at times, but never harder than today to see all I worked for; perverted, discarded, forgotten!"

This brings us to the inner turmoil and duality that Aveline struggles with over the course of her story. Who is she really? Why does she fight? Is it even worth the effort to fight at all in such an unjust world?

"I trust my own hands," I believe, is Connor expressing his adherence to individualism above all else. For him, it signifies the realization that even the people and institutions you serve can be flawed or have misguided intentions, and you must trust your own judgment. This mindset makes Connor an embodiment of the Creed and its ideals—an approach that Aveline also adopts. Her persistent fight for choice and freedom, despite the hypocrisy, corruption, and fallibility within her own order, makes her dedication as an Assassin truly compelling. Because Aveline is more than just an Assassin. She is a liberator.

[david-brown07]

Guidelines for Choosing the Right Smoking Pipes for Beginners

Smoking pipes have been around for centuries and are still very common today. However, what precisely makes them so unique? Why do many still prefer pipes to other smoking techniques, though? We'll look at smoking pipes in this blog, including types and functions. You've come to the correct place if you're interested in smoking pipes. Let's explore the principles and find the solutions to some common queries. What Are Smoking Pipes? A smoking pipe is a tool used for smoking tobacco or herbs. It typically has a bowl where you place the material to be smoked. The bowl is connected to a hollow stem or tube through which smoke passes to the mouthpiece. Pipes are available in many shapes and sizes, and used to be a part of human history for hundreds of years. How Many Types of Smoking Pipes Are There? There are several types of smoking pipes and cigars. Each one has its unique design and purpose. Let’s look at a few popular types: Metal Pipe: Durable smoking tool made from metal, offering a smooth and consistent smoking experience. Silicon: Flexible, heat-resistant material used for creating portable and easy-to-clean smoking accessories. Bubblers: A combination of a pipe and bong, providing a smoother hit with the use of water filtration. Chillums and One Hitters: Small, simple pipes designed for single-use hits, ideal for discreet and quick smoking sessions. Smoking Pipe: A smoking pipe is a simple tool used to smoke tobacco. It has a bowl for holding the tobacco and a stem for inhaling the smoke. Pipes come in different shapes and designs. Tobacco Pipes: Tobacco pipes are specially made for smoking tobacco. They can be made from wood, clay, or metal. Many people prefer tobacco pipes for their smooth smoking experience. Pipes and Cigars: Pipes and cigars are popular choices for tobacco lovers. While cigars are smoked directly, pipes offer a more relaxed and controlled way to enjoy tobacco. Glass Pipes: These current pipes are generally small and portable. These are mostly used for smoking herbs and are available in numerous colors and designs. Why Do People Choose Pipes Over Cigarettes? There are many reasons why people decide upon pipes in the place of cigarettes. One reason is that pipe smoking is often visible as extra relaxing. The process of preparing the pipe, lighting it, and slowly taking part in the smoke takes time. This creates a peaceful atmosphere, which many people who smoke will experience. Another reason is the taste. Many tobacco pipes have rich, deep flavors that you don’t get with cigarettes. The style of tobacco available for pipes lets people who smoke strive for exceptional blends and discover their favorites. Pipes are also reusable, in contrast to cigarettes, which are thrown away after one use. This makes them a more good value alternative in the long run. Plus, smoking a pipe is often viewed as a social pastime, in which humans acquire and speak at the same time as enjoying their pipes.

Where Can You Buy Smoking Pipes?

If you’re interested in buying a smoking pipe, you can find them in many places. Specialty shops often carry a wide selection of pipes and tobacco. However, online stores are a great option for convenience and variety. One such store is Olivastu, which offers a wide range of smoking pipes, accessories, and more. Whether you’re looking for a classic briar pipe or a modern glass design, you’ll find something that suits your taste.

Final Thoughts

Smoking pipes offer a unique and exciting enjoyment for folks who smoke. At Olivastu, you’ll find a wide selection of extraordinary smoking pipes, together with briarwood, meerschaum, and glass pipes. We have something for every taste and style thanks to the wide variety of designs and materials. Get the best smoking pipe and accessories from Olivastu to enhance your smoking experience with trusted items. For more detailed information you can visit our website and explore the various options.

[yakuzabrainrotlive]

Name your favorite characters and why in absurd detail (if you want, or just name them)

Well, you asked for DETAILS, so have a sort of chatacter analysis/hot mess of ramblings for #1. This has a good amount of personal headcanons that I've built up and it's not 100% based on canonical facts. Also I HAVE only played 0, Kiwami 1 and Kiwami 2 (Majima saga is in progress) so I don't have all the facts. I AM NOT GOOD AT CHARACTER ANALYSIS, be warned. Also ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE.

1) Majima Goro! I find his truly kind nature masked by his 'Mad Dog' persona very fascinating and sad at the same time. The way he incorporated elements of Nishitani and Sagawa into that persona is interesting and telling of how much of an impact those two had in him deciding his path.

I'm entranced by his use kansai-ben (my beloved) and his playful tone of voice contrasted with the, at times, more serious voice that sends me right back to 1988. The way he switches from an almost mockingly polite speech style to his Kansai dialect in his introduction scene in 0 instantly made me curious about his true nature and backstory.

I think his way of showing off his tattoos by not wearing a shirt so civilians don't get involved with him (that's how I interpret it) is tragic and it's obvious his past has left him with deep scars and a fear of the people he cares about being hurt. He'd rather be alone than build bonds and then potentially lose more people.

The way he still loves Makoto deeply in Kiwami 2 after all these years, and how he sings about truly not wanting her to forget him, but regardless "not minding" it if she forgets him as long as she's happy, hurts me in a whole new way. The way he sings/screams those "I DON'T MIND"s as though he's desperately trying to make himself believe what he's saying, rather than directing those phrases at Makoto in his mind, breaks my heart.

His pretty much absent fear of death sends chills down my spine and makes me wanna cry because he was already saying he's been ready to die for a long time in a flashback from BEFORE he events of Yakuza 0. I dread possibly finding out more about his past.

He's witty and charming and his confidence draws me in. He dresses how he does and meets Kiryu as Goromi and pole dances for him as well with no problems, and all in all just doesn't care what people think of him. I know it's probably because of something tragic like him having given up on life so "might as well go out with a bang", but I want to believe he feels at least somewhat liberated when he does all that.

I'm obsessed with how he wants to witness Kiryu's journey down the path he could never follow himself. And he seems to genuinely want to support Kiryu's decision to follow his own principles. Their first conversation in Kiwami tickled my brain because in that moment he seems to "lock it in" that he'll place his trust in Kiryu's unwavering will to make his own path and wants to witness it. He wants to see if it would have been possible for himself as well, had the circumstances been different. Is it truly possible to stick to such "soft" values in the cruel world of the Yakuza?

When he saw Kiryu coming back after his decade in prison, he whipped him right back into shape because he wanted to keep witnessing Kiryu's journey and also keep Kiryu's principles alive by keeping Kiryu himself alive. Because he himself wouldn't be able to live by those values, he's in way too deep, he has a reputation to uphold. So when his brother returns to kill him (if he will try to kill him, Majima himself seems to think so), it'll be an achievement worth letting Saejima back in the family. Killing a legend and all that.

Majima seems to feel like he can let Kiryu in a tad more than others. Even if it's just fighting against or beside him and openly enjoying those interactions. Probably because he knows Kiryu can handle himself in a fight and he's near indestructible physically and mentally. Kiryu is, in a way, his equal when it comes to dealing with it when shit hits the fan. He's definitely at least fond of Kiryu imo, with him giving in very easily when Kiryu asks him to help the Tojo clan survive in Kiwami 2. And also with how uncomfortable he got when Kiryu bowed his head when he was asking Majima for help.

Majima also highly values the promises he makes; he fought those invading Sengoku thugs until he was battered and bleeding and barely able to stand because he promised Kiryu he'd be there to help. Weird move from a man who seems hell-bent on pretending not to care about anyone or anything besides his own interests, hmmm? He gave his word and he KEPT it. Because he doesn't make empty promises.

I love watching him when he's "on a break" during the Majima Everywhere storyline. It truly solidified the fact that the 'Mad Dog' is a mask for me. He's all hyper and "crazy" when others are around and he really lays it on thick, but on break? He's contemplative. He looks almost sad at times. He lets the mask drop for a second. The fact that he lets Kiryu see that instead of immediately masking back up is a whole other can of worms. Point is, the Majima from before is still there, underneath it all.

The way he thinks back on his time in Sotenbori is interesting. There's definitely trauma and anger in there, but the way he wonders about how his team is doing nowadays almost wistfully makes me happy. He had SOME light to hold on to in those dark times. He truly did care for his team and was fond of them. Also... him saying it wasn't in his nature to make a living using women like that made my respect for him soar. He truly respected everyone in his team, including the hostesses.

Also, just... ugh. The Doll Girl substory. The DAMN DOLL GIRL SUB STORY. I- THAT- 😭😭😭😭 O UG H

TL;DR: Majima because he's everything to me and he makes me experience thought spirals beyond anything I've went through before. He's tragic, he's fun, he's silly, he's hot, he's confident, he's strong, he's interesting he's kind and he's just... Majima.

2) Kiryu because he's sweet and wonderful and makes me weep and I wish he'd take better care of himself and I wanna hug him and give him soup and bring all his loved ones back to life. Please let this man catch a break.

3) Nishitani because he makes me feral and I want him carnally

4) Dojima Yayoi because... I mean... DAMN. She's fierce and extremely loyal, she handled herself extremely well in an environment that was probably rife with people who questioned her ability to lead. I'd bet my left boob she faced a lot of misogyny (direct and/or indirect) during her time as a chairwoman. But she kept going, head held high, with conviction and pride. Simply incredible.

5) Haruka is a sweet angel and I wanna protect her and I hope she will be happy forever. She stayed strong and still has faith in people even after seeing all the horrors of Kiwami 1. She's so resilient and brilliant.

[circledemptiness]

Show Me What You Dream Of

Fandom: Batman (Arkham Knight) Pairing: Edward Nigma (The Riddler) x Reader Rating: Explicit +18 Tags: First Time, Edward is a virgin, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, romance

✦ Part 1 of Show Me What You Dream Of ✦ Read on AO3

Edward Nigma, the Riddler, Gotham’s one true genius, had neither time for friends nor associates. The thought of getting close to anyone seemed grotesque, foolish, and, quite frankly, an honest waste of his most precious time –and to what end anyway? He already had everything required to function, and had never needed anyone or anything. A story about Edward’s crippling loneliness, his struggles to understand intimacy and his first time having sex.

Edward Nigma, the Riddler, Gotham’s one true genius, had neither time for friends nor associates. His days were consumed by grand designs and elaborate schemes, carefully crafted with a burning passion and the urgency of revenge. The thought of getting close to anyone seemed grotesque, foolish, and, quite frankly, an honest waste of his most precious time –and to what end anyway? He already had everything required to function, and had never needed anyone or anything.

A heated fervor stirred his heart day and night, isolating him from the world, and making time itself seem irrelevant; weeks since he left the Gotham City Police Department stretched into months, which then turned into years, molding and shaping the man he had become. From this unfruitful and unfortunate time, Edward only kept a few mementos; sparse newspaper clippings, chronicling his brief successes and subsequent downfall, remained as souvenirs, carelessly scattered on a cluttered desk. 

Occasionally, when a pang of something akin to melancholy moves his spirit, he revisits them, fingertips tracing the inked words on the aged paper. He struggles recognizing the man in the pictures: ten years younger, several dozen pounds fuller, glowing with cocky confidence. A stark contrast to the reclusive figure he has become, driven mad by the Bat –though he would never admit it.

When he reminisces about that time, he can’t help but trace his fingertips across his face, feeling the wrinkled and fatigued skin, as if trying to convince himself that he is not merely a shell of the once vibrant and charming man he used to be. He rarely takes a look at his reflection, not because he’s avoiding it (this would be silly, of course), but when he accidentally catches sight of himself, the reality hits him like a punch in the gut, stealing the air from his lungs. Doesn’t matter. After all, time does that to a man; no longer a thirty-something young man, he was now in his mid-forties. Surely, that explained the changes in his body –nothing to do with his precarious mental state and hostile life habits. And who cares anyway. 

Edward was always busy, preoccupied with grand designs and lofty aspirations. Even ten years ago, friends were secondary. Dating irrelevant. A waste of time and energy. Back then, the very idea of intimacy was pushed aside in the confines of his mind, deemed absurd and laughable. Instead, he focused solely on developing his new life as the Riddler, growing menace of Gotham. He’d figure it out later. He first needed to finish corrupting one more network, hacking one more system, and stealing one more piece of information. Then he could think about it. That’s reasonable.

Admittedly, during his younger years working at the GCPD, Edward wasn’t entirely opposed to the principle of dating. He could have used some company from time to time to take his mind off his hard work –both in his legal activities and the less savory ones. There was another reason that made him interested in dating, one much less… noble, perhaps.

Truthfully, when it came to being intimate with someone, Edward never got lucky; a fact that weighed greatly on him when he was still vigorous and lovable. Not that he was particularly interested in sex in the first place, mind you, but the thought had crossed his mind a few times. Occasionally, on his lonelier evenings, he felt the creeping touch of desire churning in his stomach, though he always took care of his needs by himself. A weak-willed frustration that a quick handjob would usually fix. Edward never needs help with anything.

Still, he did attempt to lose his burdensome virginity in the past. A couple of times, in fact. He might have pursued an attractive stranger in a bar, ventured to (poorly) engage with a coworker… Alas, every effort proved unsuccessful, his burning ego driving away each subject of his fleeting desire. And who could blame them, really? If there was one constant in his life, it might be his crippling arrogance. A reality he always seemed to be particularly blind to, unable to grasp what was wrong with them –because it could only have been their fault, not his. Why would there be anything wrong with him? He was the cleverest man in Gotham, found himself quite funny, and, back then, even admitted to possessing above average looks. What more could anyone possibly want?

Things changed over the last decade. When his mind morphed into a rage-fuelled haze, feeding his mercurial temper and ferocious obsession with the caped crusader. His entire life became fixated on a single objective: exacting glorious vengeance, demonstrating his unmatched superiority to everyone (the Bat) and establishing himself as Gotham’s greatest threat. 

Thus, the Riddler had no time for such frivolous matters. Didn’t feel lonely. Didn’t think of his sex life. Or lack thereof. In fact, it was only natural that he stopped jerking off altogether, his body and mind entirely consumed by passionate feelings such as anger, pride and torment. His life, no, his purpose was greater than the vulgar nature of sex, transcending the principle of companionship, leaving him much too occupied to engage with others, whose presence he found superficial at best and impractical at worst. His difficult temper, not unlike that of a hostile beast turned feral over the years, made him unpleasant to be around.

People –colleagues, peers, other criminals…– didn’t like hanging out with him. He knew it. Of course he did. Their exasperation was clear –whether it was the eye rolls when he corrected them, the loud sighs when he dismissed someone’s idea, or the way they left the room before he even finished his most crucial explanations. It was of no consequence to him however. Because they are too idiotic to understand him. Spectacular imbeciles incapable of appreciating his brilliance. Not his fault. In fact, he was neither hurt, nor surprised; he had no time to spare for a flock of simpletons who only served to provoke his annoyance and frustration. Most of them bothered him; few were tolerated. Such as yourself.

Your presence spurted in his life like the unexpected bud of a still very unfamiliar plant, stubbornly weaving its way in since you met years ago. It was at an extravagant event hosted by a fellow member of the Underworld, one filled with loud crowds, expensive alcohol and ominous whispers. Pointless and bothersome. Yet, he felt obligated to attend for the sake of appearances. Surely, society would appreciate that. It had been a while since he had met real people. You were the one to approach him, offering words of admiration that he reveled in, drinking in your compliments as if it were only natural. Of course you admired him. Who wouldn’t? And because you were tending to his ego so well, he allowed your presence.

Not that you were anything special. You were not. But since your first encounter, you would occasionally visit him at his hideout under false pretenses, bringing him questions to which “only he could know the answer”, praising his hard work with eyes shimmering with mirth. Stroking his ego in a way that makes his chest swell, warmth blooming comfortably in his stomach. So you were tolerated. Allowed to stay for a couple of minutes more. A privilege. Though, he never quite understood why you came to visit him, most of the time. Couldn’t quite decipher your expressions whenever he greeted you. Didn’t matter. You seemed to acknowledge his brilliant intellect, and that was good enough for him.

However, he never reciprocated your tenderness. Never said anything nice to you, never had a kind word for you. At best, he sometimes offered a backhanded compliment. You’re less stupid than you look, or I’m actually impressed that you understood what I was talking about. Words that would feel insulting to everyone else, but actually meant something to him. Not that he cares about you, or anything. Only, it was the most he could manage –this way of interacting with you while avoiding his own vulnerability and insecurity. His perpetual and cruel need for control blurring his judgment, driving him to constantly assert his inherent superiority. And when he does, there’s a look on your face that he can’t describe; your soft features turn stern, your brow furrows, and the charming light in your glassy eyes becomes dull and opaque. Then, you leave without a word. Can never tell why. You are so complicated.

Edward usually considered himself skilled with words, yet around you, it feels as if he’s speaking a different language entirely. You never react as he expects, and this frustrates him. Why must you be so complicated? Why can’t you be happy with what he offers? Why can’t you see that he’s (desperately) trying to connect with you? The worst part is how frantic his heart beats when you’re around, despite his inability to make you smile as he had hoped. Blood pumping so viciously that his entire core feels like it’s burning, face turning deep crimson. Can’t think straight, feels dizzy. Uncomfortable. Unacceptable.

Unexplained frustration possesses him at times. More than once, your presence troubles him so much that whatever puzzling passion stirs his heart morphs into visceral anger, prompting him to snarl aggressively at you, ordering you to leave him alone and exit the premises immediately. Can’t you see? He’s busy. You’re distracting him. But the worst part is that you actually do it. Stop seeing him for weeks at a time, leaving him with the memory of your pale face and teary eyes. It drives him insane. Why wouldn’t you come back, crawling, begging? It’s not that he misses you. He does not.

When you do come back (and you always do), heart wounded and sore, but open to forgiveness, he feigns indifference. Yet, when you stand next to him again, greeting him with the softness he is accustomed to (secretly fond of), his body trembles deep in its core, hands shaking and clumsy, a comfortable warmth building behind his navel. He hates all of it. Hates how you make him feel, vulnerable and frantic. But he plays nice, acts merely bothered. Polite. It’s not that he doesn’t want you to leave; rather, he needs to be the bigger person in the room, serious and professional. Needs to remain superior at all times. And every time he greets you in a voice laced with disdain and disinterest, he can’t read your face. There seems to be a veil over your eyes, and you tilt your head as if you’re hurt. Are you hurt? Disappointed? Why aren’t you smiling anymore?

This bizarre tango, painful and unstable, has been happening for quite some time. You visit him, he endures your presence until he bites hard enough for you to leave. And then, he can’t sleep. Tosses and rolls in bed, plagued by parasitic thoughts that keep him wide awake. Wonders where you are. Who you are with. Do you smile at them the way you do for him? He hates thinking about it. Hates thinking about you. Hates how you make him feel –weak and vulnerable, stomach churning in agony, inners twisting anxiously. The Riddler isn’t weak.

But if this is true, why does his heart ache when your smile fades the moment he questions your intentions after you accidentally brush his arm? And what meaning hides behind your doe eyes when you stare at him quizzically? You need to tell him, for he will only assume, presume. Hope. What he craves is more than a hypothesis; he needs a confirmation. A proof. Thus, he silently pleads with you. Locks eyes in an uncomfortable manner, exposed and defenseless, until it burns his mind, his soul, makes his entire body sting with the agony of the unknown. Yet, his emerald orbs continue to sink into your own, attempting to make you see something. Understand something. You make me feel something that I do not comprehend, and I don’t know what to do about it. Please help me. But you never realize, never grasp the meaning behind his agitated stare. Or perhaps you do, but chose not to react. Either way, it hurts. 

Instead, your body remains still, frustratingly immobile in front of him. Are you also waiting for something? He does not miss it when your eyes briefly linger on his mouth, nor the way your lips part slightly in a sigh so soft it might have gone unnoticed if he weren’t so intently gazing at you. Your organic expressions do things to him. Make his face flush, ruby tint blooming across his chest. Cut the air from his lungs as if he were underwater. And, perhaps more embarrassingly, stir a crude desire in his pants, turgid length twitching uncomfortably.

Then, your beaming eyes find his again, expectantly, trying to convey a message that is lost on him. Yet, it kindles a passion so confusing, he swears he could grab you by the waist this instant and devour your lips (how would they taste?), sink his teeth into the fragile skin of your neck, leaving blooming marks in his wake. The taut elastic of his unspoken emotions is seconds from snapping. But it won’t. Because that would be improper. He needs you to want this, to want him back. And this is such a strange feeling. One that makes no sense to him (pull yourself together, Nigma).

Eventually, you break the heavy, agonizing silence. It’s a question, he realizes. So simple and unexpected that he blinks twice and asks you to repeat yourself.

Would you like to have dinner at the Italian restaurant on 5th Avenue tomorrow evening?

Edward’s mouth hangs open, his expression empty and almost bovine as he stares into the void, malfunctions. Like, a date? The idea, so foreign and otherworldly to him, reddens his face and makes his heart pump blood at a worrying pace. No words come out of his bone-dry throat –not that his brain could form even the beginning of a sentence anyway. So, he nods. And then, the light returns to your face, not unlike the warm sun streaming through the stained glass of a magnificent cathedral; and you smile. It does things to him. Damn it, you do things to him.

He does not register when you bid him goodbye, barely moves when you exit the building, until he melts on his stool and remains immobile, shocked, thunderstruck. I’m going on a date. And then, the terror. The panic. The anxiety.

Edward hasn’t been on a date in a decade. A thousand questions race and collide in his head while he starts to establish a mental checklist, trying to act as methodically as he usually does. He is not panicking. How is he supposed to act? Should he bring you something? What should he wear? Does he even have anything to wear that isn’t completely cacked in filth and grime?

Should I bring condoms? 

His reaction is immediate as he smacks the heel of his hand against his forehead and grunts loudly, a growing frustration pooling in his throat as he clenches his jaw. What is he even thinking? What does he imagine? That he’s going to fuck you tomorrow night? This is embarrassing (you are embarrassing, Nigma). 

What if she wants it too?

Now, he’s just being ridiculous, making a fool of himself. He bangs his fist on the table violently, as if trying to shoo away these grotesque thoughts. The metallic tools clatter loudly, barely covering his desperate groans. His fingers dance nervously across the desk, his leg shaking with rare nervousness, before he finally declares defeat and leaves the place. Can’t focus on his work anymore.

That night, Edward fucked his hand two times, your name on his lips.

✦ ✦ ✦

Edward's lean fingers tremble as he buttons his shirt, repeatedly smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles on the over-ironed fabric. The deep forest green color compliments his eyes –or so he believes. He's not sure anymore. He spent the entire day preparing for tonight. For his date. Took a well-deserved shower, scrunching his nose at the miasma of gray, black, and brown that pooled off his sweat-covered body. He even washed his hair, revealing the chocolate hues hidden beneath the grime.

As he stares at his reflection, he catches a fleeting glimpse of the person he once was –buried beneath layers of filth and fatigue. For a moment, he almost resembles a man with self-assurance, rather than the dirty recluse teetering on the edge of a mental breakdown.

For long hours, he debated with himself whether or not he should get you flowers. In the end, he decided against it. Thought it would be too intimate. Too romantic. After all, this was only a casual dinner –nothing more. Edward sighs deeply in front of the mirror, smoothing his hair for the umpteenth time, his fatigued gaze carrying heavy emotions he’s not quite familiar with. He licks his lips, nervously.

He remains nervous even after he’s seated at the restaurant. Fifteen minutes early. Touching the silverware, turning the glasses, as if one side were better than the other. Fingertips drumming on the table rhythmically, exhaling a nervous breath through his nose. Why is his heartbeat so loud tonight? He can’t even think. His brain etches anxious thoughts that make him tense and uneasy in his own skin, twitching in his chair, clearing his throat. What if you don’t come?

And even worse, what if you do?

A frigid sensation churns in his stomach, makes his core shiver, turns his blood ice cold. This is a mistake. He shouldn’t be here; this shouldn’t be happening. What was he thinking? He’s the Riddler! What is he even doing here, all dressed up and pampered, having dinner at a restaurant with, with –Argh! The chair makes a loud clatter as he abruptly stands and pushes it back, snatching his coat in one swift motion. A frantic whisper in his head urges him to flee without looking back –until a soothing voice interrupts his chaotic thoughts.

“Oh, you just came! Thank God, I thought I was being late…”

Your voice startles him into a stupor, freezing him in place as he gathers the remnants of his nerves. Hands still gripping the collar of his coat, he awkwardly pivots, like a disarticulated wooden puppet. When he sees your face (perfect), your smile (delicious), and the dress you're wearing (exquisite), he removes his coat, pretending he has just arrived, and takes his seat at the table. Somehow, he has changed his mind.

His face burns with the warmth of a thousand suns, his skin flushed crimson red, a heated feeling churning in his belly. Almost comfortable. He could get used to this feeling, he thinks briefly. Staring at you, all he can hear is the frantic thrum of his heartbeat and the rush of blood in his veins. You asked a question, but he didn’t even hear it. He hums in response anyway, nodding. You giggle. His heart sings.

He doesn’t care about the food, doesn’t care about the music, or the waiters coming and going. There is only you in the entire restaurant (in the whole world). Every part of you shines brightly, a warm light radiating from you and caressing his soul. He tries his best to hide how excited you make him, but probably fails miserably. So he does what he does best: he gloats. A lengthy, relentless monologue about his intelligence, how Gotham will learn to fear him, his latest invention and its brilliance, never missing a chance to praise his own abilities and grandeur. 

You nod gently, smile at him.

This is when he becomes painfully aware. Aware of how he’s the only one talking, monopolizing the conversation with his self-centered rambling. How he hasn’t asked you a single question, behaving as he always does, in a way that typically makes people glare and furrow their brows. The same way he used to ten years ago, trying to grab the attention of a coworker at the coffee corner, or when he’s at a bar and a stranger is smiling at him. Shut up.

The words pour out of his mouth like a torrent of pride and arrogance; and he can’t stop, because he does not know what else he’s supposed to do, what else he’s supposed to talk about. Shut up. For a fraction of a second, he notices your eyes flickering away –why did you look away? Are you bored? You’re talking too much! Edward speaks. Edward speaks, swallows the dialogue and fills the void because he’s scared of the silence, terrified that he will cease to exist if he doesn’t. But suddenly, he’s even more afraid of losing your interest (losing you), so he interrupts his story, crashes it brutally.

“Anyway…”

His voice falters, reduced to a trembling murmur before he clears his throat, looking down at his plate. He has barely touched his meal. Too busy talking. There is an agonizing sensation tearing at his chest, a deep rooted insecurity that makes him feel dizzy and nauseous. He hasn’t been on a date in so long, hasn’t spent time with anyone but himself for nearly a decade. He forgot; forgot how to behave. Forgot how to please. His distress paints a frown on his fatigued face, his heart plagued with shame and regret; his fist clenches so viciously that his knuckles turn white, fingernails carving half-moons into the palm of his hand. For once, he wishes he could escape his own mind, no longer his favored safe place. Then, as if reading his mind and sensing his most intimate worries, you place your hand (delicate, soft, warm) over his (calloused, tired, tense). For a second, he forgets how to breathe, warmth spreading through his stomach.

“I’m having a great time, Edward.”

His heart threatens to give up on him, shattering in his taut chest, the sensation akin to daggers repeatedly stabbing the pulsing organ. She’s having a great time. That’s good, right? Of course it is, it means he’s doing well. Good. I mean –of course. As expected! Edward is desperately trying to anchor his nerves, convincing himself that he’s in control of the situation. Because if he isn’t, he’s uncomfortable. Disoriented.

“Actually, your story reminds me of something that happened to me…”

Edward feels a shy smile of relief etch itself onto his worried face, releasing a deep breath he didn’t realize he was holding. When you speak, you sound like an angel; voice soothing and genuine as you share a part of yourself that feels both domestic and uniquely yours. Your hands move on their own accord, drawing patterns in the air to emphasize your words. Your eyes shine brightly, precious orbs flickering as you reminisce about a particular detail, exploring the lands of your memory, your lips curling into a beaming smile. Occasionally, you giggle, and Edward is convinced it’s the most beautiful song he’s ever heard.

He isn’t used to listening to anyone else but his own thoughts. But if it’s you, he knows he could do it all night, drinking each and every one of your words eagerly, reveling in the simple pleasure and intimate satisfaction of feeling closer to you. He’s learning about you, will memorize every single thing you tell him as if they were precious secrets that only he is worthy of knowing. He needs to know everything about you.

Occasionally, he notices how your eyes dart down to his rosy lips. It makes his heart swell and his core tremble, a pleasant warmth blooming behind his navel. He finds himself staring at your blushed lips as well. Wondering how they feel. How they taste. Wondering if you’re sharing the same thoughts right now. His breath subtly quickens until he snaps out of his adoring stupor and looks back at you. Your eyes shine like stars in a glassy sky, and you share a brief moment of silent intimacy –something he is so unfamiliar with (when did you stop talking?). His head spins lightly, a timid passion churning in his stomach. Then, the conversation resumes.

✦ ✦ ✦

At the end of the evening, Edward pays for your meal. You protest; he insists –now it feels like a date, he realizes, his heart growing full and fluttering in his chest. You gently squeeze his bicep and thank him, your doe eyes beaming and a light blush tinting your cheeks; he swallows thickly and nods a little too energetically, an almost childlike smile etched on his face. You giggle at his precious reaction, hand caressing his arm tenderly and he nearly melts into a puddle, legs as stable as pudding.

He walks you home (this is a date). The cold air of the night feels merciful on his burning face. Helps him calm down a little bit, heartbeat not as frantic now. Thankfully, it’s dark enough that you cannot see his face flush deep crimson every time you laugh at his words, every time you compliment him. His eyes are trained on you, absorbing your form, admiring how your dress enhances your natural curves, like the petals of a flower. He wishes he could articulate just how beautiful you look tonight.

Despite the tender obscurity of the night, your hand finds his own, small fingers brushing against his so delicately it feels almost accidental. Thinking it must have been a mistake, he pulls his hand away, already mourning the subtle warmth of your touch. But your presence asserts itself more persistently, and soon you fearlessly hold his hand, slipping your fingers between his. He doesn’t have the will to resist; the sensation, unfamiliar and overwhelming, makes his steps unsteady, his legs trembling, and he can hardly breathe. For a moment, his heart forgets how to function. But he allows it. It feels nice. So nice that he secretly wishes you would never let go of his hand (never let go of him). Though, he won’t admit it. 

The rest of the walk is silent, but it isn’t uncomfortable, as if your shared touch communicates everything you both want to say. Everything feels right.

Once you both stand in front of the entrance to your apartment, he struggles to let go of your hand, holding it for a few blissful seconds longer, his thumb daring to draw aimless circles on your soft skin. There’s another silence this time, but this one is uncomfortable, painful. He swallows thickly, staring at his feet. His name softly tugs him from his sulking, and when he gazes back at you, there is something different in your eyes –a glint that looks almost dangerous. Your pupils are dilated, your lips seem immensely more inviting as they slightly part, and there is a subtly rosy tint to your cheeks. A silent call that his body easily picks up on and answers willingly, grabbing the door frame so harshly his knuckles turn white, as if to restrain himself and soothe his nerves. You look magnificent right now, your face distorted with need and desire. For him?

Your voice is barely a whisper. Do you want to come inside? Yes, yes he wants to –desperately. He wants it so badly that his heart feels like it might explode. Edward is inexperienced but not naive; he understands the meaning behind your invitation, notices the way you lean against the door, your hips tilted ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly. His heart is racing with burning adrenaline, the intensity hitting him in the gut, twisting his insides in a way that takes his breath away and makes him forget his entire alphabet. Instead, he nods, trying to remain as composed as possible. There is a smile on your face, mischievous, lustful but also tender, and his limp cock already stutters back to life in his pants.

When he enters your apartment, Edward is hit with a wave of genuine excitement as his eyes explore every detail of your home. Everything looks just like you, he thinks, while reveling in the simple pleasure of learning more about you through your choice of decorations and the types of books on your well-furnished shelves. It feels intimate, more than he’s ever been used to. But the most intoxicating thing about your place is your scent, floating everywhere like a garden –pleasant and enveloping. You watch him tenderly as you remove your coat, allowing him to get accustomed to your personal space, staring at him with an amused smile when he closes his eyes to get acquainted with your scent. He wishes he could lose himself in your presence all day, bury his face in the crook of your neck, immersing himself in your essence. It’s sweet, earthy, delicate. It’s you.

The warmth of your hand sliding over his back to the nape of his neck makes him gasp, pulling him out of his reverie. His face feels hot, and his throat grows dry as gentle fingers wrap around the collar of his coat and tug it, inviting him to get comfortable. He gazes at you with troubled eyes while undressing, and once again, there’s that stare –thick and heavy with a deep yearning that makes his core tremble. Edward feels the atmosphere growing more tense, a fiery passion churning in his stomach that surely mirrors yours. His heartbeat drums so loudly in his head it’s almost deafening. Soft pants escape his bone-dry throat, a fierce flush creeping over his chest and the tips of his ears. His cock is embarrassingly hard, he realizes, attempting to conceal the bulge in his pants with his folded coat. A futile move that does not fool anyone.

Your balmy smile does nothing to calm his frantic heartbeat, especially when your hand caresses his nape with a rare softness. A torrent of unclear feelings stirs his insides; a spectacular mix of tender pleasure as your fingers slip through his hair, visceral excitement from the unspoken promise of your apparent desire, and raw terror from the opaque uncertainty of the unknown. Edward releases a shaky breath he didn’t realize he was holding and slowly wraps an arm around your delicate waist, hugging you loosely enough not to harm you but tight enough to feel the softness of your skin. 

In your silent dialogue, you offer him a smile, placing your free hand over his thrumming chest, fingers tracing idle shapes on his shirt. An encouraging nod is the only permission he needs before pulling your body flush against his, a soft gasp bubbling from your parted lips. His entire core tenses as if unsure of what to do next, simply melting against your heated form, staring at you with what can only be described as needy eyes, searching your face for reassurance.

With one hand gently cradling the back of his neck and the other grasping the fabric of his shirt, you rise onto your toes to bridge the gap between you. As you draw him closer, the next sensation Edward feels is the soft touch of your lips against his. It’s a kiss, tender and innocent, yet devastating in its depth.

Edward completely surrenders to the unfamiliar and unique sensation of your embrace, closing his eyes to fully immerse himself in the complex sensations of your lips –soft, plush, and warm. A deep-rooted desire stirs within him, his feral heartbeat surging with renewed vigor, and Edward knows then that this cannot be enough; he craves so much more of it, so much more of you. Abandoning his coat on the floor, his hands, strong and possessive, grasp your waist, eliciting a surprised gasp as he pulls you impossibly closer, demanding and desperate, and as your stomach presses firmly against his clothed bulge, the overwhelming sensation ignites a furnace of desire behind his navel.

Your fingers grip his hair firmly as your other hand pulls him fervently against your heated form. Edward rolls his eyes in the back of his skull when your tongue caresses the seam of his lips; he more than willingly grants you entry, enthusiastically letting you invade his mouth. Oh. Your appendage is soft and burning, eagerly stroking and tangling with his. You taste of the wine you ordered, and something else –something surreal that makes his hips buck against you of their own volition, his dizzied mind succumbing to the sizzling wave of pleasure. The soft moans that escape your mouth when his now painfully hard cock rocks against your core threatens to unravel him. He eagerly swallows every sound you make, getting drunk on the way your body responds to his touch –the way you deepen the kiss, hungrily suck his tongue, graze his sensitive flesh with your teeth, or nibble on his bottom lip. 

The thumbs on your waist caress your stomach, and a low groan bubbles from his throat as you grind your hips against his clothed length; the friction is exquisite and overwhelming, enough for Edward to feel himself throb impatiently. And when your hand explores his chest over his shirt, tugging and pulling at him hastily, he’s certain you can feel his frantic heartbeat screaming your name.

A sudden surge of courage prompts him to run an inexperienced hand along your side, exploring your body until it shakily cups your covered breast, his touch kind and experimental as you moan softly against his mouth. When he gives your soft flesh a tentative squeeze, he sighs contentedly. A proud fire sparks within you the more his hand plays with your breast, your soft whimpers growing more persistent and oh so alluring, until your own touch becomes more insisting, more possessive. Edward almost whimpers when you break your heated kiss and grab his hand, guiding the both of you toward the couch in the living area. 

Edward gasps in genuine surprise as you tug on his collar, drawing him down to loom over you while you lie on your back, your legs draped around his waist. An invitation. He takes in your flushed face, your lips swollen with desire, and hears himself pant as your inquisitive hands cup his face, guiding it back to yours. Edward kisses you deeply and with the urgency of a starving man, greedily sucking on your tongue and biting your tender lips. Your moans grow more sinful while his own panting resembles the breath of a wild animal, allowing his hands to roam around your body, caressing the bare skin of your calf.

Meanwhile, your fingers trace his nape, slipping beneath the collar of his shirt to caress his heated, sweaty back. Your passionate touch leaves a mark on his soul, stirring something dangerous within him, a churning sensation just below his navel, the more he feels your hands on his back, his neck, his sides, caressing his strong arms, all the while your tongue licks inside his mouth and your voice becomes a continuous symphony of delighted moans. He groans when your voice breaks into a needy plea, the knot in his stomach tightening as you roll your hips with earnest desire, grinding yourself against his throbbing cock, the friction exquisite and–

Oh. Oh no.

As if possessed, Edward can’t help but follow the sinful rhythm of your hips, moaning as he ruts against your core, his brain short-circuiting as the feeling becomes overwhelming and hits him like thunder –a devastating force that strikes deep within. Suddenly, he groans against your lips, his entire body jerks, his balls tightening almost painfully as his cock twitches, spasms, and finally spurts thick ropes of come.

Edward freezes. He opens wide, panicked eyes and stares into the void in disbelief. No, no, no, NO! He mentally curses himself as the reality that he’s just came in his pants from the sheer intensity of making out with you hits him like a ton of bricks. Then he remembers you’re still there, feeling the weight of your worried gaze even though he refuses to meet your eyes. Edward spirals into a deep, crippling shame that overshadows everything else. His mind is spinning. Even your tender touch on the back of his neck fails to offer him solace or reassurance.

“I have to go…” he mutters weakly, and you look at him with wide, surprised eyes at the sudden shift in his demeanor. You try to speak to him, but your words are lost on him; he neither comprehends nor listens. Everything else fades away, leaving only the harsh bite of his own self-loathing and a cruel voice urging him to flee. She’s disappointed.

Edward awkwardly scrambles off the couch, retrieves his coat from the floor, and hastily puts it on. He hears cautious footsteps, the same unidentifiable voice, and your hand on his bicep, the touch intended to be gentle and comforting. She’s pitying me. In one brusque motion, he pulls his arm away from you and rushes out, leaving without a word or a final glance.

Once back home, Edward rushes to the bathroom and quickly strips off his clothes, as if they were searing his skin, tainted with his shame, saturated with everything he feels is wrong about himself. As he removes his underwear with a sense of disgust, he reveals his spent cock, wet and glistening, the cotton fabric stained with his disgrace. He groans, promptly throwing away the proof of his failure in the laundry basket and steps into the shower. A desperate attempt to wash away the humiliation.

He scrubs his skin vigorously. As if trying to erase the guilt, the embarrassment, and the entire memory of the night. Convincing himself that none of this ever happened. A mantra to fend off the pain as the warm water cascades over his tense body. It feels good. For a few fleeting moments, Edward revels in the soothing heat of the shower, letting the rhythmic drops pelt his scorched skin. As time stretches on, his breathing steadies and his nerves begin to ease. Pressing his forehead against the cool tiles of the shower wall, he closes his eyes and focuses on the water’s pressure against his shoulder blades, even as a persistent twist of anguish and a tight knot in his throat remain.

His mind drifts back to the evening, replaying vivid and pleasant memories. He thinks of the way you laughed warmly at his joke in the restaurant. The gentle brush of your hand against his when he felt insecure. How desired he felt when you drew him close to your warm body. Everything had seemed to fall perfectly into place; the evening was unfolding just as he had hoped. It was meant to be an unforgettable night. He could have had you, had everything gone as he had imagined.

Why did he have to ruin everything?

✦ ✦ ✦

For the next couple of days, Edward is in a terrible mood. A simple mistake in his calculations is all it takes for him to lose his temper, violently banging his fist on the table with a loud curse, tools clattering on the surface like innocent witnesses to his aggravation. Even his once faithful Riddlebots seem to mock him, their synthetic faces only fueling his vitriolic rage. Pathetic, they seem to call him behind their biomechanical eyes (and they would be right, wouldn’t they?). Edward throws a wrench to the floor with God-like fury before collapsing heavily onto a stool, hiding his nerve-wracked face in his trembling hands, his leg shaking with an intense nervousness. The mediocre breathing exercises offer him little solace compared to the twisting agony churning deep within his gut.

His phone vibrates, the chime startling him. In one swift motion, he grabs the object of his anguish, briefly glancing at the screen to confirm what he already knew. The third message you’ve sent him today. He deletes it without even reading it. Pretends none of it ever happened, that you don’t exist, that he doesn’t care. He’s not hurt. He never needed anyone in his life. All he has to do is rebuild the walls he had before you entered his life, locking away the most troubling emotions you've awakened in him. He can do it; he’s been doing it his whole life –being alone. And who needs love anyway? Not him.

Another day goes by, and Edward’s turmoil refuses to dissipate. His anger has morphed into a cloak of sadness so heavy that he struggles to leave his bed —when he manages to sleep at all. You’ve stopped messaging him, and it hurts more than he can comprehend; he’s devastated that you stopped caring, stopped chasing his answer. Even though he’s the one who pushed you away with his deafening silence. You should have known. How he wishes you could simply understand him.

When he holds his phone, its light almost blinding despite how empty it feels in his hand, having removed all trace of your existence from the bowels of its circuits, there is a part of him clawing at his heart viciously, urging him to call you (beg you), see you, hold you tightly in his arms and never let go.

But then, the other half –the part of him forged in the fires of self-isolation and spite– craves nothing more than to tear his heart from his aching chest and seal it away in a box. Would that finally end the relentless pain?

Sitting at his working desk, his brow furrowed anxiously, the lines of his face more tense and severe under the artificial light, Edward stares at his phone as if the lifeless device might somehow offer the answers he so desperately seeks. Why aren’t you messaging him anymore? Did he really succeed in driving you away? Of course he did –he spilled his own seed in the middle of a kiss and fled the scene afterward. Stupid. Incompetent.

His chest grows heavy with a suffocating mix of emotions, making each breath labored and painful —a distinctive tightness that makes him so human, no matter how hard he tries to resist it. He feels confused, hurt. Lonely. He despises feeling this way; sometimes, he wishes he had never met you. Most of the time, he wishes you were right here, holding him, your tender hands and balmy smile dissolving the thick layer of anxiety and self-loathing that plagues him. Even your scent haunts him now, as his mind struggles to remember, to cling to any memory of you, while the last shreds of his being fight desperately to erase you from his soul.

Edward sighs deeply, removing his glasses and burying his face in his hands, the whirlwind of emotions dizzying his mind. He wishes he could simply stop thinking, just for a minute. Why does everything have to be so complicated?

"You never answered my messages," your voice cuts through the silence, startling him and pulling him abruptly from his thoughts. Edward's eyes widen in panic as they lock onto yours, the intensity of your presence impossible to ignore. You drag a stool next to him and sit down with deliberate movements, brushing off your pants with an expression that he interprets as annoyance, your face unreadable. His throat constricts, parched and unyielding, rendering him speechless, unable to summon even the faintest of excuses. His thoughts swirl in frantic circles, but the words elude him. Instead, his eyes begin to glisten with unshed tears, emotion threatening to overwhelm him as he gnaws nervously on his bottom lip, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. He avoids your gaze, unable to meet the sternness of your expression, feeling utterly exposed and at a loss for what to do next.

"Did I do something wrong?" The question hangs in the air, heavy with discomfort, your vulnerability laid bare. Edward shakes his head silently, the words he's unable to voice ringing in his mind –Of course not, it’s not you, it’s me. You bite the inside of your cheek, deliberating over your next words, the worry casting a shadow over your soft features. Edward buries his forehead in his hand, shame and embarrassment roiling in his stomach at the mere thought that you might have felt rejected by him. How could that be, when this is all he’s ever wished for –how could there be any mistake? Your voice dips lower, like a murmur.

“So… is it because you…?”

Edward grunts audibly into his hands. Of course she noticed –he hadn’t been subtle, trembling uncontrollably above you and growling against your lips. Suddenly, the intense humiliation surges back with a vengeance, creeping beneath his skin, shredding his nerves, and clawing at his heart. This unbearable torment festers, hardening into a searing anger as he snarls at you like a feral beast.

“What are you doing here?” Please do not leave is what he meant to say. Your eyes narrow, the once-soft gaze now shadowed with a storm of emotions. A deep crease forms between your brows, drawing your features into a tight, severe expression. He can see the fire blazing behind your eyes, the quiet intensity that signals a fury he's all too familiar with. It’s more than anger; it’s a wrath that simmers just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over at any moment, and it leaves him frozen in place, acutely aware of the depth of your rage.

“If you want me to leave, I will. But be very careful with your next answer, because this time, I won’t come back.” Your words, sharp and precise, carry the weight of the frustration that’s been building from Edward’s emotional avoidance.

“So, what will it be, Edward? Do you want me to leave?” you ask again, your gaze unwavering, pinning him down, refusing to let him escape into one of his usual outbursts or convoluted wordplay. He feels trapped. He hates this feeling –humiliated, exposed, vulnerable. A cold, heavy sensation settles in his stomach as the harsh realization dawns: he might actually lose you, here and now. Even with his bruised ego, he knows he can’t afford that.

He shakes his head. With a sigh, the tension in your face eases, your soft, tender features reemerging. A faint light flickers in the storm of your eyes –one of hope and understanding– as you tentatively place your hand atop his. Instinctively, Edward holds it with a gentleness that masks his desperation. It feels good. He’s missed you. For a few instants more, he allows himself to bask in the tenderness of the moment, his thumb tracing soft circles on the back of your hand. There is a comfortable warmth building in his stomach that makes him feel safe and protected. Such a foreign feeling.

“I really don’t care about it, Eddie…” you whisper softly, but the mention of the memory still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “It was… it felt amazing, didn’t it?” you continue, your voice barely above a murmur, searching for his eyes.

Edward exhales deeply, a faint smile flickering across his face as his shoulders drop in quiet acceptance. Yeah, it did. He nods, lips pressed together as he stares at you meekly. To his surprise, you’re the one avoiding his gaze now, a subtle shame flushing your cheeks as you clear your throat.

“And… it’s been a while for me, since, well… I got carried away. Sorry.” Edward’s eyes widen at your confession (why is she apologizing?), a wave of cruel discomfort churning in his stomach. He shifts in his seat, squeezing your hand –the touch meant to be reassuring, but it most likely feels uncomfortable instead, while he stutters an awkward explanation.

“Well… technically, I suppose it has been a while for me as well…” Edward mutters under his breath, uncertain if he wants you to hear or not. You do, though, raising a brow quizzically.

“Oh? What do you mean?”

Edward’s face flushes crimson, a surge of shame and humiliation churning in his stomach once more. His jaw clenches, and his lips press into a line so thin it is nearly disappearing. Then, your eyes widen in realization as the meaning of his confession finally sinks in.

”Oh, you mean you’ve never…?

– No. Never.” His words cut you off, sharp and harsh, fueled by a misplaced hostility that betrays the weight of his insecurity. His hand pulls away from yours, clenching into a tight fist on his lap as his gaze drops to the floor, where embarrassment and anger wrestle within him. Mostly embarrassment. With a soft sigh, your fingers find the sleeve of his shirt and give a gentle tug, quietly demanding his attention. His eyes reluctantly meet yours, and to his surprise, he finds no mockery there —only a certain tenderness. 

You smile at him. It does things to him. Feels like you’re taming him when all he wants to do is throw a tantrum. He’s not sure how you manage it.

“I really don’t care, Eddie… I don’t feel any less attracted to you.” Your balmy voice is like a caress on his bruised ego, the comforting reassurance stirring something deep inside him.

“Would you… be interested in a do-over dinner? I’ll take things slower this time, I promise” you add softly, and Edward all but loses all of his bravado. Not only are you interested in him (attracted, she even said!), but you are willing to see him again despite his bafflingly disappointing performance? This feels surreal, but he nods. Firmly. Yes, yes, yes, please. 

“That would– that would be nice…” Edward stutters, his voice laced with an uncharacteristic shyness, and his heart pounds in his chest when you seem pleased –no, thrilled– by his answer. In one graceful motion, you lean closer and kiss him on the lips; it’s soft, like a caress, and every fiber, every nerve inside him shivers and trembles as he hums appreciatively, reveling in your taste, your warmth. When you pull back, his lips linger open, his head subtly following yours, aching to capture your kiss again, burning with the desire for so much more of you. You chuckle softly, and kiss him one more time, as softly as the first one. A simple kiss, as tender as a feather, yet it makes his heart sing.

“Come back to my place tonight? I’ll make us dinner.”

Edward nods, his legs weak as jelly, his voice caught in his throat, utterly failing him. He leans in to kiss you again (just one more time, oh, please, just one more time), eagerly silencing the insecure voice in his mind calling him needy. When you finally leave, it feels as though a weight has been lifted from his shoulders, the thick, suffocating layer of self-hatred dissolving in the fragile yet powerful glow of his newfound happiness.

✦ ✦ ✦

Edward overthinks. Every knock on your door, every word he rehearsed in his mind. A burning storm rages in his stomach, fed by cruel anxiety and gnawing nerves. Don’t ruin everything again, his thoughts scream, even as you greet him with a luminous smile, leaning gracefully against the doorframe. A torrent of emotions devour him, yet all he can focus on is how breathtaking you look, your flowing dress that seems to dance over your body. She’s being merciful to you, do not ruin this. But then, your hand slips into his, your warmth casting a spell that calms the chaos within him. Time to shine, Nigma.

✦ ✦ ✦

His heart pounds wildly, as it always does when you touch him –but tonight, it’s unbearable. The frantic organ pumps violently in his chest, the deafening thudding echoing in his skull, the blood rushing to his flushed face. A searing heat blooms behind his navel, pulling his muscles taut the moment your delicate hands graze his shoulders, drawing him into an embrace that makes him forget his own name. He’s hesitant at first, always fearful of hurting you with his rough, calloused hands –more accustomed to metal and machines than tender skin. But your soft hums guide him, steadying his touch as he drinks in every subtle shift of your body, marveling at your most delicate expressions.

Your painted mouth finds his, trembling, unsure. A soft kiss pressed against his lips, gentle enough to coax his eyes shut, reveling in your warmth, your taste, your scent. The tip of your tongue brushes quasi timidly along the seam of his lips; with a gasp, Edward surrenders, inviting you in and deepening the kiss as his hand hesitantly explores the soft curve of your waist. 

Fingertips graze his hand gently, beckoning him to follow you to your bedroom. A whirlpool of apprehension and anxiety churns in his stomach, insecurities nesting uncomfortably alongside his rising desire. Yet he breathes deeply, a fragile courage igniting within him, convincing him that tonight will not end in disaster. When you entwine your fingers with his, his cock stutters in interest and he yields entirely, surrendering himself completely as you both step into the sanctuary of your bedroom.

Your scent is everywhere, reminiscent of a garden in full bloom, sweet, fruity, and intimate. His eyes explore every corner of your room, soaking in your tastes and habits with fervent curiosity. He knows he probably shouldn’t feel this excited to be here, but he can’t help it, especially when you press your palm flat against his chest and gently push —an unspoken invitation (demand?) to sit on your bed. He feels the softness of the sheets beneath his trembling hands, the plushness of the mattress, and suddenly, everything becomes achingly real. 

With the same grace and unhurried tempo, you settle onto his lap, the fabric of your dress cascading over your thighs, eliciting a suppressed gasp from him. The warmth radiating from your body feels almost electric, the heat of your core pressing against his clothed erection becoming overwhelming. When your fingers weave through his hair with the gentle tenderness he adores, he instinctively wraps his hands around your waist, his thumbs drawing soothing circles as he savors the moment. For a moment, you simply caress one another, exploring each other almost reverently; his hands tentatively glide along your spine, tracing your silhouette, while yours tenderly graze the nape of his neck.

Your lips caress his neck, barely grazing the sensitive skin as soft sighs of contentment fill the air. Pressing your body closer to his, he basks in the warmth of your shared heartbeats. Your chest feels impossibly soft and warm against his aging, toned frame. His fingers venture curiously over the supple flesh of your bare thighs which yield to his touch, and then your mouth is on his once more, kissing him with a restrained passion that he can almost taste.

A renewed fervor ignites comfortably behind his navel as your touch grows more adventurous –your lips greedily suckling on his tongue, teeth teasing his bottom lip, almost devouring him while your satisfied moans ripple down his throat. His breath becomes unrecognizable, strained and labored under your intoxicating touch, his mind swirling in a haze of near-delirious desire. When your hips roll tantalizingly against his clothed erection, a heated hiss breaks through his clenched teeth, his hands grabbing your waist more possessively. Eyes closed in surrender, he fights to keep his composure, resisting the primal urge to rut into you like a feral beast.

In one swift, graceful yet urging motion, your fingers grasp the hem of your dress and pull it over your head, revealing more flesh than Edward has ever witnessed in his entire life. Satin and lace cling to your most intimate parts, accentuating every inch of you. Panting, his lips kiss-swollen and glistening, Edward’s half-lidded eyes drink in the divine shape of your body. 

A throaty moan escapes him, brushing against your cheekbone as his emerald eyes trace every curve, dimple, and detail of your form. His lips twitch into a soft, shy smile when his gaze falls on your lingerie. Of course you’re wearing green. His eyes lock onto yours once more, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as you exchange a knowing glance. Your playful giggle follows, threatening to shatter the last remnants of his restraint.

Edward’s touch grows more natural, emboldened by the ever growing passion swirling in his stomach; his lips draw a delicate path of kisses along your shoulders, the sensitive flesh of your neck and the column of your throat, guided and encouraged by your soft gasps and moans, fingers playing and caressing his hair. If the heat of your core wasn’t enough to prove your desire, the insistent rocking of your hips against his hardness dissolves any lingering doubts. His grip tightens, becoming more possessive, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your waist as he pulls you closer, pressing you firmly against him. Sublime moans spill from your parted lips as teeth and tongue replace his gentle kisses, suckling on your neck, biting the fragile skin. Marking you. As he does with everything he claims as his own.

Your wanton moans and the more passionate roll of your hips against him all but inflate his ego and fill his heart with a primal urge, one he’s never known until now. When your fingers grip his hair with a near-violent tug, he groans deeply, his body trembling with undefined pleasure. Moments later, your lips crash onto his, your tongue slipping into his willing mouth as his hands roam over your back, pulling you impossibly closer to his burning skin. His thrusts meet yours in a rhythm that is both exquisite and maddeningly insufficient. His fingers find your bra, and with a deft flick, it’s undone –his hands, after all, are accustomed to far more intricate mechanics than this.

The sight of your bare chest reminds him of a Renaissance still life; soft, rounded breasts, adorned by erect nipples that resemble two tempting fruits, hanging graciously before him, begging to be plucked –and suddenly, Edward feels starved. One hand cups your supple warmth, feeling its weight, while his tongue tentatively explores a flushed nub, encouraged by your breathy moans.

Reveling in the reactions and the delicious sensations of your willing body, Edward senses a familiar rhythm; his touch morphs and evolves, perfectly attuned to your organic responses as he learns how you function. Every flick of his tongue and every twist of his fingers enhances his experience and bolsters his confidence. He studies the different sounds you make, the way your body jerks and shivers under his inquisitive caress, feeling a thrill that borders on excitement more than mere arousal. Mastering something new is his forte, and the evident success he experiences swells his ego as fiercely as it makes his cock throb in his pants. The rush of adrenaline coursing through him leaves him dizzy, and when he finally lifts his head from your breasts to offer you a sincere, exhilarated smile, he notices your cheeks flush a deep crimson.

In a sudden burst of courage, Edward grasps your thighs and flips you onto your back. A soft yelp escapes you as you land on the plush mattress, the sound quickly melting into shared, loving laughter. The anxious tension in his chest seems to dissolve as you cup his face and pull him into a gentle kiss. Nestled between your parted legs, Edward’s heart swells, captivated by the sight before him. You look so beautiful —laying on your bed, neck and chest adorned with love bites, a sheen of sweat glistening on your stomach like a soft glow. His gaze roams over you, lingering on your flushed, swollen lips, your heaving chest, the delicate curve of your navel, until it falls upon your underwear. The dark spot where the fabric is soaked is not lost on him, the sight drawing a long, deliberate breath from his lungs. Your calf caresses his thigh, your whispered voice beckoning his attention.

“You’re wearing way too many clothes right now.” Your tone is playful, a smirk curling on your lips as Edward nods mutely in response.

Urging fingers unbutton his shirt, discarding it on the floor before giving his undershirt the same treatment, exposing his torso. Your warm hands find him quickly, gliding over the taut muscles beneath skin weathered by time, tracing each scar, each mark of life. Edward fumbles awkwardly as he struggles out of his pants, shivering when your fingertips brush his chest, following the sparse line of dark hair that trails from his sternum, thickening as it disappears below the waistband of his strained underwear. Just as your touch threatens to overwhelm his nerves, he gently catches your wrists, guiding your hands to his lips, where he presses tender kisses against your knuckles.

The thunder of his heartbeat fills the room, nearly drowning out the world as his hands glide over the smoothness of your bare thighs. His fingers run over the edge of your soaked panties, his gaze rising, searching yours, waiting for your silent permission. With your encouraging nod, he slowly peels your underwear away from your soft legs, thin threads of arousal clinging between the ruined lace and your yearning sex.

Now entirely bare and with your legs spread around his thighs, Edward chokes a broken moan at the sight of your exposed cunt, glistening with desire, and open like a flower. Your labia majora parting delicately to reveal smaller, flushed and swollen lips reminiscent of an engorged fruit, make him feel a hunger he never knew he possessed; and as he realizes there is so much he longs to do, to taste, to feel, he finds himself at a loss for where to begin. An almost forgotten anxiety crawls back in his stomach and paralyzes him completely. As his fingers nervously trace the inside of your thighs, his mind races, weaving through a labyrinth of calculations and possibilities, yet no satisfying answer comes to him. You notice his perplexed look, as usual, and prop yourself up on your elbows, offering him a reassuring smile.

“Is everything alright?” you ask softly, gently pulling him out of his nervous-induced inertia. 

“Show… show me what you like. Please.” There is something oddly surgical in his voice, almost serious, yet laced with a hint of embarrassment. With wide eyes, your eyebrows lift in curious surprise as you realize this isn’t just Edward Nigma speaking; it’s the Riddler, desperate to solve this completely foreign puzzle. A tender smile dances on your lips, and your heart swells with adoration for this complex man who so eagerly desires to understand you, all of you. You sit up to kiss him tenderly, nipping at his bottom lip until you draw a shaky hum from his mouth, then lay back on the mattress.

Inhaling slowly, you relax your thighs around him, tilting your hips comfortably beneath his attentive and keen gaze. Your fingertips caress the soft skin of your stomach, tracing idle shapes in a practiced and familiar manner while his own hands caress your thighs. You lift one knee, spreading yourself wider to grant your deft fingers better access to your open sex. Edward swallows thickly.

Fingertips glide over your slit, gently parting your folds, revealing yourself completely to a visibly flustered Edward. You expose your blushing entrance, your fingers glistening with arousal, until a soft gasp escapes him —captivated by your intimate display. His grip on your thigh tightens, and you hum with quiet pleasure, moving your hand to rest upon the soft curls of your mound. Your middle and ring fingers delicately encircle your clitoris, the flushed nub standing proudly between them. With practiced grace, you trace a familiar pattern, caressing and rubbing the swollen bud, soft moans spilling from your parted lips. Edward’s face burns a deep crimson, mesmerized, completely spellbound by this tender, most intimate moment. 

Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, Edward studies your every stroke with a burning passion. When he glances at you, sinking his beautiful emerald eyes into yours, his expression is one of complete desire, eliciting a moan of his name that bubbles up from your throat. The melody of his name, laced with reverence and arousal, draws a guttural grunt from him, his cock throbbing painfully in his underwear. Finally, he decides to shed the barrier, exposing himself completely —a beautiful cock, hanging heavily against his thigh, adorned with a thick vein on his shaft and a beautifully flushed tip. A flicker of insecurity stirs in his chest, but your gentle hand cradling his face strips away his worries, emboldening him to shakily palm his naked length while his eyes remain trained on your cunt.

Have you ever caressed yourself like this before, whispering his name into the stillness of the night? God knows he has.

Soon, the heat pooling in your stomach grows more demanding, and you slip a finger inside your weeping hole effortlessly, the stretch not nearly enough for your yearning desire. A second digit joins the first, pumping them slowly in and out of you in an obscene wet noise, low moans spilling from your mouth. Edward’s grip on your thigh gets more vicious, panting loudly as his other hand caresses his heavy length, savoring the spectacle before him. 

A needy moan bubbles in his throat as he glances back at you, his gaze catching the flicker of pleasure in your eyes. For a moment, you both bask in the heat of each other’s stares, exchanging soft gasps, broken moans, and ragged whimpers.

With an hesitant motion, Edward brings his hand to your mound, shivering at the softness of your curls beneath your curious gaze, while his other hand remains on your thigh. A low, surprised moan escapes your lips as his thumb finds your pearl, delicately mimicking the movements you showed him.

Experimenting with speed, shape, and pressure, Edward attunes himself to your every reaction, observing the way your stomach tenses over a particular motion, listening intently to the intensity of your moans, learning which patterns make you buck your hips more earnestly. It is all so perfect (you are perfect).

Wailing beneath his touch, your legs quiver as you bury your fingers deep within, curling them to caress and stimulate your most sensitive spots. The moans that break free from your throat are loud and ragged now, and there’s a quizzical look on Edward’s face, who stares with curiosity, trying to decipher the rhythm and the exact nature of your occulted movements. He concludes there’s only one way to find out.

While never letting go of your throbbing clit, Edward’s free hand reaches for your wrist, gently tugging your hand. You gaze at him through half-lidded eyes as he removes your fingers from your core, stifling a soft sob at the interruption of your pleasure. Fortunately, the disappointment is short-lived, as you quickly feel two of his fingers prodding at your entrance, briefly rubbing the slick opening until they breach your aching hole. The stretch is fierce, his digits larger and more calloused than yours, as he penetrates your tight walls with an almost reverent touch, one that makes you wail and buck your hips on the mattress, begging for more.

Edward breathes a strangled moan at the sensation of your warmth sucking in his fingers, drunk on the sight of your contorted face and the song of your ruined voice. His cock weeps ropes of precum against the inside of your thigh, a thick translucent string connecting them; the temptation to rut against your heated skin is immense, but Edward is stubborn.

Tentatively, he gently thrusts his fingers in and out of you, each time his long digits kissing your cervix as they bottom out, the obscene squelching sounds making him groan a curse while your back arches under his touch. Still, this is not what you were doing earlier, fingers buried deeply inside of you, stimulating yourself from within. He knows that there is a sensitive spot hidden somewhere, he just needs to find it.

Your hole offers close to no resistance anymore, rough fingers spearing you open as they sink into you one more time, and he stares hungrily at the way your arousal coats his entire hand; glistening essence dripping over his wrist and down your ass, as the interested motion of his fingers drags more obscene noises from your stuffed cunt. Calloused fingers moving, rotating, curling, exploring your insides with feverish intent, you can tell that he’s looking for it, your soft and cushiony spot that you know will bring you to completion. He’s so close to victory that you’re already panting like an animal in anticipation, your heated gaze looking at him with both scorching hunger and fervent encouragement.

When he finally finds it, your entire body convulses and thrashes against the mattress, your fingers gripping his wrist fiercely as you scream out your tight pleasure, begging him not to stop until your voice is ragged and hoarse. In this moment, Edward’s face lights up, illuminated by the fire of his success; confidence radiates from his emerald eyes, and a wide smile stretches across his face. Right now, as he so passionately works on bringing you to completion, he feels like the king of the world, he feels triumphant.

His touch is merciless, the pad of his thumb rubbing infernal patterns on your sensitive clit, his fingers relentlessly assaulting the same tender area and fuck it feels good, so good you could cry, overwhelmed with an incendiary pleasure that only he can give, ruining you for anyone else, you are certain of that. Your voice breaks, his name becoming a litany on your lips, and you swear you just heard him chuckle, a chanting sound filled with an ardent excitement. And excited he is, as always when he solves a riddle.

Emerald eyes lock onto you with renewed intensity, craving, needing to witness your unraveling beneath him, to see you surrender to his touch. The way he gazes at you, with unrestrained reverence and adoring desire, is what finally pushes you past your breaking point. With a final caress of your pearl and one last press of his fingers against that soft, spongy spot, the tension in your taut muscles seems to tear apart; a violent snap radiates through your entire body with a devastating force. A scream, followed by a litany of his name, spills from your lips as the overwhelming waves of your orgasm crash deep within, your clit throbbing furiously, your walls spasming in response, clenching around the rough fingers that continue their relentless pleasure. Edward mutters a curse through ragged breaths, panting like a beast, his own desire making his untouched, neglected cock weep and stutter against your trembling thigh.

He only slows to a halt when your weak grip weakly clutches his wrists, and your whimpers grow increasingly desperate, squirming on the mattress in overstimulation. He is particularly gentle as he withdraws his fingers from your flushed, tender entrance, thick strings of your release connecting his knuckles to your now gaping hole. Staring at his obscenely glistening hand, Edward trembles with victorious excitement and, if he’s honest, painfully restrained desire; pressing eager kisses to your parted lips, trailing down to your slack jaw and the pulse point of your neck, he palms the heavy weight of his throbbing cock, whimpering a silent plea. You giggle softly at his fervor, cupping his face and pulling him into a passionate kiss, a dance of tongue and teeth, as if he might explode with need if he doesn’t find his own release soon. 

Soft fingers caress his bicep in a comforting manner, humming lovingly as they glide over his toned arm and heaving chest, trailing down to where he needs you most. Your hand wraps around his warm, perfect cock, reveling in the silky texture of his flesh as you trace the thick protruding vein with your thumb. Edward lets out a wounded noise through clenched teeth, his thighs shaking in intense restraint as you tentatively pump him a few times at an unhurried pace. His contorted expression, his heavy panting and flushed cheekbones betray just how close he is to his orgasm, and with a final and merciful caress, you reluctantly withdraw, deciding to take care of him another time —and there will be another time.

As one hand settles against his lower back, pulling him closer to your exhausted body, the other gently cups his cock, guiding him with a tender urgency to your folds. You wrap your thighs around his hips, feeling the warmth of his body against yours, and you gaze intently at his face, watching the way his features shift with pleasure as his shaft glides against the wetness of your cunt. Instinctively, he rocks his hips, fully immersing himself in the sublime sensation of you. Soft gasps escape your lips, followed by breathy moans bubbling in your throat, each sound a testament to your rising desire every time his flushed glans bump into your sensitive pearl, and you find yourself thinking that you could easily come again, lost in the intimate caress of his cock gliding through your folds, stroking your cunt deliciously.

When the tip of his cock catches at your entrance, Edward’s eyes widen in a silent, desperate plea while you simply hum softly, biting your bottom lip in anticipation. You sink your half-lidded gaze into his, conveying all your desire as your hand caresses his thigh, nodding to encourage him. His eyes remain on you as his hips push into your heat, yearning to capture your every expression as he finally breaches you for the very first time. Your lips part, high pitched whines falling from your mouth as his length splits you open, feeling your still tender walls fluttering against his silky cock.

Edward’s pants are loud and ragged when he’s fully sheathed inside you, the sensation both foreign and overwhelming. He revels in the tightness of your cunt, almost sucking him in, the wetness creating a formidable sensation that makes him feel quasi delirious. You, on the other hand, sob and whimper at the intense feeling of his entire length filling your hole deliciously, a renewed fire igniting inside you. He knows his orgasm is already nearing, and as your eyes meet, you pass a knowing look, your soft features reassuring him, mutely giving him permission to move and claim you the way he craves so desperately.

Lowering himself, his forearms brackets your body as he presses a trembling kiss over your welcoming mouth that he does not have the composure to maintain. While you nibble on his bottom lip, you shift your hips and lift your thighs, granting him deeper access to your core. You have never looked so beautiful, splayed beneath him with flushed cheeks and pupils dilated with fiery desire —all for him, he realizes. His brow furrows inwards, kissing your forehead before rubbing his nose against yours, closing his eyes, feeling content, loved.

Edward’s heartbeat thunders in his chest, a deep moan breaking his throat as his hips withdraw slowly, dragging his cock through your fleshy walls until only the tip lingers. A soft sigh slips from your lips, eyes fluttering shut under his lustful gaze. Your fingers trace the nape of his neck, savoring the sensation of him —every curve, every ridge, as his cock slowly carves a path within you. Each pulse of his veins teases your most tender places, sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. You can’t help but sob softly at the gentleness of his touch, his slow, deliberate thrusts filling your sensitive core, opening you, spreading you, until you’re utterly consumed by him. His thoughts dissolve into nothingness, swept away by the newfound pleasure your silken depths offer.

Tentatively, Edward thrusts faster inside of your welcoming hole, a loud curse spilling from his mouth every time his cock nudges against your soft cervix, your fingernails digging in the skin of his back as wanton moans encourage him. He feels his orgasm approaching, a mounting inevitability he wishes to resist, yet the pleasure is so overwhelming, so exquisite, that control slips from his grasp. Perfectly unable to slow down, he surrenders to the bliss, chasing his release with frantic desperation, thrusting into your soft, yielding body –your warmth and tightness, a perfect heaven he cannot escape. Guttural grunts, eager moans and vulgar noises of wet skin slapping against each other fill the otherwise aphonic room as you both bask in a passionate warmth and shared desire. 

Then, with a gasp and a final stutter of his hips, the taut muscles in Edward’s stomach jerk and tense, the thin string of his arousal snapping as his balls tighten viciously and his cock throbs inside your fluttering cunt, spilling thick ropes of cum before his entire body trembles and collapses atop yours in blissful exhaustion. 

Your eyes flutter shut as your delicate fingers thread through his sweat-dampened hair, your thighs entwined around his hips. You feel his ragged breath warm against your neck, his heartbeat pulsing in time with your own. Gently, your hand traces idle shapes along his back as your breath steadies, and you tenderly press a soothing kiss to his forehead. In your balmy embrace, Edward surrenders completely, melting into you.

Edward grunts as he withdraws his softening cock from within your velvety depths, rolling onto his side to gaze at you with half-lidded eyes. Tenderness radiates from your gaze, a comfort intertwined with something deeper, something he’s never encountered before –an intimacy he hopes to etch in his memory forever, wishing that you would always look at him this way.

A quiet exchange passes between you, a silence rich with an unspoken promise, as your luminous eyes sparkle with happiness and a radiant smile blooms across your face. So much remains unspoken, yet is understood, as he leans in closer, kissing you deeply, savoring the sweetness of your lips against his and the gentle dance of your tongues.

Cocooned in a veil of happiness, he tentatively wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer, sighing contentedly as he falls asleep to the soothing rhythm of your heartbeat against him. 

And for the first time in years, the storm of his thoughts gives way to perfect silence.

[ivan-fyodorovich-k]

In the summer of 2015, back when he was still talking to traitorous reporters like me, I spent extended stretches with Donald Trump. He was in the early phase of his first campaign for president, though he had quickly made himself the inescapable figure of that race—as he would in pretty much every Republican contest since. We would hop around his various clubs, buildings, holding rooms, limos, planes, golf carts, and mob scenes, Trump disgorging his usual bluster, slander, flattery, and obvious lies. The diatribes were exhausting and disjointed. But I was struck by one theme that Trump kept pounding on over and over: that he was used to dealing with “brutal, vicious killers”—by which he meant his fellow ruthless operators in showbiz, real estate, casinos, and other big-boy industries. In contrast, he told me, politicians are saps and weaklings. “I will roll over them,” he boasted, referring to the flaccid field of Republican challengers he was about to debate at the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library that September. They were “puppets,” “not strong people.” He welcomed their contempt, he told me, because that would make his turning them into supplicants all the more humiliating. “They might speak badly about me now, but they won’t later,” Trump said. They like to say they are “public servants,” he added, his voice dripping with derision at the word servant. But they would eventually submit to him and fear him. They would “evolve,” as they say in politics. “It will be very easy; I can make them evolve,” Trump told me. “They will evolve.” Like most people who’d been around politics for a while, I was dubious. And wrong. They evolved. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Trump told me the following spring, as he was completing his romp to the 2016 nomination. We were talking on the phone, and Trump had just wrapped up a rally in Anaheim, California. Former Texas Governor Rick Perry had recently endorsed him, despite dismissing Trump earlier as a “cancer on conservatism” and “a barking carnival act.” “He made a statement saying something like I’m ‘the smartest guy ever to run for office,’ ” Trump told me (Perry didn’t say exactly that, but close). “How do you get from ‘cancer on the party’ to that? I get it, I get it; it’s how politicians are. But I couldn’t do that.” Trump accepted Perry’s support, and then promptly taunted him. “He was going [around] saying the worst things about me!” Trump said at the Anaheim rally. “I have never seen people able to pivot like politicians.” “It’s happening with all of them,” Trump said. “Lindsey Graham just called and was very nice … even though he used to say the worst things.” (Graham had called Trump, among other not-nice things, “a race-baiting, xenophobic religious bigot” and “a kook.”) Soon enough, the last holdouts would come around too. “It’s just so easy, how they do that,” Trump said. As went individual Republican politicians, so went the party. Reince Priebus, the chair of the Republican National Committee in 2016, would become frustrated with Trump over his obvious scorn for his organization. Still, Priebus would gamely try to assure me that the GOP was shaped not by one man but rather by a set of traditions, principles, and conservative ideals. “The party defines the party,” Priebus kept telling me. After Trump won the nomination in 2016, “The party defines the party” became a familiar feckless refrain among the GOP’s putative leaders. House Speaker Paul Ryan vowed to me that he would “protect conservatism from being disfigured.” Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell told the radio host Hugh Hewitt that “Trump is not going to change the institution,” referring to the GOP. “He’s not going to change the basic philosophy of the party.” In retrospect, this was hilarious.

[blommp717]

If you have a solid theoretical understanding of nondualism and have experienced nonduality and existential oneness firsthand, it might be surprising for others to see your defensive and dismissive reactions when your content or delivery is critiqued. This behavior can discourage people from engaging with legitimate guides, especially if they associate such behavior with nondualistic practice.

Consider how your responses might be perceived. For instance, if a fitness coach appeared out of shape, potential clients might doubt their credibility. Similarly, if a spiritual guide reacts defensively, it might suggest an attachment to personal identity, which really contrasts with nondualistic principles.

Reflecting on this, it could be helpful to explore whether there’s an attachment to the identity of a spiritual guide that’s influencing your responses. Clear and composed communication is key to effective guidance, and addressing feedback calmly can enhance your clarity and effectiveness.

Embracing humility and acknowledging areas for growth can deepen your practice and strengthen your role as a guide. You seem dedicated to being a guide of some sort and aligning your behavior with these principles can further inspire and support those seeking advice. Don't let the echo chamber fool you into thinking that you are above constructive criticism. May you continue to grow in humility and wisdom. 🙏

Im not sure where you got this perspective but let me help clear something.

I’m not a teacher, I’m not a guide, I’m not a guru, I’m not enlightened, and no one can ever be.

“If you have a theoretical understanding of NonDualism and have experienced nonduality and existential oneness firsthand”

So what i can tell from the responses like these is theres a simple illusion that’s being blindly followed. I genuinely don’t mean it out of anything but love so please don’t take it that way. Putting it into simple terms, yes, but that’s the nature of how all already is, pretending to be the separate self is the cause of “suffering”. There isn’t more to know or do, you guys are at the finish line asking for directions to get there. Snap out of the illusion that there is a separate self.

There is no non dualistic practice, there is no journey and neither is there an effort. There just is. I don’t really care to please everyone because validation is something I genuinely don’t care for. I do this out of joy and from it, as that’s the inherent nature of what is. There is a clear line between critique towards me and ignorance, (not stupidity) but the action of choosing to ignore information. That ignorance. You most likely read my pinned post because I can’t recall anyone who responded in that way. That person doesn’t move from joy, neither do they move from the true understanding. They were still in the idea of a journey, a doing, a guru, a teacher, and thought if there is a journey and guru or teacher, there must be a right and wrong way. They didn’t resonate with what I write and decided it was wrong, more peace to them but I just helped them realize that there is no search and they can rest.

For the aspect of calmly addressing feedback, I’m not sure what I say that makes someone think I’m responding from anger, maybe it’s because my voice and tone can’t be heard but that’s just an assumption that the person moves from. I never respond in hate, I never respond in anger, what I will do is respect myself. No one is going to come on my page and make dull remarks on me or anyone who reads what I say, no one knows me, so making an assumption and going full force into it as if they have all the pieces figured out is that same ignorance again. I don’t think you act out of bad intent at all, I don’t think anyone does when I get these kind of comments. I think what is being irked or triggered is the sense that there is more. That if I heard someone tell me to do xyz, then if anyone says “there is no journey” they must be teaching a falsity.

Ultimately I really don’t care for the (as you said) spiritual guide status, (I also don’t believe in that kind of stuff) and I really hope after reading my writings no one thinks I’m their savior or guru, that’s the absolute last thing I’d want. No thing can or will ever be the source of stillness and wholeness, because that comes from being, it IS being. Not objects, not experiences and most definitely not people. I write with the understandings of what is. I guess you can call it “personal experience”. I mean you are the experience but that’s a different story. Anyways I gotta go for now, take care you guys 🌝🌚

[lonelyroommp3]

I'm interested about your spring awakening ensemble thoughts! Why do you dislike them for that show? Is it because there are already enough minor named characters that already function as a 'ensemble' you think its not needed?

it’s partly that from a purely practical standpoint! for example, speaking from my specific position as an MD, there’s no need for an ensemble to fill out the sound or sing additional harmony lines because all the writing and vocal arrangement has been done for a cast of a specific size so it’s just. not necessary to bulk it out further

however my main issue is from a storytelling perspective - one of the great things about spring awakening to me is the way every teen character has at least an implied plotline or inner life. even the characters we don’t get to know in any real detail like otto or anna have a name, vaguely drawn personality, etc. and not only does this work towards fleshing out the world of the show but, more importantly, i feel it gives the impression that everybody on that stage has a story and wants and needs and desires, which i think is a really necessary reflection of the show’s central themes in terms of drawing all the teenage characters as distinct people who deserve autonomy and their own identities (contrast with all the adult characters being played by two actors, depriving them of that same level of depth and implied individuality & inner richness). so i think adding a ton of anonymous kids who, because of the way the show is written, have sweet fuck all to do cheapens & diminishes that.

i know you didn’t ask about why i have the same issue with adding an ensemble to dear evan hansen but i think my issues with that are grounded in very similar principles. with the way deh’s book is written & the original production’s approach to direction, choreography, etc it feels in many ways like a play that happens to have songs moreso than A Musical, especially in how its characters are drawn; every character exists for a specific reason to fulfill a clearly demarcated function practically and artistically, and there is no structural need for a traditional ensemble. much like spring awakening i also think the idea that every person we see physically present on the stage is a fully fleshed out person with their own hopes and dreams and struggles is massively important thematically and this element is, again, likely going to be cheapened by throwing randos onstage to fill the space. finally, i think it misses the point that what sense of an ensemble we DO have in dear evan hansen is provided by The Internet, with the virtual chorus, use of projections etc giving us the clear impression of an active and vocal world beyond the characters we see physically present on the stage but also providing enough detachment for us to view The Internet as something of a monolith, filled with individuals but who are easily shaped into an indistinguishable, sometimes bolstering, sometimes terrifying mass by the way stories and events are manipulated by and for social media. so i think that having a physical ensemble onstage risks muddying the presence and power of the internet as a major theme in the show.

who knows, maybe the marketing is being deliberately vague and the cast members marked as “ensemble” ARE just going to be lending their offstage voices & faces to a “virtual ensemble” representative of the internet (in addition to their cover tracks, of course). but considering how said marketing also keeps going on about this being a bold new reimagining of the show or whatever i think i reserve the right to be a little suspicious 😐

[mortalityplays]

honest question: do you think your experience scales up to apply to most communities in the world? People as a default, seem against the presence of organized crime in their communities and would prefer a more "official" form of management, despite that more official form, in reality, often coming in the shape of unhelpful thugs with badges. I'm not looking to discount your lived experience, but in Eastern Europe, where I live, organized crime syndicates are about as unhelpful and damaging as the police in most instances, if not more so. My folks say it's in the "spirit" of people here, that we're not community-minded enough to help eachother. I always thought that was BS, but if local gangs are actually helping the neighborhood over where you live, maybe there is something to their statement.

Like... idk. Does your experience speak to the incompetence of the system of authorities in your country, or to the very principle of authorities in general?

to be absolutely crystal clear, I also view the imposed authority of organised crime gangs as harmful and illegitimate. I'm talking about them in this instance as an illustration of the contrast between a power structure that had arisen within a specific community and one that was imposed on the same community by the state. I don't think organised crime is a good model for organising society, and in general I don't think organisational structures scale well beyond small overlapping networks of self-management.

I'm only speaking about my particular experiences of these different forms of power in a very unique time and place (that neighbourhood has since been cut up and redeveloped and I expect is very, very different now). I don't think people are fundamentally different anywhere in the world, but the material and economic forces they have to grapple with can radically change a community's priorities. I hope that makes sense.

[transgenderer]

lately ive been thinking about why i have so much trouble enjoying fiction that isnt spec fic. i think it might be...people? fiction, that isnt spec fic, is just about people. like i dont mean thats what it depicts, spec fic also depicts people, but spec fic can be *about* things other than people. mostly, it can be about things larger than people. the underlying shapes, the general principles. it reaches conclusions that are not just about humans, or when the conclusions are about humans its about the specificity of humans contrasted with a possible generality. does this make sense? idk. i feel like something just clicked

what made this click for me was thinking about adaptation, of solaris and annihilation and roadside picnic (the adaptation is called stalker). those three novels are not about people. or theyre about people i guess, but the insignificance of people is one of their central concerns. the limitations of people, in the face of what theyre *really* about, the other/more-than-human. and all three adaptations make them about people! its just more mundane boring people!

anyway non-SF can be about the other and the more than human but its rarer, i think

[k-s-morgan]

Hi!

I love your WHGTB so much! I just finished it and it's awesome! You are awesome!!! :3

At the beginning of the fic, you said you decided to write WHGTB because all the "Harry raises Tom" type fics you like are unfinished.

What inspired your new fic?

How long will it last in general? I can't wait to read your new TomHarry!

Please, stay safe.

Hello! Thank you so much, I'm so happy you enjoyed WHGTB and that you are excited about the new story!

When it comes to Tomarry, I always loved two tropes: Harry raising Tom & Harry and Tom studying at Hogwarts together. Since the latter is much more common and there are more completed stories with this plot, I was interested in exploring the Harry-raising-Tom scenario first. Now that I'm done with it, I can move on toward my other favorite idea!

What inspired me in general:

1) The grand and gloomy atmosphere of Hogwarts of Tom Riddle's time, where he is still a brilliant, intelligent wizard slowly building his empire. His canon school years always intrigued me because they are wrapped in mystery while being arguably the darkest and the most complex period in HP history. They unfolded during the time of two large wars, giving birth to the greatest and darkest wizard of all. The politics, the knowledge, the blood that must have accompanied this process - it's fascinating. For some reason, those years give me a feeling of dark romanticism, something I don't feel in Harry's Hogwarts days.

2) The idea of Tom, with his already-shaped vicious, elitist views, becoming infatuated with the worst possible person who threatens everything he has managed to build and who's destined to possibly kill him. Choosing Harry above his more powerful, more influential followers; being obsessed and protective of him even though they represent two opposite sides and killing Harry would be the smartest choice. I love the idea of enemies-to-lovers-to-enemies-who-are-in-love-with-each-other :D

3) The thought of Tom's frustration and resentment over having to return to the orphanage year after year, being forcibly torn from the world where he feels like a king, thrown into the circumstances most of his fellow Slytherins cannot imagine - an aspect he has in common with Harry that will unite them further. The horror of the bombing of London Tom likely experienced at least partly, something that's never elaborated upon in the books but which I always felt strongly about. The way it could have fuelled Tom's hatred toward anything related to Muggles even more, building a contrast with how Harry might react in the same circumstances.

4) The endless manipulations and machinations Tom can come up with to get what he wants, countered by Harry's stubborn determination to oppose him. The power plays and the constantly shifting power dynamics, the equal dance of obsession - since Harry and Tom are of the same age, they'll be on a more equal ground, and their conflicts will reflect it. The increasing number of Tom's allies and worshippers put against Harry's contempt and criticism, which will frustrate Tom into losing his fake composure and make him succumb to his more natural temper.

5) The shaky foundation of the wizarding world of that time that canon Tom could have conquered if he made smarter choices. The society was terrified and uncertain, and I love imagining what Tom's large-scale confrontations with Harry could do to it.

In short, I'm inspired by the idea of Harry and Tom growing to be powerful young leaders who are in love and obsessed with each other, but who refuse to compromise their principles and are prepared to fight to achieve their goals. Who will duel each other in the afternoon, destroy their followers, and then lose themselves in each other in the evening. WHGTB Tom was a variation of a child Tom who was raised by Harry, which affected his views and values; this is the CoS Tom who already has one Horcrux, whose views are set in stone, and who doesn't plan on loving anyone. The idea of world dominion is rooted in his mind and Harry is the last thing he expects.

I love the moral ambiguity of this scenario. After all the development, Tom would rather kill any follower who disrespects or harms Harry as opposed to eliminating Harry himself, despite knowing he is the biggest threat to his rule. Harry, in turn, would rather risk people who trusted him than execute any plan that could result in Tom's destruction. What their obsession and possessiveness will push them to is fascinating to consider - there are so many potential arcs in this plot.

This is approximately how I imagine their relationship to have gone in canon if Harry ended up travelling to CoS Tom's time. That version of Tom would not be easily swayed - neither would Harry. They would clash violently, they would hate each other, but they would also be inevitably drawn together because of everything they have in common and everything they see in each other.

The expected count is 23 chapters for now, but it can change in both directions since the size of my updates is always unpredictable! My characters don't like listening to me :D