#the inevitable differences or inconsistencies you run into

[sleepdepravity]

Started thinking about musical songs and also reigen and now I’m ruminating on reigen having bialystock energy……

[literaila]

how do u think satoru would react to reader in a depressive episode, especially what do u think the kids would do

obviously, they’ve all noticed.

the past couple of weeks have not been lived through ignorantly. and you have not been acting normal.

the differences are just that, at first. tiny inconsistencies in your otherwise normal personality, your routine.

and then it becomes more than just a… change.

it starts off simple; megumi’s brows furrowing when you ask him a question—something about his teacher, or what kind of drink he wants in his lunch that day—and then forget what you’ve just said as soon as he answers.

tsumiki watching, smiling along idly, as you rub your temples, sighing with every other sentence and squeezing your eyes tight like you’ll be able to wake up if you try hard enough.

and satoru noticing when you linger in your room a bit longer, as the days pass. staring when you freeze looking at the wall in the morning, zoning out so hard that he has to shake you back to life.

just an accumulation of things that might indicate that something is up.

but as these moments—moments when you’re lost in your head, trying to conceal your entire being from all of them, and pretending that it’s all normal—increase, the three of them learn a little something about observing.

and lying to themselves, of course.

eventually, though, when megumi or tsumiki inevitably say something—usually when you’re not in the room, off hiding somewhere—satoru just shrugs.

(he’s going to lie his way through this, just like everything else, thank you).

“it’s a bad day,” he’ll say, like the two children will comprehend that. like they don’t know what a bad day means. “she’s just tired.”

he could make a million excuses for you. oh, you didn’t get enough sleep last night. oh, you’ve only had one cup of coffee today. oh, the world is a truly terrible place and it’s only natural that it runs you down.

but he leaves them with the simplest of explanations, instead. maybe it’s his subtle way of denying that there’s anything wrong. that you could be upset about something. it doesn’t matter, anyway.

and tsumiki, ever so trusting of all of you, listens to him. if satoru says that you’re okay, then so does she. she’ll draw you a picture at school or try to help you make their lunches in the morning, but you’re fine. her questions end with an answer.

megumi, on the other hand, has never believed a word that satoru has said.

so when the older man swears that you’re okay, that they don’t need to worry, megumi only begins to worry harder.

he sees that look on your face when you walk in the room, and megumi knows. maybe it’s because he’s the most attuned to you, out of everyone, in particular. maybe it’s because he’s observant, or too worrisome for his age (as you tell him).

but he knows.

and if satoru says one thing, megumi’s going to believe the other.

(plus the two of you have always had a symbiotic relationship. you worry about him, and he worries about you. you laugh at him, and he gives a little lip twitch in return).

so satoru is not surprised when megumi brings it up for the fourth time in a week.

“you want me to what, exactly?”

“you can talk to them, can’t you?” he repeats, giving satoru a bland look. something like ‘are you serious.’ “they know you.”

satoru snorts. “i don’t think my bosses will appreciate me telling them what they can or can’t do.”

megumi gives him another look.

and yeah, so satoru already does that. they still don’t appreciate it.

he sighs, smiling at the boy. anything to mess with him, really. he ruffles megumi’s hair. “kid, she’s fine. i can’t just tell them to give her a couple of weeks off. there has to be a reason. and,” he adds, cheerfully. “i’ve been told it’s impolite to speak on someone’s behalf without their input.”

“you don’t care about being polite,” megumi argues, crossing his arms.

satoru groans internally. he’s really not going to let this go.

it’s not that satoru necessarily disagrees, but anything he does to help you is going to be refuted with a “butt out,” or “leave me alone, satoru.”

“true,” he says, grinning as he mocks the boys stance. “but i do care about being yelled at. particularly by your mother.”

“she needs a break.”

satoru rolls his eyes. “she’s getting one. the next couple of days are free, and she’s taking a nap right now.”

megumi frowns, even deeper than usual, and stares satoru down until he breaks.

“megumi,” the man groans, childishly, pushing the boy out of the room. “you don’t need to worry about her. chill out. just go back to reading about rocks or whatever you were doing.”

“it’s geology.”

satoru waves a hand, indifferent.

(secretly trying to come up with a way to get you to talk to him. he can’t ask because you’ll just ignore him. he can’t force it out of you because that would get the two of you nowhere.

what other options are left, really? you’ve put satoru in a terrible position).

“then can we get something, instead?” megumi asks, almost pleading. “flowers, or… whatever girls like.”

“y/n already has flowers. i bought them.”

“buy something else.”

“who taught you to be this stubborn?”

megumi only scowls at him.

satoru sighs, scratching his head. he knows he should do something—but he’s so used to sitting around and waiting for you to fix everything.

yes, he does recognize that it’s a terrible habit, and completely unfair. he also recognizes that he is the worst person in the world.

eventually he sighs. “okay. how about i order dinner?” he asks, almost wincing. it’s the most natural response—everything can be fixed with food, in satoru’s sophisticated opinion. “that’ll be easy. want to go ask mom what she wants?”

megumi practically runs to your room, leaving satoru with no time to remind him that you’re probably asleep, knocking just briefly—from what satoru can hear—before going in.

he tip-toes up to the door, also wanting to check in.

satoru is nothing if not nosy.

and he might as well let megumi do all of the dirty work.

“um, i don’t care,” he hears you saying. “whatever you guys want.”

“it’s for you.”

there’s a pause. then, “really, megs, i’m not very hungry, so…”

megumi is frowning down at you when satoru steps in.

“good nap?” he asks, smiling and sitting at the edge of your bed.

“you don’t need to get dinner. it’s my turn.”

he waves a hand. “i feel like takeout.”

you frown, about to argue when megumi speaks up, glancing between the two of you with an almost furious expression.

“what’s wrong?” he asks, his voice soft but mad. like usual. satoru realizes that he’s been tricked into contributing to this.

“what?”

“why are you upset?”

“upset?” you repeat, eyes widening. “i’m not upset, megu—“

“are you sick?”

“no,” you say, immediately. “i’m just a little tired but it’s—“

“megumi,” satoru interrupts, trying to ignore the almost hurt look on your face—the glance you send his way, pleading and worried. he knows you hate this the most. “let’s let mom sleep some more, okay? tsumiki and you can decide what you want—“

“no.”

and neither of you can argue, or console the confused boy, before he’s climbing into your bed with a determined look on his face.

satoru tried to grab on to him, but megumi is having none of that, shaking him off before he can get a good grip. you’re looking at satoru anxiously, and this is the worst.

if satoru knows anything about you, it’s that you don’t want to be coddled. you don’t want to accept any help, even if it’s from your sweet, concerned son.

“megumi—“ you say, though, satoru notes, don’t make any attempts to move him when he struggles to get under the covers with you, or when he just sits by your side, barely touching you.

“i’m staying here.”

“really, bud, i’m okay. you don’t need to worry about me.”

“you’re sad.”

“i’m not.”

megumi looks at you, and satoru watches as you both share a glance. an internal conversation he’ll never get to be apart of.

for once in his life he’s not even jealous about it.

“it’s…” you say, but the two boys watch as your shoulders slack and your face drops. all at once, you lose color, life, and just sit there. “it’s fine.”

you say it to them, but it sounds more like a reminder to yourself.

satoru’s face falls. he has no idea what to say, what to do to help you—he’s spent so much time denying that there was anything wrong, that he could do anything to help, and now he’s got no answers.

he feels like an idiot, sitting there. megumi shouldn’t be taking more initiative, he should be the one worrying about you, the one to go to—

megumi doesn’t say anything though. he only moves closer to you, not complaining when your arm wraps around his shoulder and you hold him to you.

like a life vest. a support in all of the vastness.

he doesn’t need to say ‘it’s okay,’ or ‘i’m here for you,’ for the words to ring out across the the air.

and, satoru realizes, quickly, he’s only doing what you do for them. what you do best.

climbing in beside them and making sure they know that they’re not alone. being that support, no matter how unwanted.

megumi’s learned from the best.

“sorry,” you mutter to him. “i know im gross.”

megumi shakes his head and settles into you even further. and the boy doesn’t cuddle—or, at least, without being forced—but your face softens as he leans against you, allowing this kind of intimacy.

and, maybe, satoru thinks, that’s the problem with all of you.

no one knows quite what to say. what to do to help someone with something that they can’t understand. neither he or megumi is sure how to dig you out of this hole.

none of you are very good with words.

but, at least, satoru knows how to be good at this.

he sets his glasses on your bedside table, and he moves you both over with ease, smiling when you both grunt at his intrusion.

and then you’re a tower of people, all leaning against one another. building blocks stacked on top of each other.

you relax into satoru almost instantly and he kisses the top of your head, feeling some sort of pride—just at the fact that you’ll let him be here, with you.

maybe that’s the thing with families, he thinks. no one needs to say anything for it to be okay.

and the uneasiness sits there with all of you. the past couple of weeks—the distancing and disassociating—linger there.

there’s nothing he can say to make everything all better. he could destroy the entire world right now, save for your house, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

but this is nice. a hug might not fix everything, but it won’t make anything worse

and after a minute or two, you say: “where’s tsumiki?”

and she peeks her head out from your door, smiling at all three of you. it takes her three seconds to jump on the bed, having been waiting there the whole time, the final piece to your messed up puzzle.

[tsumuhours]

AMERICAN JESUS PAIRING: suna rintarō x fem!reader TAGS: alternate universe – gang world, smut, oral, flirty suna WORD COUNT: 10k

Life always has a weird way of fucking you over.

Whether it be in the form of finding an injured member of a notorious gang near your apartment, or trading silence for safety, or how he pulls you into a complicated relationship which goes against integrity and... possibly laws.

mature content !

Life always has a weird way of fucking you over.

Not to say you haven't deserved half of the mandated karma – you haven't always been the best person, given the borderline psychopathic attempt of climbing to the top – but a break, or a nice surprise would be a great change in routines.

Whoever said success is a lonely road was, painfully, correct. To think that you spent your high school years working hard to get into an ivy league, spent those four years working at internships to make those desired connections people dream of!

Only to get out at the age of twenty-two and spend the next year as some glorified, under-paid, under appreciated, assistant. And no, that's not what the job description is supposed to entail, you're meant to be an associate – associates are not supposed to run around getting coffee – with the main purpose of developing your career and hopefully making partner in seven to ten years time.

Not to mention, since the city has unbelievable prices of living, you had to move to a neighbouring borough just for the possibility of having a studio apartment that isn't the size of a closet for the same price. Is it the most convenient?

No, not really, considering the fact the commute is over thirty-minutes and you have to go back and forth from work at unreasonable hours because your boss insists on bringing you to every little, insignificant meeting, or post-work drinks at nine at night – which is an excuse for the woman to spiral further into alcoholism – where you will inevitably end up carrying your boss back to her penthouse on the upper east side.

And no, it doesn't get better, because afterwards, after spending two hours at an expensive bar with the drunken, divorced, mess of a boss you have by the time she gets home safe, you're expected to deal with the city's delayed – and inconsistent – subway times at this ungodly hour and spend the next thirty-minutes in a train with rando's and sketchies.

Oh! No, that's not where it ends, because by the time you get off the subway, it's almost midnight, and you have to take a lovely – scary – ten-minute walk alone to your apartment, but walking anywhere at night is terrifying... Except for the rumour, or fact, that violence has been making its way around the borough, and according to new statistics – regarding the quarterly crime rate review – it's been looking a bit too stabby for your liking.

Now, this walk home is nothing different to how it is every day. You stride down the street with purpose, clutching your taser, and eerily aware of your surroundings. Although, remember how life always has a new way of fucking you over through some odd, irrelevant, way of testing your resilience?

This is one of those occasions.

Let's say it's not common for a man to be curled up in the small alley where residents keep their trash, but then again, crime rates have increased by a percentage that can make anyone uncomfortable – still, committing those types of crimes in a residential neighbourhood where people are simply trying to live their lives is ridiculous. Have some class.

Sure, as a law abiding citizen or natural samaritan would help, but no, not you. Living in a densely populated city means one thing, and one thing only, keep your head down. It's a game of see nothing, know nothing. Everyone minds their own business, that's how you stay safe and avoid danger – including scammers, or the random cult recruiters.

So, you intend on reaching for your keys to the front entrance of your small building, until you hear a small groan come from the neighbours dumpster alley. Sighing, you swallow your pride – and maybe your safety – holding your phone in one hand, and taser in another, and go over to look. The flashlight turned on, as you flash it on the curled up body.

You cannot see his face, but you instantly recognize the leather jacket and matching bandana. Of fucking course, out of everyone in the world, you happen to come across a member of a gang – as if this is some cruel joke from the universe. What do they call themselves? The Foxes? That awful group that parades around in black and maroon, with their emblem of a fox printed on leather jackets that they display for the world to see.

You're reluctant to step forward, maybe it's the threatening affiliation this guy has wound himself with, or the blood on his hands – literally and figuratively – as he grips onto the side of his stomach. The thing is, you've got a massive report to read over and playing doctor with someone is not on your list of side-quests – as it doesn't benefit your position, or reputability on the job any better. However, people are always watching, so if word were to magically get out that you saw a member of this notorious, tight-knit gang and ignored him, that could put a dangerous target on your back.

But, if you help him, you can probably lawyer your way into securing safety for your silence. You could exchange saving his life, for him, inevitably, saving yours in turn – ensuring that you're home, your spaces, where you are at all times is a no-go zone. Sure, that means turning your back on the entire legal system you've spent studying is thrown on the backburner, but you need to look out for yourself.

What is success if it means you've got strangers pinning a vendetta against you, and watching your every move before they strike? How could you ever reach partner if you get killed? How could you ever live with the benefits of making partner, if you get killed before you can exercise those benefits?

The short-term pride is not worth it if you don't get to brag about it... and silence for safety seems like the best option on the table. No one ever said that law always has to be good, it's unjust – at times – unfair and just as corrupt. Only ten percent of people who go into this job do it out of the good of their heart, the rest, the majority do it for the money and respect.

And it isn't part of your job description to be a good person, you're not a doctor. You didn't pledge to an oath about refraining from causing harm or hurt, or to act honestly and responsibility. No, you are conducting yourself with dignity and conscience – and as far as you care, freedom of speech and association still exists, and what you're doing isn't necessarily illegal unless you get recruited or actively participate in a crime.

And since when helping someone not die a crime? He's part of the Foxes, for christ sake. They can invoke power anywhere, he can potentially make you untouchable. You can live your life somewhat more peacefully if it means that safety is a guarantee. If you save one of them, they have no choice but to repay you. That's how the system works.

Sighing, you step closer, bending down to get a better look at him. Flashlight illuminating the severe wound on the side of his stomach, the blood surrounding his black top and his hands. "Fuck my life," you mutter. He's practically losing consciousness with every second, you doubt he's capable of standing up by himself, and there's no way you're going to attempt to fix him by a pile of trash.

So, you do what you can, gently lifting up his upper body, draping his arm around your shoulders as you begin to stand. God is he big, and getting him up the stairs will undoubtedly be a struggle. Still, as if on impulse, his feet start moving as you carry more than half of his weight towards the front door of your building, up the stairs to the second floor – where your apartment remains.

Forcefully, pushing open the door, you find all the strength in your body to lead him to the couch – internally crying at the stain that will taint the grey cushions – where he falls over and lays on his back. Absolutely winded, you walk into your bathroom, searching for that old – raggedy – first aid kit in the cupboards along with cotton balls and comically large band aids that you have no reason for owning.

God, it's as if this was planned, fucking written in the stars. Yes, you were meant to end up in this situation because you are one of the only people in the world who thought it'd be fun and convenient to own large band aids that can temporarily cover a stab wound. Good going!

Gathering all the materials in your hand, you walk over to the couch where he remains in limbo. Again, you're no medical professional, no, the most training you have consists of a short one hour life skills lesson and a topic on human physiology that was part of your biology course in high school. So, yes, you're a bit rusty – but that doesn't mean you're incompetent.

Kneeling down on the floor, scattering the items next to you on the floor, reaching for the cotton balls and bottle of disinfectant. But as your fingers graze over the skin on his torso to lift up his shirt, he flinches, and for the first time since running into him, you look at his face with an offended look on yours – as if he's able to see you through his shut eyelids.

He catches you off guard, the delicate and mesmerising features. Strong jaw, dark hair, furrowed eyebrows that mix in well with the discomfort he must be feeling. Yes, he's beautiful, but he's also bleeding out on your couch and part of an infamous gang that got himself stabbed. Letting out a frustrated, hmph, you lift up his shirt to examine the wound – as if you have any idea what you're doing.

First, you need to unarm him. You run your hands through the pockets of his cargos, pulling out a phone, wallet, and pocket knife, then dig through the pockets of his leather jacket finding nothing alarming.

Next, you cover your hands with latex gloves, then get to work. Letting the cotton balls absorb the disinfectant before running it along his skin, in which he finches in response. "Stop flinching, I'm helping you." You mutter, sure, maybe using water would be a better alternative than bathing him in on the shelf disinfectant, but water is not going to effectively clean him up.

You don't even know what you're doing, and your body, mind, even fucking adrenaline knows that by the way your hands shake. Do you need to stitch him up? You don't know how to suture a wound, you don't even know how to stitch! You don't even own string, yarn yes, but you doubt that sealing someone up with lilac yarn is the most sanitary or safe.

So, of course, you do the most reasonable thing and search it up, and given the short research it confirms that you don't have to do anything – then again, how many people get stabbed and don't receive certified medical attention?

Hands still shaking, you dive into the medical box, looking for antibiotic ointment. "I hate you, you know?" You begin speaking to yourself as you uncap the cream, "You're bleeding out on my couch. Is it a good couch? No, it is uncomfortable, and by the way your legs hand off the arm rests, it's not the biggest. But it's my couch, I found it on the street."

You apply the cream around the puncture, hearing his quiet groans and incoherent murmurs. After that, you reach for the band aid – or non-adherent pad as they call it – peeling off the back and gently placing it over the puncture. It's not a good replacement for proper medical care, but it will suffice until he manages to crawl his way back to wherever he lives and gets professionally treated.

"You better pay for a new couch, or a deep cleaning." You continue, beginning to pack up all your things before standing as you remove your gloves, and move to the kitchen to toss them out. "I have things to do, you know?" You say from the kitchen, washing your hands thoroughly.

That's partially a lie, the things you claim to have insist on reading a fucking brief or case while sitting on your couch watching something on Netflix – because cable is a waste of money – with one of many microwave meals stocking up your small white fridge. Still, this momentary distraction has moved those plans to tomorrow night. A Saturday night.

"I don't know who you are, or what your rank is in this stupid gang of yours, but I don't care." You continue your rant, grabbing a glass of water and pain-killers – placing them on the small cushioned ottoman, because who has the space to own a coffee table? – pacing back and forth in your apartment, where you can finally kick off your shoes by the front door and grab the purse you discarded by the small circular dining table next to the fridge. "I have work to do."

You storm towards your bedroom, dumping your purse on your bed and digging through it for your laptop and thick file, then you grab a highlighter sitting on the bedside table. And hopefully by the time he wakes up, you would have done something worthwhile and beneficial to your career.

So, yes, in conclusion, life always has a weird way of fucking you over. 

An hour has passed since you fixed up the stranger who lays, practically comatose, on your couch. Since then, you've changed out your clothes, showered, and gone through at least fifteen pages of this case you're supposed to assist with and eventually write a report for. Sitting in bed, music softly plays through your laptop as you bite on the end of a highlighter, re-reading the same paragraph over and over again.

It's safe to say that your mind is a bit distracted, maybe it's the fact you're harbouring a criminal in your apartment, waiting for him to wake up and possibly kill you. The Foxes are notorious for many things, heists, robbery, petty murder, but particularly famous for the sale of illegal goods – whether it be drugs, or unlicensed arms – and you happen to have one sitting in your living room.

All for what? The fear of getting murdered? Having a target on your back? Trading integrity for safety? To be fair, those are all valid reasons why you've decided to take him in. You can call the police, turn him in, do greater good for the grand community. He's docile and helpless right now, you've searched him for weapons and you keep his belongings hostage on your bed. But, what are the cops going to do?

You hear a groan coming from the living room, and immediately shoot up from the bed, swinging your feet over the mattress and feeling them hit the cold wooden floors as you turn around to grab the baseball bat leaning against the mattress.

The first, and big thing he feels is pain. An unbearable type of pain on the side of his stomach. He places a hand over the plaster, expecting to feel blood or an infection, but jolts awake when he's proven wrong. He sits up, painfully, and scans the apartment for any sign that will tell him where he is. The messy decor of the room, the glass encased bookshelf that's filled to the brim with trinkets, novels, DVD's, CD's, and records. Behind him, on the wall are framed movie posters and paintings. Lamps, candles, and a full wall tapestry behind the tv. A plethora of coats and bags hanging on the door. So much clutter in this little living room.

He turns his gaze to the small kitchen, a shelf lined with snacks, spices, a bowl of onions and garlic, and a concerning amount of liquor. On the counter, are dishes, coloured pots and pans, empty jars. Whoever lives here loves their fair share of pink, grey, and light blue cups, bowls, and plates. They apparently also love their fair share of tea and instant chai latte mixes, and colourful string lights.

He has no idea where he is, or who happened to pick him up from the streets. All he knows is that he was ambushed by the Crows and left for dead, talk about sending a fucking message. Understandably, he turns his head to look behind him, where you stand holding a baseball bat to your side. He reaches for his pocket, where his knife always remains, only to feel nothing. You've disarmed him.

While he should be focusing on that thought. The logical sense that you must know who he is; hence why you've hidden all his belongings and why you're holding a baseball bat for defence, or the fact that you must've called the police by now. But no, his mind is focused on who you are, why you've brought him into your apartment to avoid death, and how those little shorts look on you. Those little black shorts, that tank top, and that big knitted cardigan.

So what if he's about to get arrested, he loves this sight.

"You brought me here?" He asks, watching the way you nod your head.

"You were bleeding out near a pile of trash, and while I considered leaving you for dead, I figured that I could get something out of saving your life." You explain nonchalantly, well as nonchalant as you can given that you've invited a known criminal into your house.

"Who do you work for?" He questions. There are always upcoming rivals or new recruits circling the scene, they love dirty work and favours – an eye for an eye – and will extort, abuse, and come up with the worst reparations. While you don't look threatening at all, especially in that little outfit, he can't underestimate you.

"Specter and Hastings, the law firm." You reply, causing him to laugh out of pure irony. Out of everyone he could have gotten entwined with, it had to be a lawyer. The universe really loves to play games on him, doesn't it?

"What do you want?" He sighs, "Names? Operations? You want me to snitch?" He'd rather die than rat out his friends, his family, just cuff him and take him down to the station because he's not speaking.

"No." You say, "I want safety." A flash of curiosity flashes across his face, allowing you to elaborate. "I want to make sure that wherever I go will be unharmed, untouched, or fall victim to whatever wars you guys get into. I want to be left out of danger, and never have to worry about getting followed home, mugged, or stabbed. I want the guarantee of safety... for my silence."

"What?"

"Is it so hard to understand?" You huff, "I save your life, you look out for mine. And in doing so, I will pretend that I didn't potentially break a law by not turning you in, I will turn a blind eye and ignore that tonight ever happened."

She's looking out for herself. He can't blame her. If anyone were to find out that she left him for dead, she would be a target. However, as someone whose job literally regards the law, you can't blame him for thinking you're hypocritical and maybe the slightest bit untrustworthy. If you can't even stick by your career, how can he expect you not to snitch on him?

"So?" You say, "Is that a good arrangement?"

"I can't guarantee anything sweetheart," he claims.

"Fine, then can you at least keep the stabbings out of this neighbourhood?" You question, "When I get home at night, I'd rather not come across another bloody body and risk getting more blood on my couch out of fear of being targeted."

That he can do. He can tell the guys to avoid this particular area, in exchange for a stranger – who happens to be a lawyer – that saved his life. Not to mention, you didn't call the cops, didn't turn him in, and you're supposedly open to turning a blind eye. In regards to the blood he got on your couch, he can easily fix that. He nods, "That I can do." There's no reason why he should deny anything, you already know he's part of the Foxes – that's the only reason you bothered saving him – and you are well aware about the culture and how no good deed goes without payment.

"Okay, great." You nod, resting the baseball bat against the frame, you've negotiated poorly, and your terms and conditions are promised to be met. Now, you can move along with your life. "Excuse me for a moment," you say, disappearing back into your bedroom to gather up all the things you took from his pockets.

In your short-lived absence, the man glances over at the painkillers and glass of water on the ottoman. He grabs the packet, reading the warning on the bottom half of the box that informs the users of the small percentage of codeine and its addictive properties, only to ignore it and swallows down the pill. It's drugstore painkillers, so of course, it's not going to be the strongest but when it kicks in, it'll help.

You return holding his things, hanging them to him before sitting on the curved back armchair next to the couch. You are unsure of what to do, or say to the brunette. You've never been put in a situation where a gang member is sitting in your apartment, wounded, and you've offered up your silence in turn of safety. Is it time for you to kick him out, or should you try to make conversation?

He, on the other hand, glances down at his phone, texting away to his friends about what happened and how he'll be back soon. There's no doubt that they're all mad about the situation, how he got ambushed by their rivals, and left by a pair of trash bags to bleed out. Though, it's not all that bad, he got saved by a pretty girl who graces him with skimpy shorts and a tank top that loves to plague his imagination. Better yet, this girl happens to be a lawyer, and if he plays his cards right, he can get a run down of loopholes and secure defence.

"So, do I get a name?" You ask, wrapping your cardigan closer around your body. "Or is that confidential? I'm not going to rat you out, I'm barely a lawyer, let alone a narc. And I need a solid ally in case anyone part of your... um, group ambushes me."

"We're allies now?"

"Are you going to give me a name or what?"

You've already seen his face, and he doubts you'll ever be able to say anything to the authorities without ratting yourself out in the process. Also, he's sure he's never going to see you again, or the maximalist, messy design of your apartment... including the row of CD's and records that you keep in that bookshelf despite being in the age of digital streaming.

"You can call me Rin," half a name, but one nonetheless. "Yeah, Rin is good, or Suna, whatever floats your boat." If he could, he'd try and leave, but he doubts he's in a good enough physical state to do so. Also, being stuck in an apartment with a pretty girl makes him want to stay even more. "Do I get a name from you?"

"No."

"Whatever you say sweetheart," Suna shrugs. "So... a lawyer, what made you go down that route?" He questions, wanting to get his mind off the unbearable ache in his body and sharp pain on his side, as he lays back down on the couch. Might as well get some information on you while he's here.

"I'm doing it for the money." You reply, crossing one leg over the other – unaware of how his eyes follow your movements – as you lean back against the seat, finding some sort of strange comfort in talking to a criminal. "I'm an associate, and in ten years I hope to make partner and move out of this place to somewhere closer to my job. I'm aiming for an apartment on the upper east side, maybe west."

"Is that all?" He hums, watching as you glare at him, "Just for the money?"

"Isn't that why we do anything?" You remark, "For the money, so we can sustain ourselves and live. And it's not like I'm doing court law, or criminal justice, I'm mainly interested in business law – contract and tort law – which is what my firm focuses on, including divorce law, because that's where all the money is."

"So, you're just a lawyer who conveniently knows how to bandage up a wound and goes around saving gang members?" Suna comments, "Oh, and how can I forget the whole trading a life thing for safety."

"Well, it's better than running around on the streets causing havoc." You retort, "Besides, becoming a lawyer is in my blood, meaning both my parents are lawyers and I was told as a young girl that I'd be a good one. Whether or not that was a compliment, can be debated. It's a stable career, a respectable one, and once I move up the ranks, I'll be able to order myself town cars."

"And law is something you really want to do?"

You're quiet for a moment before getting up to walk to your kitchen to brew yourself a cup of tea, "Yes. It is. I don't see what else I could do; the arts are a dying career where only one in a million makes a name for themselves, I don't plan on being the next big entrepreneur, and I hated biology and anything medical." You flip on the kettle, hearing it begin to boil as you dig through your tea bags. "Besides, law seemed easy enough, and there's nothing wrong with sitting through prenuptial meetings."

Suna feels a lot better about getting trapped with a lawyer now. He was initially scared of getting trapped with a potential narc with a six-foot pole up their ass, but you, you're just like every other sleazebag lawyer who's in it for the money. It's refreshing.

"Yeah, and I guess there's that whole thing of justice, but I don't even work in that field." You continue, "The justice system is fucked up anyway, and why would I want to contribute to that? I mean, I could get an innocent life out of prison but then again, I could fuck up and let a guilty person run free or risk them getting a reduced sentence. But, I don't work in that type of field, I just praise the people who do."

You wait for the kettle to finish boiling, and once it does, you pour the water into your mug, adding in honey or sugar into the mix before walking back to the living room. Not before grabbing a bag of chips from your shelf, tossing it at him. He is a guest, can't be that rude.

Reluctantly, Suna accepts it. He hasn't been around you long, but the way you've abandoned your baseball bat and returned all his belongings must mean you don't see him as that big of a threat. Well, how could you? You saw him at his weakest, and he hasn't given you a reason to be afraid... or he hopes he hasn't. Additionally, you're not that much of a threat either, you're smart enough to get through law school, attend an ivy, and work as an associate at a well-known firm in the city. And while he doesn't see much of what you do in your private life, he can see the few small framed photographs on the lamp tables next to him.

He can see you partying with friends, clearly drunk at the time when the photograph was taken, which must mean that you do know how to have fun in whatever spare time you have. Also, your refusal to give him a name eliminates the idea of him ever searching you up online. Meaning, whatever worries he's supposed to have can easily be debunked.

"So, what exactly is your role?" You ask.

"I work in the background, I help plan out whatever, I stay on guard, I'm there to protect them." He explains as vaguely as he can, not wanting to give the gorey details of his role or job description. By the way you nod, it's clear you accept that fact since you don't bat an eye or demand an explanation. Both of you know that the less you know the better. "Are you not scared of me?"

You can't blame him for wondering. Usually, you'd be terrified or the slightest bit frightened, but enough has happened tonight to make talking to a criminal the most normal thing. However, he's not exactly the worst presence. Sure, you can see the way he's looking at you, feel his gaze burn into your skin, how they trail up and down your body – and while it gets a piece of your heart racing, at least you know that he isn't planning on harming you.

"No." You shake your head, "I mean, you probably would scare me if I were to be walking alone on the street at this time of night, and I would definitely be terrified if you happened to be with all your friends. But you're alone, in my apartment, I can see your face, and you're wounded. You can't hurt me, at this point in time, I'm a lot stronger than you."

Unfortunately, you make a good point. He doubts he can walk comfortably, let alone act as a proper threat. "Right, of course," he hums, noticing the obvious blood stain on your couch. "Sorry about that, sweetheart." He comments, "I'll get you a new couch."

"Good," you say, biting back a smile. "I'd prefer one in cream, or even this light grey. In terms of style, I'd like one with a wider back and comfy cushions – like a cloud couch – if you can find one that will fit this apartment, that'd be great."

Suna's lips twitch up in a smile as he listens to you give him a detailed description, you avoid his eyes, staring down at the steam coming out of your mug. He tries to sit up to get your attention before it fades away – and for the act of dramatics, he lets out an exaggerated groan, which causes you to rush towards him – you place your mug on the lamp table behind you and crawl onto the floor in front of him.

You push him back down onto the couch, the force being more painful than when he tried to get up, you lift his shirt up to examine the damage you poorly tried to cover up, it looks fine physically, but you can't imagine what he's feeling. "I can't do much, as I said, I'm not a licensed medical professional." You say, moving down his stained shirt. Your touch ignites a trail of flames along his abdomen that takes all his willpower to fight.

"At least, I'm alive and not curled up by a pile of trash." He remarks.

"Yeah, but who's to say that's going to happen again?" You question, "Next time you get into a situation like this, I can't guarantee that someone will be there to patch you up in time."

"If it's not you patching me up, I don't want to live."

"Oh," you say, surprised, backing up from him. "Well, that doesn't give you an excuse to show up to my doorstep all bloody if it does end up happening again."

It has been a week since you've seen Suna.

Last friday you were nursing a gang member back to life with the promise of safety for silence, and a new couch – both of which you aren't sure you're going to get anytime soon. Instead, you still clutch your taser while you walk home, and you've done your best to wash the stain on the couch cushion. However, nothing is getting rid of that disgusting, faded stain, so you've opted to flip it over and hope time will make you forget.

The individual lamps and overhead lights illuminate the apartment, the candles flames are burning– casting a mixed scent of florals, vanilla, and lavender – creating the perfect ambiance for a Friday night in.

You sigh, collecting a mountain of rice – from your ready-made curry – on your spoon, curled up on your couch, gaze fixed on the television that plays an old show you were obsessed with in your teens. Beside you, is a glass of wine filled with ice cubes, and the bottle is placed on the floor awaiting refill. What else is there for you to do than stay home on a Friday night?

"Previously on Pretty Little Liars," you hear play through the speakers, shoving a mountain of food into your mouth, "It's Mona– Hanna won so Mona loses..."

You sink down into the couch, suddenly engrossed in the recap. It's been a while since you've had time to catch up on television, so the recaps serve a well-needed purpose to remind you of the over-the-top drama and plethora of plotholes. There is nothing better than unwinding after a long, long, week at work. Grabbing the wine glass, ice cubes clinking as you bring the drink up to your lips.

It's an odd combination, putting ice cubes in wine– that's unheard of – but you don't mind the diluted taste, also, you aren't the biggest fan of wine, it just seemed classier than making yourself a sad looking cocktail. Though, given the fact you're watching one of the more questionable teen mystery dramas, wine with ice does not seem like the worst situation.

You could have easily gone out, but all your friends are all too tired to go out, and drinks at bars are far too expensive. And let's be honest, going out by yourself is possibly one of the most depressing things a person could do, also that would mean walking home by yourself intoxicated. Obviously, that's not the smartest or safest decision, given the current rise in crime.

Engrossed in the show, absentmindedly feeding yourself until you're scraping the plastic container with your spoon picking up scraps. Sighing, you slide off the sofa, dragging your feet towards the kitchen where you toss out the empty container and dump your spoon into the sink. Half of your attention is still focused on the television, not wanting to miss anything going on.

Drifting back towards the couch, leaning against the armrest as you refill your wine glass, bringing the bitter alcohol to your lips and tasting it on your tongue. This will be your second glass of the night, the first glass came and went as quickly as the previous episode did.

A loud knock on the door sounds throughout the apartment, causing you to choke on your drink. Frightened, you place the glass down on the lamp table, pushing yourself away from the couch as cautiously and quietly as you can. Walking on your tiptoes back to the kitchen, reaching into a drawer for a knife.

Of course you're not going to open the door, you're not stupid. You're simply going to sit against it, clutching the knife until whoever is on the other side goes away... like a responsible, intelligent, adult. It could be someone with the wrong address, despite how persistent they are on knocking. And no criminal would think of knocking either!

Maybe you should turn off the television, give the illusion that no is home, or alternatively, you could turn the volume all the way up and drown out the sound of their fist pounding against wood. Nevertheless, hiding out in front of this door with a knife seems like the safest option. If things go wrong, and the intruder does break in, you can stab them and leave their body on the street.

Crime isn't news around this area, unfortunate things occur all the time! And the police, being police, won't bother stepping in. It's an accidental murder in a bad part of town, or another victim to gang violence, they won't bother finding out it was a kitchen knife that caused the death. Morally, will it crush you? Yes. It will.

You lean back against the door, the continuous knocks do not falter... Until they do, you hear them rest their head against the wood. Maybe they've finally given up. Slowly, you get up from the floor, the faint noise of police sirens flying by. You backpedal until your back hits the counter, reluctantly, you place the knife on the surface behind you.

Heart racing in your chest, then you hear it. You hear him. "Sweetheart, open the door." His voice is muffled, but a simple piece of wood is not going to hide the exhaustion lacing his tone. "Please," he adds.

You hope that your home isn't the new hideout for gang members running from the police, but you can't stop yourself from quickly striding towards the front door and swinging it open. "Oh my god," you gasp, catching him in your arms before he plummets onto the floor. Stumbling back, you quickly catch your balance and drop him on the couch – the same way you did last week – where he falls back, arms resting on the back cushions.

Apparently, Suna has taken an involuntary liking towards you and insists on showing up outside your apartment, and door every time he gets hurt. At least, this time around, he's not shot, stabbed, or badly wounded, he just looks a little... beat up. Busted lip, and black eye that's beginning to form. You know this is not the time, but god does he look so good.

Lord knows what he's gotten himself into, why he's bruised or why out of all the places he could run, he ran here... to you. What happened? Why is he suddenly out of breath, unable to stand, and exhausted on your couch? You climb over him, straddling his lap, and grab his face between your fingers, forcing him to look at you. "What the hell have you gotten yourself into?" You huff, slapping the side of his face to jolt him awake, "This is no time for a nap Rin, you need to tell me what happened."

Even in this dazed state of mind, even after running five blocks, being chased by both the police and the Crows as a distraction while his team can get away. Getting cornered, beat up (not as bad as the others), picking the lock to get into your building, then running up the stairs, and waiting for you to let him in. He can still appreciate the sight in front of him, including those shorts, his hands running up your thighs, leaning his head back while his lips turn up into a smirk.

"Sorry, sweetheart, I had to run, and believe it or not, this is the safest place for me." He mutters, sitting up to lean in close to you. "And I know you won't refuse me," he hums. Suna's breath is hot against yours, his touch running up and down your thighs setting a fire to burn and a shiver to involuntarily run down your spine. He kicks off his shoes, opting to make himself comfortable on your couch.

"This is not your safe haven," you scoff, pressing a hand flat on his chest to push him back from you as you climb off his lap. You storm over to the kitchen, opening the small freezer hatch on your fridge to pull out a frozen bag of peas for his eye. Sure, it's not your job to care for him, but you can't help doing it – as if it has been engraved in your memory after one experience. You toss the frozen peas at him, which he luckily knows what they're for. "I did you a favour, which you have yet to return, by the way."

He holds the frozen bag of peas up to his eye, this is not the warm welcome he's been expecting, and for your information he has kept up one side of his deal. He has kept your street a no-go zone, and he has been making sure that you are safe. Sure, his methods are a bit stalkerish, he's been trailing you to and from work – lurking from the shadows and wiping out any potential threats that come your way. In terms of the new couch... he's working on it.

"Don't tell me that you're running from the police," you say, beginning to pace back and forth in your living room. "What do you think you're doing?" You exclaim, "You can't keep coming here to hide from the police! Do they know what you look like? Do they know that you came here? Do you know that my entire career can be ruined?"

"Calm down sweetheart," Suna hums. "No one knows I'm here, you're fine. And speaking of the police... yeah, I'm running from them, but I managed to get away through a couple short cuts. Trust me, you're safe." He stands from the couch, one long stride taken to reach you, his hands running down your arms in a somewhat reassuring manner. With one hand tilting up your chin, "And I wanted to see you."

His eyes are mesmerising, a perfect combination of green, yellow, and grey. It's hard to not melt under their gaze. Your hand wraps around his wrist, moving his touch away from your face before turning on your heel to walk towards your bedroom. He hates to see you leave, but he loves to watch you walk away. Maybe this is the universe repaying him for almost dying, it sent an angel in the form of you.

"Wanted to see me," you mutter to yourself, packing up the mess on your bed. The files, loose papers, highlighters, notes, and your laptop. You move them to sit on your cluttered vanity. "As flattering as that is," you continue, "I'd rather you come see me when you're not running from law enforcement. You owe me."

"Sorry to add insult to injury, but I was wondering if I could camp out here for the night?" Suna asks, leaning against the doorframe of your room. He knows you're not going to deny him refuge, whether you want to admit it or not. You don't have it in your heart to leave him out in the rain. Even if you want him gone, he's not going to leave. He's never been that good at taking hints – hence the black eye and busted lip. "Just for the night."

"One night." You sigh, "Only if –" there's always a catch "– you avoid robbing my bank, and stay clear of where I work, and make sure that everyone knows that. And no more attracting police to this side of town," you list. "And if you're going to stay here frequently, I'm going to need some sort of compensation."

"Is that all?"

"Yes." You nod, "now," you begin pushing the brunette back into the living room and onto the couch. Since he's here, may as well check up on how that old stab wound is going. You force him down onto the sofa, his back hitting the cushions – the wind escaping his lungs – as you lift up his shirt. There's still a nasty cut that's bound to turn into an even worse scar, but at least it's healing correctly.

"You sure are quite aggressive," he comments, propping his head up with his hands as he looks up at you. "I don't mind, kinda like it." He purrs, softly laughing at the way you pull his shirt back down and storm up off the ground, grabbing your wine glass and downing the rest of the contents. "I was just teasing babe, no need to overreact."

"Are you aware that you're an idiot?" You comment, placing your glass and the wine bottle on the kitchen counter.

"Do you like that I'm an idiot?" He retorts. He's got a bit of a little infatuation with you. A hot shot associate with a morally grey high ground, and a weakness for criminals like him. It is not everyday a pretty normal girl like you fixes him up and lets him into the apartment while he's running from the cops.

"The same way I like how I continuously find myself harbouring a fugitive." You reply, "It could be better. And can you please either use the frozen peas or put them back in the freezer."

You have better things to do! Sure, the situation could be worse. At least Suna is decent to look at, and he's alright company who doesn't want to kill you, and you have felt the slightest bit safer on your walks to and from work. Though, it's not like you're thrilled to have him in your apartment.

He gets up from the couch, places the peas back where they belong, then slides in next to you. He grabs the wine bottle, taking a swig from the bottle. You watch him intently, the way his Adam's apple moves, the beginning traces of a bruise forming around his eye, and the cut on his lip. He still wears that stupid leather jacket, but at least there's no blood on his hands, legs, or torso. Suna glances at you from the corner of his eye, holding the bottle firmly in his hand, "Take a picture. It lasts longer."

"I would," you say, "but that would mean proving a direct affiliation with you. And lord knows if you ever get caught, I'd rather die than testify in court and risk losing all respect I have in this industry."

"I get it," he shrugs, "I'm bad news, but that doesn't mean I'm necessarily a bad person. I mean, you make money off people's brokens marriages, shouldn't that equate to something? I think that we both do bad things, but we're not bad people."

"Comparing me to you is a low blow," you snort. "That's like comparing apples and oranges."

"They're both fruit aren't they? They both grow on trees, they both make juice." Suna argues, "One is sure, significantly better than the other, but that all depends on personal preference."

You meet his eyes, seeing nothing other than the greyish-green hues. He's got that tough exterior that can draw any girl toward him – including you – the danger that people write about, the allure and flirty personality that makes him less of an asshole and more human. He is the fallen angel that the universe sent to you as a form of twisted karma and dilemma of morals that cross a line. He's beautiful, prideful, a criminal, but has got a strong sense of loyalty and protection. Why else will he make himself the scapegoat to every situation?

"Yeah, well, anyone with a brain can tell who's the better one of the both of us."

"If this is about breaking the law," he says, placing the bottle down on the counter. He steps in front of you, trapping you between his arms, pushing you back against the counter as his body presses against yours. "You're breaking a lot by being here with me, hiding me from the law, trading silence for safety, I'm sure there's something in the constitution that you've broken by not turning me in." He lowers his voice, dipping his head down to yours, "I'm sure if I string enough together, you can be charged with aiding and abetting."

"That's one thing out of the many covering your roster."

He bends down, lips brushing against your own. Heart pounding against your chest. He's so close. Remnants of his cologne fill your senses; oak, wood, musk, sweet amber, cardamom, raspberry. He's addictive in all the ways he shouldn't be. A real fallen angel. Beautiful, perfect, but dangerous, treacherous, and duplicitous. But what does that make you? You're addicting, the light in his dark tunnel, his bittersweet obsession that he cannot indulge in.

"You don't care." He rasps, "If you did, you would have kicked me out. You like me, you like having a dirty little secret, you fucking revel in it."

You don't respond, verbally that is. You break the small gap between the two of you. He reciprocates the action, deepens the kiss, presses you further back against the counter. A hand gripping your hip, while the other travels up your neck, holding under your jaw tight between his fingers. His body against yours, fingers wrapping around the belt loops of his jeans trying desperately to pull him closer. It's messy, driven, and lustful.

Your hands travel under his shirt, feeling the burning skin and the shiver that runs down his spine. The hand he has on your hips, his fingers dig harder into your side while the one around your neck shifts to the nape, reaching up to tug at the roots of your hair. The throaty moan that he elicits from you sends him into overdrive, fuck you're addictive. He wants you, so bad. He needs you.

Palms placed flat on his stomach you step forward, pushing him back onto the couch. He takes in the sight of you, standing over him in those little shorts and tank top that hugs your body so well. You climb on top of him, straddling his lap, and his hands instinctively run up the back of your thighs, sliding under your shorts. Rough hands making themselves comfortable, holding the flesh in his hands, squeezing hard as he helps you grind down onto him. He's hard as a fucking rock, and your moving against him so needy. The friction against your clit, slow and tortuous, small whimpers and staggered breaths that Suna swallows.

Your hands move to move the leather jacket off his body, which he tosses across the living room, leaving him in a black muscle tee that shows off all the hidden, scattered tattoos on his arms you've never had the pleasure of seeing. His fingers grab the front of your tank top, tugging down the fabric to expose you to him. His cold hand cupping your tit, the pad of his thumb running over a hardened nipple as goosebumps scatter down your body and you press down further into the bulge in his jeans.

"Fuck," he groans at your reaction, breaking away from your lips to kiss down your jaw, neck, collarbones, before his lips wrap around your chest. His tongue pressing against you, teeth grazing your skin, while his hand continues to work and massage against the other.

Your back arches, hands tangling themselves in his brown hair, continuously grinding against him as his leaves scatter hickey across your chest. "Sweetheart, you're killing me." He murmurs, reconnecting your lips together. You hum against him, lifting your arms in the air as he pulls off your top, throwing it across your apartment before he does the same with his shirt.

You begin to kiss down his chest, his torso, his stomach, falling down to the floor in front of him – between his legs – as you undo his belt. Suna's eyes fixed on you, the sweetly dangerous glimmer in your eyes as you unbutton and unzip his jeans. He lips his hips, allowing you to pull them down – jeans and briefs – letting his clothes drop to the floor. He shudders the second your hand wraps around his dick, head dropping back and hands gripping onto your hair.

Wrapping your lips around the sensitive tip, you tease the spot hearing desperate whimpers escape his throat. Tongue flat against him, head beginning to bob back and forth, cheeks hollowing out as you literally suck the soul out of him. The salty taste of pre-cum on your tongue, his hands firmly entwined in your hair as he lets out a strain of whimpers, bucking his hips up, controlling your movements making you take him deeper in your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat repeatedly.

Tears begin to prickle in your eyes. Head moving back and forth at a faster pace, his hands knotted in your hair as he takes control, fucking your mouth. Looking up through teary eyes, laying eyes on a sinful sight. His abdomen flexing, head thrown back, eyes shut, and Adam's apple moving at every repressed whimper and moan. You grip onto his thighs as he increases his pace.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." Breathless moans coming out in repeated pleas that chase a high. He's so close, impatient, and seeking a heavy and desperate release. "Just like that baby, keep going."

You don't stop, you continue as a mess of fallen tears, pre-cum and saliva. You can't breathe, throat filled with his cock. He fucks your throat, using you for pleasure. He fucks your mouth, swollen head hitting the back of your throat, shuddering as you to swallow or gasp for air. You feel his dick twitch, and in seconds a hot load is shot down your throat and his grip on you loosens. You swallow down his cum, tongue and lips cleaning him up. Once, your lips remove themselves from his cock, he wastes no time to pull you up and reconnect your lips, tasting him on your tongue. You stand from your knees, and he pulls down your shorts along with the simple black panties, then pulls you down onto the couch, laying you on your back.

He hovers over you, hand wrapping itself around your throat as he kisses you. The other, spreads your leg, calloused rough fingers pressing against your cunt. Using the arousal to rub against your clit, a harsh play of light and rough. Fingers pressing hard against your clit, causing a strained moan to sound through the living room, he rubs against the bud. Playing between teasing movements, to forceful mechanisms. He's fast and slow, teasing you, edging you.

"Rin," you muster out, biting down on his lip which pushes him to give you what you need. Working his fingers swiftly, skillfully, roughly against your clit. You squirm beneath him, he's vicious against you, his free hand kneading your tit in a hard grasp. "Fuck, Rin." You moan, chest rising and falling, as he quickens his pace. Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you grip onto the armrest of the couch, mouth agape.

Legs twitching, as he brings you to an insatiable climax. His fingers are covered in your slick. He brings them up to his mouth, getting a taste of what he's missing out of. He doesn't waste time, wrapping your legs around his shoulders before he buries himself in your cunt. Lips wrapping themselves around your clit, sucking on it, his tongue moving at a rapid pace. He feels how sensitive you are. Fingers digging into your thighs, sucking your clit into his mouth.

You're a mess, a writhing, mess. And the way he looks up at you through half lidded eyes, buried between your thighs. You sink your hands into his hair, looking for something to hold onto. A groan rumbles in his throat, sending you farther over the edge. He increases his pace, devouring you like a starved man who hasn't eaten in years. He's pushing you over the edge, your heels digging into his back, pulling at his hair, forcing him deeper into you.

To add fuel to the fire, he thrusts two fingers inside you, curling into your sweet spot that has you bucking your hips into his mouth. He pumps his fingers in and out of you, perfectly matching the pace of his tongue. He continues until he feels you come undone, pleasure and heat clouding your vision as he pulls away from you. He examines the sight, leaning in close to you.

"I need to feel you." He pleads, the blood already rushing back to his dick, "I need you sweetheart."

You nod, "Please." Whispering, "It's fine, I'm on the pill." You reassure.

He almost collapses right there and then, letting out a whimper as he slides into you. Feeling you raw and whole, he's going crazy, losing his mind at the way you suck him in. Your walls around his dick, warm and so good that he could come right there and then. His find is spinning, he's going absolutely feral over being in you. He slowly moves out, before bottoming out, stealing your breath in the process. That's all he needed, the feeling of having you grip around him.

Suna thrusts into you, picking up a faster speed and your ragged breaths urging him on. He revels in the way your tits bounce, his movements causing the sinful shake of your body. Your nails digging into his back, scratching the skin. If he could save this as a permanent memory in his mind, he would, and he'd replay it over and over again in his dreams. He bottoms out, rolling his hips each time he does so, thrusting in and out at a faster speed and pace.

He then pulls out, the lack of touch jolting you back from your daze, only for him to flip you over onto your stomach, harsh grip on your hips as he lifts your ass in the air. He grips onto the flesh, holding it in his palms while he tugs them towards him in a big thrust. You let out a moan, face buried into the couch cushions, as he pounds into you.

Dick reaches deep into your cunt, watches you shake under him, the couch shakes, and the lamps shake. He holds both your wrists in his hands, pinning them behind your back, as he pushes himself faster, rougher, crazier than he did before. The sound of skin slapping on skin echoing throughout the apartment, mixed in with your strained whimpers and his throaty groans. "You like this?" He mutters.

This is so much better than he imagined. All the nights he spent with his hand wrapped around his dick in the shower and in bed. The thought of you crumbling beneath him, moaning out his name, becoming nothing but putty underneath him. The thought of him pounding into you relentlessly, feeling you bare and raw, the way your walls wrap around his cock. Imagination never could have prepared him for this, it's so much better than he imagined.

You're so wet around him. He fucks into you, in and out so quickly that you can't even grasp onto the feeling despite your cunt quivering and tightening around him every time he fills you. He lands a hard slap on your ass, only to rub over the red spot, roughly massaging and kneading the flesh. Suna continues to go harder, faster, more feral, moving both your hips to meet. Back is arched and he pushes you further down into the cushions, if that's even possible.

"You're no saint sweetheart," his hips stuttering, "you fucking love getting fucked dirty by a criminal." He rasps, tugging you up by your arms, whispers close to your ear sending a shiver down your spine. "Tell me how much you love it," he instructs. "Go on."

"I love it." You breathe out. Suna forcefully pushes you back down onto the couch, harshly pounding into you, "Fuck, so good."

"No one's ever gonna fuck you as good as I will. I'm going to make you mine, I'm going to corrupt you, I'll protect you." His voice falters at the feeling of you tightening around him, his cock twitching in response. "Fuck, you're mine. Mine only, and I'll fucking kill anyone who comes near you."

You listen to him, losing all sense of strength in your body. You're so close, he knows you are. "Rin, please keep going, I'm so close." You whimper, and he endures, picking up his pace and pushing into you faster, deeper, and harder until you become a limp mess, tightening around him, giving him the greenlight to release.

He cums inside you, white liquid filling you and dripping out as he pulls out. Your hips fall to the couch, as you flip over in time for him to collapse on top of you. If you didn't need a new couch before, you definitely need one now. His arms wrap under your body, he lays between your legs, head resting on your rising and falling chest, hearing your heartbeat in his ears. You brush your fingers through his hair.

He meant what he said. You're his, and he will fucking kill anyone who comes near you. 

[utilitycaster]

i think it's telling that so many of the responses to imogen's convos with liliana and laudna were 'this is kinda fucked up and i am fascinated by it and am enjoying it' and but the response to THAT was like 'STOP trying to make everything toxic, ugh fandom never should've learned therapy speak'. like. ignoring that's NOT what that is, people are pretty clearly interacting POSITIVELY with these moments but because what they're enjoying is the parts that are messy, that's somehow bad too???

YUP! There are definitely people who use therapy speak inappropriately, including about Imogen and Laudna, and honestly I pretty specifically avoided using the word "toxic" (or "codependent") about their most recent interaction, but like...there is nothing wrong with enjoying the relationship for being messy! A good deal of the people who are calling it toxic or messy are people who support it and enjoy it! A good deal of people who don't particularly like the relationship for being flat and bland and the conflict constantly fizzling out into nothing, myself included, perked up at yesterday's conversation! It was fascinating: Laudna went to comfort Imogen and told her she loved her, and Imogen's response was to say "oh, you love me? well then why did you go running off to Delilah the second we were apart? why did you lie to me a second time [Laudna did not lie to her the first time, which by now Imogen knows]?"

I don't actually think Imogen's opinions re: Delilah are inconsistent - I think she very specifically started becoming uncomfortable after encountering Delilah in the middle of the night in Whitestone (and I think Laura said as much on a 4SD too), and so her previous assertions about digging into their power sources are not hypocritical. However, yeah, I think we should talk about how both of the two big kisses between these characters are specifically Imogen trying to cut off an emotional speech from Laudna - I don't think it is intended as manipulation, but rather coming from a place of profound fear, but that's still something you need to deal with because this is now three pretty significant cases of kicking the can of conflict down the road and it's only snowballing. I think we should talk about how actually maybe it's valid that Imogen, who has had to make a lot of difficult decisions regarding her engagement with Predathos's power and could be risking losing her powers through her actions, is frustrated that Laudna hasn't done the same with Delilah, but neither of them are working it out. Imogen is letting an assassination of her mother go forward - and I agree with her choice - and Laudna hasn't done anything to extricate herself from Delilah in 30 years despite expressing interest early in the campaign. Imogen is about to lose her mother because her mother declared her reliance on a potentially evil power as an inevitability and wouldn't listen to her, and Laudna's now doing the exact same thing.

And on the other hand, again, Laudna hasn't lied to Imogen. Imogen cut off Laudna's angry, hurt, and extremely valid rant about being betrayed by Bor'Dor by asking to kiss her and so Laudna, trying to make Imogen happy, never worked out these feelings and they've just been building up. Laudna can't express her fears to Imogen because Imogen will demonstrably cut her off. If Imogen is disgusted by Delilah, and that's not going away, what does that mean? Like, is the love enough? I don't know? Could be, but not without actually having a means of resolving all of these extremely valid hurt feelings, and they don't have that. And maybe some of us would like to have some resolution, and are getting real tired of the particularly dim children going "uwu let me have my cottagecore stardew valley dream you all are such MEANIES let people like things" which. Again, if the fact that other people want different things from this relationship is genuinely preventing you from liking things, that's entirely your problem, because I like all kinds of things other people dislike. If you cannot stomach any dissent from your personal interpretation and perceive it as an attack, that says a lot of things about you and none of them bode well.

There is a deeply frustrating tendency that is not limited to this fandom, nor to discussion of Imogen and Laudna, to deny that traumatized characters can hurt other people. You see it with some of the dumber discussions of Ludinus that presume he is specifically a survivor of Aeor (valid as a theory, but unconfirmed); his (hypothetical) trauma does not negate how many other people's lives he's ruined. Percy is deeply traumatized but he did still introduce the gun to the world. Fjord is traumatized but had he willingly completed Uk'otoa's unsealing that would have caused untold damage. Astrid is traumatized but she's still done terrible things as a Volstrucker. FCG and Yasha are both traumatized and both were not even in control of their actions when they caused their worst harm, and they both feel terrible about what they've done. I mean, touching on this episode, it is not actually a contradiction to say both "Liliana is traumatized and has been indoctrinated by a cult and is a victim of said cult and genuinely believes she is doing this for Imogen's benefit" and also "Liliana is a fucking shitty mom." These are both true. This is what cycles of abuse and generational trauma look like. This is what that "blorbo-centered morality" is; suddenly when it's your favorite character they can do no wrong and every explanation becomes, instead, an excuse.

I've been talking a lot about the harassment in this fandom and it really is like...look, I don't know if this harassment is coming, from some of those partaking in it, from a personal trauma. I do not want to ascribe shitty behavior to mental illness, because some people are just assholes. But if it is - it doesn't make it okay! If you are lashing out and sending hate because you project a lot of your own trauma onto Imogen or your own relationships to that of Imogen and Laudna and you perceive every bit of criticism as an attack on you, guess what! You're being a fucking asshole by trying to hurt other people and it does not ultimately matter that it might come from a place of your own hurt and you need to stop.

I've been going off about this and related topics all morning and so I do want to step back and say that I believe this is a relatively small group of people with an outsized toxic impact. I do think that many people are enjoying the relationship for its complexity and unhealthy, messy aspects, that most people would love to read more Imogen meta that covers her as a whole, complex person and not as a tee hee just a silly guy girlfailure. But yeah, I think everyone is getting increasingly done with the group of people who throw a tantrum and retreat into the most idiotic See Spot Run-levels of conflict fantasies whenever there's actual grit and friction and mess in the relationship.

[lucky-punk-lemonade]

Picture You

| You visit a local art show in Hobie's universe, not knowing he contributed. Not knowing you contributed; [Webhead reader; Friends to ??; Feelings realization] Hobie Brown

This work belongs to me, lucky-punk-lemonade (Minte_Condition on AO3). I do not give anyone permission to distribute or share my work without consent.

 Hobie’s house always smelled vaguely different. For a few weeks there, it smelled of incense. Incense he had stolen, of course. When he ran out of that, it smelled like cigarette smoke because he’d let his friend crash there, trying to break the habit and get back on his feet. Various good and bad smells. Cookies after a baking hyper-fixation. Detergent from a “freak laundry accident” that Hobie swore was the downstairs neighbors conspiring against him. All of these mixed with a lethargic scent of cologne which seemed to blend well with everything. Once, it had even smelled like citrus and lavender. It didn't take long for me to squeeze out the fact Hobie had developed a crush, and he had deep cleaned his apartment to impress her.

       Today, though, it smelled like coffee. Hobie didn’t drink coffee, though. I drink coffee. I show up at his door with those little cups to put in the busted up Keurig his temporary roommate left behind. Everything in Hobie’s house was stolen, discovered, or borrowed. The coffee table (that he calls “Just Table” because he doesn’t drink coffee). The armchair he got from a friend’s sister’s ex boyfriend. His shitty vintage boombox and the tapes he plays. 

       It was often I showed up outside of his window, backpack full of treats or gifts in tow. I sit on his couch and drink from a chipped mug with “World’s Best Grandpa” painted on the side in colorful letters. He walks behind me, pacing and scrolling through his phone. I ignore the slow, inconsistent footsteps behind me and click through the various shows I've had in rotation. 

“Have you ever seen The Princess Bride ?”

I don’t really expect an answer, and I don't get one. He’s busy, he usually is. Not usually on his phone, though, but who am I to step between a guy and his Candy Crush addiction? I sigh and put the remote down, deciding to head back to my universe for the night.

          Hobie was part of the group that took interest in me via the Spider Society. I didn’t go to HQ very often, no reason to. Until I had a run-in with a multi-dimensional creature that I had to report to Miguel. That’s when I met Pavitr. He was an incredibly bright force that inevitably offered an invitation to lunch with his friends. His friends I came to know well. Gwen was, by definition, a rebel. She did everything on purpose, usually with the intent to piss off her dad. Gwen was the epitome of teenage rebellion that was most times ill-advised. Miles was talented, he was always wondering. He was constantly thinking and creating new ideas. It was inspiring to hear his thoughts. Pavitr was a soothing presence, not audibly but he had the perfect vibes. A chance to listen to him was a chance to tune everything out because Pav’s existence required the utmost attention. 

              Hobie, when first approached, was intimidating. His demeanor remains nonchalant and tuned-out. He was covered in spikes and leather and patterns. He looked incredibly threatening, too cool. When he spoke, it almost sounded out of character. He was kind and welcoming, funny. All traits many Spider-Men had. This was the justification I had for how interested I was in him, his energy. He was just as attractive and charming as Pav or that one guy who I always saw in the lobby. 

I’ve been to their houses, I crash often. Gwen let me stay with her for almost a month once. In return, I help with Spider work and house chores to show my gratitude. I know what everyone’s room looks like, a main theme of band posters and scattered clothing. I don't visit Miles too often, he's got a lot of stress already. I stay above a convenient store owned by a family friend of Pav’s when I go to see him. Hobie has always let me stay at his place, though. I have made myself particularly comfortable in his shared flat that his roommate never seems to be in. I don’t ask questions, I just sleep on his couch. 

         I reflect on everything as I fold his blanket and set it on his couch. I pick up my bag and stuff my jacket into it. It’s warm enough , I think. I sit on the floor to lace up my shoes. Hobie acknowledges me before walking into his room, I nod back and finish tying my shoes. I walk to the sink with my cup of water to wash it. Sitting on the counter, slightly ripped and damp, is a flier.

        A seemingly homemade advertisement for a local art showing, raising money for the food bank. The food bank I remember Hobie telling me about. He had been protective of it ever since he discovered there was a prominent political figure who was more than adamant to take down the business. I remember Hobie being mad. I remember bringing him brownies and stopping by with a hefty donation to the food bank without Hobie knowing. I remember doing this often. I remember how kind the owners were, how I developed the same protective nature towards them. 

I read the flier more closely. An art show with an admission fee, local artists, local music, good cause. I was immediately interested. I walk to Hobie’s room, leaving the flier behind on the counter. 

“Hey, I’m gonna head out.”

“Yeah, be safe.” He smiles and nods. “If you need anything, call.” 

        I smile back and wave goodbye, exiting the room and grabbing my belongings. I tuck myself out of the window and swing through the city. Food bank. I think to myself. I eventually found it. A brick building with a single, cramped entrance. I enter and inquire about the art show. It’s supposed to be held at a church nearby. Should’ve read the rest of the flier . I note the time and address, thanking them for their help. 

★★★

          The church was made up entirely of coarse, yellowed brick. Everything was incredibly old and classy. The windows were stained glass, geometric shapes lined with brassy gold. Cars lined up in the parking lot of the church. I walk to the broken-up sidewalk and feel how warm the evening is in the direct line of the sunset. The event was set to begin at six-thirty. People were scattered outside, talking in groups. The environment was friendly, warm. I walk up the seven steps that lead to the two glass doors. Once inside, I smell old paper and floral perfume. A classic church smell , I think to myself with a smirk. 

           The church foyer was wide and open, a few tables set out in front with a donation jar, papers, and chairs holding people with large smiles and kind eyes. I can tell this church has been made into a sort of community center, the people needing somewhere to gather. I approach the table, becoming aware of the makeshift stage boosting up a band. The music had already begun, soft yet upbeat, setting a chill tone. I greet the older woman sitting at the table, recognizing her from the food bank. I smile and make the admission fee, and then some. These people have created a more meaningful community with their own presence than a local politician ever could with bulldozers and contractors. The idea that they had to hold fundraisers in local churches because they only have personal connections to work with made me strongly displeased.

          After being told to enjoy myself, I walk through one of the doors. From what I could tell, all the extra furniture had been moved into closed off rooms to clear space for the “galleries.” Completely barren rooms are now decorated with various artwork. I take my time and shove my hands into my pockets, wandering around the first room. The first few rooms have impressive work. From notebook paper sketches to large canvases painted with bright colors. About a minute into browsing the second room, a woman walks past me. 

“Hello.” Her voice is upbeat, breathy. 

I raise my eyebrows, “Oh- Hi.” I smile.

She stares at me, studies me. I furrow my brows as she watches my every move. After a few more awkward seconds, she smiles widely and walks out. Okay? I brush it off. 

A few more rooms in, I see a canvas about the size of a piece of printer paper. It’s labeled “Black Treacle” by a bo y younger than me. I study the details. A can of black treacle is painted, highlighted and shapely. A few more paintings. 

A dark, swirling painting depicting earthly objects drawn toward the center: “Supermassive Black Hole.”

An orange, fiery background contrasting four black silhouettes: “Daphne Blue”

Label after label, my head tilts and my eyes study. I smile in confusion and inspiration.

“Purple haze”, a portrait of Jimi Hendrix.

“Holy Calamity”, a charcoal sketch inspired by the war on drugs, tacked with a lengthy and tragic origin. 

     After stepping back from the wall, I notice two people staring at me. I subtly look over myself. I don’t have anything on my shirt. I touch my face. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing on my face… I quickly walk to the next room.

             While overthinking the stares, my train of thought is derailed when I see a canvas, just a little bigger than the rest. It shows a sunset with a city skyline. The angles and edges were lined with gold foil, white highlights darting the painting. The image looks so familiar. I walk towards it, getting closer than I should’ve. The card below makes me grin. “2/14” by H. Brown. I knew he was creative, but wow. 

              I remember the setting. It was Valentine’s Day, the friend group had planned a big day together so none of us would be alone. Movies, chocolate, soda, friends. A result of Gwen’s chronic loneliness. Pav couldn’t come as he had already planned an extravagant date for Gayatri. Miles was grounded indefinitely. Gwen canceled at the last minute, never telling us why. I stared at the group chat message, standing in line to buy chocolates. I texted the group, a little pissed and put the chocolates back. Hobie had messaged me separately. 

“i guess we’re both free then?”

“Looks like.”

“I wish she wouldn’t plan stuff if she's always this uncertain.”

“thats what I like about her”

“shes inconsistent.”

“Yeah, well now I have to return a shit ton of candy. “

“bring it by my place.”

“we can still hang out”

“right?"

“Okay.”“Give me twenty.”

                I knocked on his window 30 minutes later, apologizing for the time. He grabbed the bags of candy and led me right back out the window. I followed him, down the rickety stairs and to the sidewalk. I asked him why we weren’t swinging. He told me to just look around, enjoy the noise. When we got deeper into the city, we climbed our way up to the roof of a building. Not the tallest building, one of regular size. We situated ourselves next to the edge, resting our elbows on the ledge. I had realized why he picked this site as we got up there. It faced a wide expanse of clear land. It faced the sunset. It wasn't as pink as it usually is, something I took as a direct middle finger to Valentine’s stereotypes. It was orange and purple. I told Hobie how the sky is probably the only thing that can blend those colors as beautifully without making a gross, muddy brown. I opened the bag of chocolates, said the sunset and sunrise were like crazy, natural RGBs, and adjusted the earbuds that fit loosely in my ears. He scoffed and we talked. We talked about how much Pav talks about Gayatri, about how moody it makes Gwen. How much Miles is going through. How nice it is to have other ‘webheads’ to confide in. We watched the sunset in silence, the window of time we devoted to staring at the colors darken. 

                       This was that sunset. And I was wrong. The colors were strikingly accurate to my memory. A stylistic choice of gold foil and white highlights were so Hobie. It always seemed he added a little extra to everything in his mind. I grinned and took out my phone to take a picture. Once I was finished, I moved a bit quicker while browsing. I was hunting for something else Hobie had created. Something I could find about him that he hadn’t told me himself.

★★★

“Hobie, man! Amazing job!”

                 I felt a pair of hands clamp onto my back. I shook my head and smiled. I’ve been thanking a lot of people today. This has been something I signed up for to help out a friend. The food bank has done incredible things for this community, I’d do anything to keep the family upright. Seeing all these people show up and donate to the cause is reassuring. I took a tour myself after I helped set up. We hold a lot of potential here. 

“They’re gonna love this, D.”

        I tell Diana, the co-owner of the food bank as I stare around one of the rooms. She smiles, lines forming around her eyes. D is an older woman that had always checked in on me. She has patched up countless cuts on my face, made me innumerable bowls of soup, given me way too many pep talks and even more reprimands. She walks up to me and hugs me, wordlessly. 

Now, as I stand in the lobby once I’ve checked in with everyone out back, I stay behind Diana, sitting in her chair and greeting more visitors. I keep to myself and hover to the side. A few people came by to exit, they had finished the walkthrough. They smiled at me. 

“You made that sunset painting, right?” I cringe. D had been very liberal bragging about my art. I had been staring at my shoes for at least 20 minutes while she talked about how she’s known me since I was “a little monster.” Now, people recognized my name to my face. 

“Yeah.” I answer shortly.

“It’s amazing. I love the story you tell. Good job.” The man says. 

I smile, “Hey, thanks, man.” And wave goodbye as they walk through the door. 

“Hobie!” D’s voice calls from a few meters away. 

I turn towards her. She was now alone at the table. I walk over to her, “What’s up?” 

“That painting. The one you insisted I hide in the back room. I still don’t know why you’d hide the most beautiful work you’ve-”

“What about it, D?” I roll my eyes. 

“The person from the painting, I saw 'em.” Diana smiles. I furrow my brows and tilt my head.

“Huh?” Diana’s voice reverberates through my ribcage.

“They're here .” She grins, softly. If it were anyone else, it'd sound mocking. “They're a kind soul, I approve.”

My eyes slightly widen and my chest heaves in sudden panic. 

“ What ? ”

★★★

I stare at the second Hobie painting I’ve found.

A box of chocolates is spilled out onto a concrete ledge. 

“Bad Habit” by H. Brown.

                  A pocket knife sits next to a few crumbs of a chocolate bar, coated in caramel. The knife assumedly had cut the candy bar in half. Not in half, in like three quarters. That was my pocket knife and I remember everything. That night, I had opened the bag as we talked constantly, back and forth. I had opened a Twix and set it on the ledge. 

“We go half?” He looked at me, reaching for the candy. I pulled out my pocket knife and flicked it open. 

“Jesus, dude. You can have it. ” 

I laughed loudly, I covered my mouth. “No! I’m gonna cut it in half. Sorry, I should stop pulling knives on people.”

He laughed, “That’s a habit of yours?”

I sighed dramatically, “A bad one.” Before cutting the Twix, it was completely disproportionate.

          Remembering this made me smirk. I wondered why these moments had been memorialized. I continue looking back, wondering what else could be so special. I felt too bad to skip every other piece. I could tell time had been dedicated to the abstract oil pastel labeled “Tio.” I felt connected to the color pencil drawing of the Iris flowers. I couldn’t just walk past them selfishly. My eyes quickly scanned them, hastily coming up with my opinions on them and shuffling to the next. I read the labels and artists’ names and ages. I wander the rooms, they are small and large and the paint on the walls are all different colors of neutral. I admire the windows in the short hallways between rooms. The stained glass being a fitting, constant palette cleanser. I walk through what I believe to be the last room. This room stands surrounded by two other rooms to the left and right. The room is dimmer, I see a brighter light within. 

When I walk into the room, the majority of the paintings are lit dimly by the main light at the opposite of the room. I stare at the canvas. It was a sizable canvas compared to every other that had been displayed. Slightly bigger. The one light used in this room was shined directly onto it. I walk towards it.

      The painting was me. Literally, I was in the painting . It was a view of me from the side, my head only slightly turned towards the point of view. The darkening sunset before me, casting an orange glow on my face. The art style was choppy, no straight lines, everything lightly blended together. My face was clear, though. It was obviously me. I had cheap earbuds in, listening to music I refused to show him in fear of getting made fun of. The sunset had almost changed my eye color, it emphasized my eyelashes, highlighted my arms as they pushed my body up from the ledge. I was looking out past the roof and towards the sky. People below were blurred squares, a hundred feet below us. So ignorant, yet so important in this painting. I remember this. My breath was audible in the dead silent room. I breathed in and out, the exhale interrupted by a quick “Heh.” I looked at the card underneath. 

“Dayplayer” by Hobie Brown

         It was impossible to stop thinking about how this painting struck me. I saw how I was seen at that moment, watching the sunset with him. This was how he saw me on a random Valentine’s Day, on a random rooftop, with random street lights in the background. I hadn’t even noticed where his attention was, I was focused on the sky, on how my music would fit the moment. I was feeling the warm, humid air and was pissed that it wasn’t getting cooler faster.

I had no idea .

I couldn’t bring myself to see the other paintings until I could feel my fingers again. They were cold and almost numb, I had no idea how long I’d been sitting there staring. I turned to face the adjacent walls to find that every painting in this room was made by Hobie. 

A painting of a mug of coffee on an unidentified table sitting next to a remote was labeled “Peak.”

A messy charcoal sketch of a pair of shoes: “Great Race.”

A pencil drawing of several objects, practice maybe. “Goodie bag.”

I go from paper to canvas, reviewing the details, recognizing themes. I am getting to understand how he sees the world. As vivid colors intrude black and white backgrounds, I hear a word behind me.

“ Hi .”

★★★

[redjaybathood]

To elaborate, I don't have an issue with people having different takes on the character. Give me two Jason stans and you will get three versions of Jason. It's inevitable with how different his comics are thematically and in how they depict Jason. Jason in the 00s was a villain and a foil, Jason in 10s was a major character in his own right. Jason now is mowed down by Zdarsky and told interesting stories with by Rosenberg. Jason is back to grassroots type vigilante he never really was in Martinborough's work. Jason was a sweet child pre-Crisis and was intentionally moved toward a tragedy in Starlin's run. Jason was an afterthought, a cautionary tale, a ghost of subconsciousness, a fridged woman, a foil, again - or first, in the 90s and early 00s. Titans Jason - the only live action depiction of Jason - was a case of missed potential; great drama material, but with speed-run of the UtRH storyline with unnecessary changes made him inconsistent.

If you consider him a psycho, okay, it's there in Morrison's work. If you want to say he's morally inconsistent, you can point out how he went from Bruce's foil to Dick's to Tim's, even Mia Dresden's. Which, it all required tweaking, because these four are not the same, so their foil couldn't be either.

But isn't it the case with all the characters? "Catwoman cares about Bowery" the only thing she cares for the last ten years with any consistency is her boyfriend. That's not who she is anymore. Why would you insist someone to pick your version of Catwoman but you refuse to acknowledge that other fans can do the same with their favorite character?

And you, Jason fans, who are always self-disparaging, who always feel the need to get other characters' fans approval, the need for disclaimer: Jason Todd is a Terrible Person, I'm Not Like Other Jason Fans Who Deny That - can you stop? Like what even makes you like him as a character and not a function, if you think he's so terrible, so hypocritical, so this and so that, without any reason or explanation? No, I am serious: what is it that makes him so compelling for you? If he's irredeemable, if he's a loser, if he's all second-hand fanons, if he's a lesser Helena Bertinelli or Selina Kyle or anyone else?

[horizon-verizon]

I think that there is a line that can be crossed into straight up negligence from the disparity of intent vs how the scenes are written/what they convey within the context of other scenes.

You can definitely see a writer's intent through their work, but if they bungle their own techniques or if their lore's/premise's rationale is not logical or/nor consistent with their intent, then inevitably the effect of their writing is going to be different from their intent. And that will shape the message into a different entity of itself. Which happens in HotD, even though the writers wanted us to feel that:

Rhaenyra was being either rational or strong by her refusing to imprison Otto, being affected by Alicent's page, and not even thinking that the war she proposed to Daemon (epi 7) about...but then calls it "his" war (epi 10)...and the inconsistency has yielded so many different fan theories as to why she is like this in-universe-wise (from Daemon just trying to fortify the castle against any possible attacks to her trying to get Rhaenyra's non-conflict-having-self on her side) precisely b/c the writing is inconsistent and disallows the sort of rage to their Rhaenyra that in a person that actually helps to clear their mind

Alicent's motivations to attack Rhaenyra for years at the Red Keep, at first seemed to come from her hating that Rhaenyra for the act of sex itself, not the consequences Otto warns her of bc Alicent never actually says to Rhaenyra that she was angry at her for her kids' sake in that episode. We only have their confrontation, her fearing Rhaenyra lied/her talking to Cole, and her green dress "war" declaration later. If Rhaenyra had been found out without Otto lurking, wouldn't it be better for her son, as it makes him seem the "better" candidate, thus removing Rhaenyra as a threat to her kids? Then why does episode 4 Alicent get so angry? No, in episode 4, she's angry that Rhaenyra got to have sexual freedoms, as further supported by the contrast of her and Dameon vs Alicent and Viserys. In episode 8, after Rhaenyra mere apologizes for not seeing how Alicent has worked hard to "comfort" Viserys and run the castle (a Queen's duty), Alicent is ready to accept her as the next Queen and put aside her previous desperation/assurance that Rhaenyra is her children's inevitable enemy -> it reduces our ability to accept the depth of their supposedly close years-long bond and its dynamic from the get go. The relationship is supposed to underpin the emotional value of the entire show, but the writers have contradicted themselves every which way, in every scene and has never given us a real reasons why/how these two became friends wand why they ever valued each other in the first place

Perhaps all of these can be "fixed" with more scenes, longer scenes, less time jumps...but at the core:

the writers thought that what they presented as the final scene/the HotD canon universe was enough to establish their characters when it wasn't...we are forced to only access these published scenes as they are the only HotD "canon", the rest is subject to built on assumption of consequences and more liable to headcanons because we do not see specific actions in the time b/t jump cuts that lead to situations of the next episode

the biggest problem is that they think that taking away these women's ambition, removing a lot of their female AND male support, and removing their expressed fieryness that makes up a large part of their initial enjoyability -- you can't argue against sexism while using sexist imagery, logic, etc., which HotD has done

[aurorialwolf]

Ok who likes the idea of dad!Porter ??

That may have been rhetorical because I’m gonna blab about his daughter anyways 👍 this is the next instalment of me blabbing about my redacted next gen ocs!

- Her full name is Portia Solaire, William allowed her to have the last name of the House as she is Porter’s kid and therefore affiliated like he is

- She has a British accent, like her dad! And similar humour / personality to him

- We don’t know whether or not Porter’s maker was an old blood (Porter’s maker is mentioned in the official timeline but I don’t think it mentions how old he was?), so (for my headcanon about vampire children) I’m not sure if she’s turned by her own blood or if she asks to be turned / has to be turned to be saved when she’s 16 or so, but either way she becomes a vampire at around the same time as the other kids

- Porter taught her to fight from a very young age, initially being a fun bonding experience when she was young with a wooden sword, but now she can give him a run for his money, and manages to beat him around the age of 18-19

- Also, depending on the version of her that I’m talking about they’re nonbinary, they/she or they/them, but the one I currently will be including is she/they probably, so if you notice any inconsistencies it’s just because I imagine them / her in a couple different ways gender-wise

- She, like Adrian (Alexis’s son), receives a sword when she turns 16/17 and is out of bloodlust (as William gives each of his ‘grandkids’ a sword as a partially ceremonial thing and also because he wants them to be able to protect themselves), and he makes her a guard of his daughter (heir to the throne) Emilia.

- Together, her and Adrian can protect Emilia efficiently, as Adrian does defense and Portia does offense

- Portia is the more outspoken between her and Adrian, openly criticizing Emilia when she power trips a bit, leading to Emilia reprimanding her (not that it’s very effective)

- Portia also spars with Samuel, though is less unhinged about it than Adrian, and she’s the one that teaches Samuel to beat Porter when Emilia makes her plan to ascend to the throne with force

- Eventually, she, like her father, will become the next sword of the house, the weapon they point at their enemies to win. When Emilia ascends to the throne, through whatever means, she will replace Porter and take up that role in his stead

- Porter doesn’t like the idea of this, yet knows the inevitability of it, and so teaches her as best he can to do what he does.

This is all I have for now, I think! Hdksgdjs I’m kinda tired at work so I might have forgotten some stuff or not written this as well but I tried! Long story short, she’s a hell of a lot like Porter, which is.. both good and bad, I guess

Taglist: @vegafan69 @darlin-collins @kxemii @professionallyyappin @sereh624

[transmutationisms]

ok i apologise if this is a bad question because i don’t know anything about politics but i liked your bourgeois failpolitics post and would love it if you could expand further especially on how their ideological horse blinders lead them to justifying/reproducing what’s trapping them in the first place especially given how some of them, in theory, have “principles” & i guess how the show explores politics in general. again sorry if this is poorly formed i know nothing!!

hmm, not a bad question, but many directions to go in here.

first of all, none of them claims to be anti-capitalist ideologically. shiv wants to be a moral capitalist, kendall wants to be a coolguy capitalist, connor wants to be a virtuous capitalist (different from shiv's morality), and roman wouldn't identify with any ideological term but thinks capitalism is inescapable and omnipotent, and therefore not worth objecting to in any way. so even aside from their class interests, there's no ideological inconsistency between any of their political positions and the actions they take to preserve or strengthen waystar.

since shiv and connor are the ones with political principles, i think they're a good place to start.

shiv is a liberal, meaning she believes in individual liberty, private property, and equality under the law. her line "what if a good person ran waystar" is telling: she doesn't want to alter the fundamental structure of the economy or waystar, but she thinks someone with (her own) principles should be running the propaganda machine. she's being genuine when she talks about reform and wanting the company to be better, but this should not be mistaken for any kind of opposition to the economic structure.

connor self-identifies as a libertarian, so he's in the liberal tradition but with an increased emphasis on individual liberty. by this, he means private property rights, so his politics broadly oppose government intervention (regulation, social welfare policies, labour protections) except where the police / military state and the carceral apparatus are concerned (these are necessary to protect property). connor never had any real hope of inheriting waystar, but his politics are still broadly in support of it, insofar as it's a corporate interest and connor sees 'creating wealth' as a political virtue.

roman and kendall are simpler in this respect. as i've written before and many people have pointed out, kendall wants to kill dad and wants to be a 'good person,' but has no concrete sense of what that means and therefore no principled opposition to anything about waystar or its economic functioning. roman sees capitalism as totalising and inevitable, so it's not something he would ever bother taking a stance against, plus taking any kind of stance is lame anyway. fundamentally he wants daddy's love (kendall is motivated more by daddy's respect, which is why he needs to become a killer).

so the siblings' tendency to reproduce and reinforce their own oppression basically comes from the fact that none of them has the ideological or epistemological creativity to espouse any kind of anti-capitalist critique. there are nuances here (shiv places more value on the idea of market competition, like when she opposes the move to buy pierce in s2; connor sees flows of capital and flows of reproduction as part of the same political economy, hence his usury and onanism line), but at the end of the day they all accede to logan's economic worldview. in their minds, there's no reasonable or viable alternative. they have extremely limited understandings of political ideology, as evidenced by them all thinking that shiv's liberalism is, like, radically different from logan's. in many ways the intra-familial ideological disputes are a smokescreen distracting from the underlying economic convictions they all share.

as to the show's handling of politics in general: it's strange to me that more people don't point out that jesse armstrong has at least a passing familiarity with marx and has referenced him in discussing the show. the main narrative drive for the show is psychological, not ideological; nevertheless, it rests on a view of politics that basically builds off marx's base-superstructure distinction, with politics as an ideoological superstructure determined by the economic base. this doesn't mean people with the same class interest will have exactly the same ideology (obviously, the sibs don't; idt armstrong goes in for that type of crude determinism), but capitalism has a tendency to narrow the field of envisioned possibilities, hence the way that all four sibs fail to see any other economic arrangement as viable or even worth considering.

[itsclydebitches]

Ruby’s angst is a sore point b/c I will always remember her crying over Salem mentioning her mom only to go back to being confrontational and smug to Ironwood and the Ace Ops.

This is why I harp on about tone so much in my recaps. It is crucial to keep things consistent (within reason) because otherwise your audience is going to start doubting the persuasiveness of this characterization. If Ruby breaks down over Summer's death and then immediately shrugs that off, transitioning into smug antagonism, my takeaway is going to be, "Well, I guess she wasn't that broken up about it" and "Well, I guess Ruby lacks the insight and critical thinking skills to realize that turning on her allies is just going to make Salem murdering more people easier."

If Ruby decides to start this battle and confidently expresses the inevitability of her win against Harriet, only to then start begging for them to lay down their weapons after taking a hit, the takeaway is that Ruby back-peddles on a position the moment she's no longer winning.

If Yang rushes to Ruby's side to comfort her while she sobs and then spends a Volume ignoring her equally obvious distress, the takeaway is that Yang is becoming a worse sister, likely because she's putting all her emotional energy into Blake instead.

If Blake was introduced as a no-nonsense activist willing to get up in anyone's face and then shrinks before an angry friend, the takeaway is that she's grown more passive as the series has gone on.

If Weiss loses her entire Kingdom and then spends the first half of the Volume being used purely as the comic relief, the takeaway is that this tragedy hasn't actually hit her very hard and we shouldn't buy into these incredibly brief moments of grief.

If the group says they don't want to run anymore and then the very first fight they come across results in them running away, the takeaway is that these are heroes who talk big, but can't make those promises a reality.

Similarly, if the group hugs and makes the occasional speech about how much they love each other, but then turn around and criticize, become suspicious of, and dismiss Jaune in his ultimate time of need, the takeaway is that their care is hollow and will falter once the going gets tough.

If Ruby spends whole Volumes active bubbly, optimistic, confident, driven, and at times extraordinarily arrogant, but then kills herself after two days of mental health struggles, the takeaway is that RT is willing to use suicide as a cheap spectacle, rather than a real life issue that must be written with care and proper buildup.

If the show pushes a found-family dynamic and then has four members of that family simply stand there while Ruby kills herself... yeah, the takeaway is, "Wow. They didn't care about stopping her much then, huh?"

We know the characters are supposed to love each other. We know that we're supposed to come up with some easy explanation like, "They were in shock!" But if you actually take what's happening on screen - which, you know, is the backbone of analysis - RT continually undermines the core messages of RWBY through badly managed tone and inconsistent characterization. Every scene is a puzzle piece creating a whole and if the pieces don't fit... well, then the picture is nonsensical. It's not the job of the person observing the puzzle to go, "Well, it certainly looks like this is made up primarily of confused colors, textures, and images, but if I just imagine that all these pieces are different from what's actually in front of me, then the puzzle is perfect!"

[cleromancy]

one thing ive been thinking about a lot lately is just that. even if i did think that it was possible for a corporation to be a good or effective custodian for intellectual property *at all,* much less a sprawling long-running collaborative universe like dc comics, dc has proven itself a zillion times over to be actively hostile to both the creatives and the story itself

i think a lot of canon vs fanon arguments about the dcu specifically are silly bc people come to the argument without bothering to acknowledge that, or the fact that even if youre exclusively talking about the mainline continuity you still have to pick and choose from a deeply inconsistent and self-condradicting canon, and everyone has to take their own approach to what *is* canon to them. and that doesn't even start getting into what the difference between canon and fanon even *is* when some of these characters date back 80+ years ago and are practically unrecognizable from their first iterations, and moreover we *like them that way.*

and its like. okay. sometimes we just want to complain about fanon or interpretations we don't vibe with and aren't actually sitting down to have an intellectually honest conversation about story or character or transformative works. other times we just want to complain about the new guy dc has writing our blorbo who is doing a total dogshit job and driving them away from the stories that came before that were actually good, and again, aren't trying to make definitive sweeping statements on what writers cannot or should not do with established characters.

but other times people definitely are, and this is always where i think we need to actually hit pause and rewind and address our individual beliefs on who has the right to tell what story or do what with what idea. bc if we don't start there its inevitable we're going to be talking in circles around each other having two totally different conversations.

bc ultimately i think a lot of issues come down to like, "was this character choice deliberate and purposeful, what function does it have in the story, and is it well-executed within the story it tells; also, what impact does it have/will it have on the stories that follow?" rather than an issue of factual *accuracy* with what came before in the source material.

i think a lot of people just want the legitimacy of saying "this is canon" while also feeling free to dismiss canon that contradicts or overwrites it as "not really canon" (in instances where it literally *is*), and. man. you are just not coming to that conversation from an intellectually honest place.

[whump-card]

Forged Divinity Unnamed Sequel: Chapter 3

I think I may be posting these as I write them, which is a fun new thing for me! Might also lead so some inconsistencies/retcons, but we’ll burn that bridge when we get to it

1076 words

CW: None I think? LMK!

Previous, Masterlist, Next

~~~

Enjolras drove almost nonstop, all the rest of the day and into the night. The roads were patchy, and rough – La Libera trailblazers did their best to fill potholes on some of the most well-traveled roads, but it was a losing battle. Outside of Niagara, the world’s infrastructure inevitably crumbled.

She radioed ahead to let them know she had Leannan as soon as they were close enough. Clary was on the coms. Their first reaction was joy – before they picked up on Enjolras’ somber tone.

“What’s wrong?” their voice crackled through, “What’s… wrong with him?”

Enjolras glanced at Leannan, asleep in the passenger seat. He looked so much softer in the starlight.

“A lot,” Enjolras’ voice broke slightly, “He’s gonna need a lot of help. I don’t think… I think it would be a bad idea to have everyone there to meet him again. Maybe just Shannon, and Jeanette if she’s up for it.”

“… Okay. I won’t wake anyone else up.”

Clary radioed again not long after.

“Shannon’s here.”

“I need to talk to him,” Shannon’s voice cut in, “Please let me talk to him.”

Enjolras pulled the pickup over onto the side of the road.

“Shannon, it’s not good.”

“Let. me. Talk to him.”

Enjolras muted the radio and reached over to gently shake Leannan’s shoulder.

“Hey there,” she murmured, “Wake up, Leannan.”

Leannan woke with a violent jerk and a whimper, shoving Enjolras’ hand away.

“Stop!” he gasped, “Stop it, stop…” he trailed off, looking around wildly.

Enjolras suppressed her own reaction of shock.

“It’s okay,” she soothed, “We’ll be home in a few hours, but Shannon wanted to talk to you. On the radio. Do you want to talk to her?”

Leannan stared at her with wide, confused eyes.

“Shannon?” he repeated.

“Yeah,” Enjolras’ heart sank, “You… you remember Shannon, right?”

Leannan’s face darkened.

“Of course I remember Shannon!” he spat, “Don’t be stupid.”

“Okay,” Enjolras stayed calm, smooth, controlled, “Do you want to talk to her?”

Leannan’s rage melted away into fear just as quickly as it had appeared.

“Do I have to?” he whispered.

“No,” granted Enjolras, “You don’t.”

She picked up the radio.

“He’s not up for it. We’ll be home around 4 AM.”

Shannon’s voice came back immediately.

“I need to talk-”

Enjolras turned off the radio.

~~~

It was 4:30, and Shannon stood staring out across the bridge that connected Goat Island to the shore. The wind coming off the waterfalls was cold, and she wrapped her cardigan around herself tighter.

She knew Clary would come and tell her if Enjolras had radioed about a delay.

The reality was, she barely registered the passing of time; Shannon was too caught up in her own head.

Something was wrong with Leannan. Something was wrong with Leannan and all she could think about was the day he’d said goodbye to her. Not when he’d run away from Goat Island – he’d never said goodbye then – but before. The first time she’d lost him.

He’d found her in the chapel, curled up under a pew. He’d laid down on the fuzzy red carpet with her, so that they were almost nose-to-nose. He’d said some things, things she didn’t remember, she was crying too much, but she did remember he’d said he’d had a dream.

Someone is going to come and take you away from this place. You’ll have a perfect master, and live happily ever after, just like me.

God told me so.

He’d stayed on the floor with her until they came looking for him, picked him up and dragged him away while she clung to his arm sobbing and he just kept smiling, smiling, smiling.

It’s okay.

You don’t need me anymore.

He was such a different person, those few days she’d had him back, years later. They felt like two separate people, one calm, comforting, confident, the other strange, skittish, fanatical.

Was she about to meet a third?

It had been almost a year and a half. Winter was settling in, bringing lower temperatures and changing leaves and mushrooms in the island's woods

Had Leannan ever seen snow?

Something shifted in the misty dark. Shannon blinked, refusing to let her eyes play tricks on her. Her hands fretted uselessly, twisting her wedding ring and pulling her hair.

There were two figures on the bridge.

“Leannan!” she cried out, her voice breaking, sounding like the frightening screech of a lost fox.

The taller figure raised an arm.

“We’re here!” came Enjolras’ voice.

Shannon’s legs were moving before she even realized, her cardigan flapping open in the wind as her arms pumped, and then she was there, her arms around him, a hand in his hair, her face in his neck, feeling a sinking horror as she felt his bones under her hands, his ribs, his knobbly shoulders, he smelled like death, like rot, like blood and dirt, was this even him?

“Shannon?”

His voice was small, but it was him.

The emotions within her reached a boiling point. Grief, fear, guilt, anger.

“How could you leave!” she wailed, “How could you leave me again!”

She felt a hand on her shoulder, heard Enjolras’ voice again.

“Shannon. I know this is hard…”

“Stay out of it, Ras!” Shannon sobbed, “Please, just let me…” Her voice broke away into tears as she clung to Leannan. Leannan, who was slowly lifting his arms to hug her back.

“Are we going home now?” he asked, and his tone was… strange. Dreamy. Detached. But Shannon felt his arms settle around her and just couldn’t care, couldn’t deal with whatever that meant yet.

“You’re home,” she gasped, “You’re home, you’re safe, I’m never letting you leave again. I’ll never let them take you away again, Leannan, I’m so sorry!”

If she’d made him stay, way back then, for just a few more days, if she hadn’t let them take him away from her, they would have all been saved together. Or if she’d made him feel more welcome, helped him assimilate better when he first arrived on Goat Island, maybe he wouldn’t have run away.

“It’s not your fault.” Enjolras knew these thoughts well. “It’s not your fault.” She enveloped the two of them in her arms, pressing her lips to the top of Shannon’s head.

They stood like that for a long while, Shannon crying, Enjolras comforting, Leannan silent.

Shannon was fine being the crying one.

She didn’t like Leannan being the silent one.

~~~

Previous, Masterlist, Next

Taglist: @angst-after-dark, @sunshiline-writes, @flowersarefreetherapy, @thecyrulik

[blanketforcas]

A guide to real-person shipping and tinhatting

Most of this can be applied to general tinhatting but I will mainly be focusing on RPS and using examples from cockles fandom. This is based on my experience and what I’ve personally come across. Examples I use are merely illustrative and not meant as shade to anyone.

Let’s get some ethics of rps out of the way first

*disclaimer: this is what I would advise, I know opinions on this do vary

Try to keep it off main as much as possible (ie twitter, tiktok). You can’t always escape the algorithm, some stuff does get seen by the actors. Every actor’s comfort level with this is different, but as a general rule let's say tinhatting stays on tumblr or group chats

Try to avoid stating something as truth unless you’re quoting the actors

This goes without saying, but don’t ever mention the ship to the actors and if they bring it up themselves, don’t forget that’s not a free pass to just say whatever

Now, moving on to some pitfalls and tips

Do some basic research

Is this tweet/post reflecting the truth? Do multiple sources confirm this? Is there video? What was the context? What is happening right before and right after this particular moment? Does that change how you think about it?

When you see a picture you haven’t seen before, are you sure it’s not a manip? Use reverse image search and if nothing comes up, try to look up the event using key words to see if you can find the picture. If it’s hard to find and friends can’t help you either, it’s probably a manip. Obviously also look for signs within the picture itself (strange lines/different lighting on one person/missing limbs etc)

Are you projecting?

We all do it! It’s normal, just try to be aware when you’re doing it. Sometimes actors might indeed be similar to you when it comes to [whatever your theory is about], sometimes not at all. Fact remains you’re more likely to run with it when it’s something you do or feel yourself. Try to ask some friends what they would do/how they would react and maybe you’ll find out it’s less common or obvious than you think.

Confirmation bias is one hell of a drug

It’s surprising how easily a pattern can be found if you actively try to find one. Try to keep thinking critically: do I too quickly add something to the list of evidence because I really want my theory to be true? Does it really belong in that pile or could there be another reason why X happened the way it did?

The more effort it requires to make your theory sound plausible, the less likely it is to be true

Does it need a lot of explanation? Are you having to find a lot of excuses when an alternative explanation is presented? Are there inconsistencies in your theory that are difficult to explain away?

These are all red flags and should make you question the validity of your theory.

You as a fan are always going to be far more invested than any of these actors will ever be

Whether it’s about the show they are on or their social media behaviour, you will always care more and inevitably find details that weren’t put there intentionally.

No, the actors aren’t constantly leaving clues about the show you love (“you’re not crazy” tweets aside) in their everyday posts, they are just living their lives and sharing it.

And no, actors aren’t hiding secret and very obscure messages in their posts about how their relationship is real. They will simply quote Casablanca on the other person’s birthday and assume you get the memo

Remember they aren’t as obsessed with us as we are with them

This ties into the previous point about hiding secret messages. It’s a consequence of parasocialising which is something I talk about later in this guide.

Actors may or may not care a lot about us as people/as a fandom, and sometimes they do like to play with us in a general lowkey sense, but they aren’t looking for a “special” group of people who Get It. They aren’t putting in the time and effort to find a way to communicate with us on some secret code level. An example within cockles fandom I’ve seen is the stoplight system (if you don’t know what I’m talking about, this was an idea proposed by a fan via text messages that Misha could use red/yellow/green to communicate how loud we could be about cockles – the day after, the official Gish account’s activity was seen as possible confirmation Misha actually adopted the method).

Which leads me to my last point:

Watch out for conspiracy thinking

I know, I know. It’s kind of in the name. Tinhatting implies some sort of conspiracy, but this is a bit too simple when it comes to RPS and especially cockles – where you have two people who make a lot of references themselves and like to have fun with it. There’s different levels of tinhatting one can do, my goal is just to try to make you more aware of some of the red flags and pitfalls that I’ve mentioned throughout this post.

Okay maybe one final point about mental health

You’re more susceptible to falling for some of these things if you’re parasocialising hard. It’s something we are all familiar with because how else did we end up in this dumpster in the first place?

It doesn’t need to be problematic – it’s almost inevitable and comes with being a fan. With tinhatting It’s important to check in with yourself from time to time how much you care about a particular theory and why you find it so important.

More generally when you find yourself spending more and more time in these fandom spaces – ask yourself if there’s something else you’re avoiding or feelings you’re repressing that need to be dealt with. Reach out to friends (those can and do include the people you spend all that time discussing RPS with), try to distance yourself a bit etc. Take a step back if needed.

With all that being said, you can still do whatever you want and make your own judgement. I just hope this can help at least one person to be more cognizant of how they engage with RPS. I know I’ve personally fallen for some of the traps and I learned and still learn along the way.

Yes, this is a little bit silly, it’s a silly subject matter. The reason I care so much and wrote this guide anyway, is not just because I like tinhatting to be believable (cause I do, I can’t deny that) but also because a lot of these critical thinking skills are helpful in for example preventing people from falling for actually dangerous conspiracy theories, cults and cult-like group structures, and toxic relationships.

Now I feel like I ended on such a serious note but I want to emphasise of course the most important part of RPS is to have fun – and this is hopefully just a tiny toolbox for when you want to do more of a deep dive.

Happy rps'ing!

[natasha-in-space]

Hello! I hope your day is well :D

Is it possible for you to write HCs for Jihyun and an Artist s/o who is actually quite similar to him in terms of traumas and personality?

Thank you, and I hope it'll be a fun write, if you do write it!

Well, artists do tend to stick together! If you're someone who harbors the same love for the creative field as he does, you'll have no problem connecting with Jihyun from the very first days of your admission into the RFA. Once he learns that you're an artist yourself, he'll become almost instantly intrigued in learning more about your craft, as well as what it means to you personally. In his point of view, it's like solving a puzzle. He finds it fascinating how every little detail you gradually come to know about a person reveals that much more about the many intricacies of their inner world. What makes them smile, what makes them cry, what they want to run from, and what they want to achieve... The human mind is so chaotic yet so perfect in its imperfect entirety. It's a form of art in an of itself.

The conversations you can have with him in game can turn pretty philosophical at times as it is, and, if you two share similar interests or views on life, they will get even longer and deeper, much to the puzzlement of the rest of the members. And, since Jihyun often finds himself growing more sentimental during the night, you will definitely find yourself staying up way past your usual bedtime, just to talk about this and that with him in the chatroom.

Getting to know one another, discussing different forms of art, sharing your views on the current topic at hand, expressing your troubles, albeit in a very roundabout way... It's hard to put down your phone when the conversations you're having leaves your brain buzzing with so many thoughts, questions and inspiration. In a way, you two get to know one another while not knowing each other at all. It's all shared in metaphors, cryptic phrases and hushed voices during yet another late-night phone call. You don't know this man, but, at the same time, you feel like you've known him forever.

Jihyun is like a puzzle piece. Much like you are to him.

Still, you know he is a kind and deeply compassionate soul. And, that's enough for you to trust him when things inevitably start going wrong. There are even more questions, inconsistencies and overwhelming revelations hitting you in the face one after another, but, you keep your trust in him through it all. Perhaps, that's because his regretful gaze is such a familiar sight to you, that it hurts. Either way, you manage to get him out safely, and, from then on, you two can finally interact face-to-face. Of course, it's a bit hectic with everything else going on, and him still recovering from what Ray did to him in the basement. But, now you have a chance to get to know him as he is. No hiding behind 'bad phone service' this time around.

Now, Jihyun is a very stubborn man. You wouldn't say that about him at first, but it's something that you will have to deal with first thing after your initial escape from Magenta. His stubbornness and determination to bear the burdens of everyone else's pain on his shoulders is only hurting everyone in the end, but it's hard to just let go of the only thing you've lived by for so long. It's important to be understanding but firm with him. If you're someone who can relate to his inner struggles from your own past experience, finding that balance might be easier. You see yourself in him, as he stubbornly condemns himself over and over, refusing to accept any help, believing that he doesn't deserve that. That it's all his fault, and his only options is to burn in the same flame he has ignited. He thinks the only one who will get hurt by him sacrificing himself is himself, but, in reality, there are people he will inevitably bring so much great pain to by disregarding his own well-being in such an extreme way. It's a tough pill fir him to swallow, but a necessary one nonetheless.

If you choose to open up to him about your own traumas, he might do the same to you about his mother. In the game, he does so after waking up in the hospital after his surgery, but if you choose to bring it up with him while you are still in that cabin, it might happen earlier. It's hard for him to express his own pain so openly. But, it's easier when you have someone who knows what's it like. Hold his hand and listen to him. It'll be a long and deeply emotional conversation between you two, one that leaves him questioning a lot of things about himself and how he viewed the world. The fact that you are so similar to him makes his heart both weep and flutter. On the one hand, it hurts him deeply to think that someone as wonderful as you had to experience such pain. But, on the other hand... you give him hope. Hope, that he can indeed still make things right. That it's not too late for him. That he might... come to love himself one day, just as his mother loved him.

Your relationship with him is one of empathy and companionship.

After all is done, he'll still leave on his journey to self-discovery, knowing that your hearts are connected, no matter how far apart you are. He'll ask you about your art in his letters, and share news about his own experiences with getting back to painting. It makes him smile to think of all the art that you are creating while he is away. He can't wait to see it all once he finally returns to your warm embrace. Of course, he knows you'll do the same for his paintings. It is truly a wondrous thing to have someone who can share in your love for your craft. Sometimes, as he paints, he can't help but wonder if you're doing the same thing as him at that very moment. The thought makes him smile.

And, when it comes to your established relationship once he gets back? It's a very steady and comforting type of love. You are so proud of how far he has come, and you know he's proud of you just as much. In a way, you are each other's rock, holding each other up whenever one of you is too exhausted to stand alone. Your home is full of art that you two have created over the years: some are pieces you've made together, and some are your individual work. Your home is almost like a gallery at this point! The fact that you two are so similar can become a bit of a silly problem sometimes, since it means you both have a tendency to be very stubborn in your beliefs, but you have no problem coming to a shared understanding in the end.

You both have an individual journey to follow, but you will hold onto each other's hands the whole way through.

[boyfridged]

I've been seeing quite a lot of people say Jason's characterization/personality/motives/background to just be a copy of characters like Helena Bertillini & Mia Dearden and I wonder how true it is or if people are just looking at him at surface value (cause idk much about these two to come up with a conclusion of my own)? This is a take I occasionally see surrounding Jason and I can't help but feel like this is a result of character never being given a proper place in the universe (like even with the Red Hood identity half the time DC doesn't even know what to do with him). Idk if it's just me being sensitive or defensive cause I like him but the narrative and some fans' sentiment sometimes gives off the vibe that he doesn't belong here and that he has no place/relationships that he can really call his own, like he's only being given hand-me-downs or borrowing from other characters. I guess it also has something to do with the mess that came with his robin run before. Due to external interference Jason did not find a solid footing, what with the inconsistent writing that was influenced more by bias rather than a natural narrative progression. But I'd like to think there are certain elements to his character that he can call his own and it's sad to think that even that could just be another borrowed idea. Although considering the amount of characters DC has released, an overlap is inevitable, so I'm really curious as to what extent this could be when it comes to Jason in comparison to Helena and Mia.

no, you are 100% right when it comes to it being only a surface-level comparison. and i think it's not even just a surface-level comparison, it's a terrible stretch that has its origins in fanon and modern retcons. 80s jay is not similar to mia at all, for example, and it's rewriting willis to be abusive that creates that parallel. it's also the fact that a lot of fanfic writers insist on jason being a victim of sa despite nothing in canon suggesting it outright. then with helena, the similarities start only when you consider his career as the red hood, but even then it's a completely different story.

of course, there are some alike themes and streaks in their storylines that make it plausible to claim that if you like one of these characters, you will enjoy the others. still, it's the differences that truly make them interesting.

jason's post-crisis intro and even the conflict that arises later on post-res are unique in many ways (despite the editorial doing their best to erase it.) i have talked about it plenty on here, so just to list a few; the way he was introduced and the place in the narrative it put him in (the crime alley meeting with bruce); his background (loving but neglectful due to circumstances working-class parents, homelessness etc), his grief, how he was first introduced into vigilantism, his relationship with the legacy of robin, how he sees (or doesn't see) civilian/vigilante identity, his internal conflicts... they are all so particular to his experiences. and they are often written badly, yeah, but the creative value of all these elements remains so clear in the context of wider comics.

there is def something to the fact that jay's character has always been a mess in terms of writing. + when combined with the amount of exposure that he gets nowadays, people get frustrated with him easily. but i think these comparisons do the same thing fanon does; they press all characters mentioned into stereotypes. it's probably just something that someone said once and people started repeating, that's it.

[margridarnauds]

music asks: 4&10

which song rips your heart out?

One recent one is "Castles Crumbling" by Taylor Swift. I've had people tell me it isn't their favorite of the Speak Now vault tracks, but it's incredibly emotional to me. I often talk about it in relation to various blorbos, but it's also something that's incredibly close to me, since that feeling of "And you don't want to know me/I will just let you down" was something that was really preying on my mind when the song was released. Like, for various reasons, I had truly started to believe that I was totally unloveable. That, if you were my friend, you were only my friend because I had somehow, through some arch-manipulation tactic, convinced you to be, but when you got to know the Real Me, you would decide that you hated me. That I was too brittle, too bitchy, too emotional, too pretentious. That...there was something unforgivably wrong with me, that made it so I could never have close friends stay, and that I'd never be able to keep long term friends. That I'd reached my peak a couple of years ago and would never climb back from it, I'd never be happy again, and that every single person who had ever believed in me -- my mentors, my friends, my family -- would be, inevitably, disappointed in me and leave me when they realized it, or else they'd die, and either way, I would be alone. That I'd done something to push them away, that it'd been because I got too into my program, that I had become too arrogant, while also being too inconsistent, too unreliable, a poor student, a poor daughter, and a poor friend. ("Power went to my head/and I couldn't stop/Ones I loved/Tried to help/So I ran them off/and here I sit alone/behind walls of regret/Falling down like promises that I never kept.") In my program, it actually isn't uncommon to lose friends within the first couple of years -- in my case, I ended up losing no fewer than four. There was and is still sometimes a feeling of...separation, like people forget that I'm still me. And sometimes I wondered whether it did change me -- my program as well as the other things and that...now I was ruined. That I couldn't get back who I was before and didn't know how to.

It wasn't just plain self-loathing, it was that feeling, all over again, of being the autistic kid in school and knowing that there's something different about you from the other kids, but not knowing what and wanting to be friends. And...I didn't tell my friends every single time I had one of those spikes, because I thought "I can't show how much this is affecting me, I can't show how fucked up I am, I can't be needy." I probably should have. But I didn't. I tried to keep quiet, especially in public. For the sake of my reputation, I had to keep quiet.

...and then, this summer, I did a string of conferences and trips. I think I might have spent a combined total of a month home out of three months of break, most of it spent in Europe, hitting various conferences, traveling around. People told me I was insane for it. I thought I was insane for it, since I was often only in the States for a week at a time. But it turned out to be the best thing for me, because I had the chance to meet new people, as well as hang out with people who were already my friends. I met people who liked me, who liked my work, who didn't treat me like an inconvenience or an annoyance. And it was a moment of "oh...you...still...like me, don't you? You don't actually hate me? I haven't chased you away? We're still friends?" It was a lot of work, it was stressful, but it was worth it to have that reminder and finally start re-orienting myself. And this song came out when I was recovering from that crisis, so, yes, it does deeply, deeply hit home.

(And to everyone who was with me for the last two years...thank you.)

you have to get a lyric tattoo — which lyric is it?

I know it's considered to be cringe these days, but "I'm not falling behind or running late/I'm not standing still/I am lying in wait." Like, again, I get it, Hamilton fell from grace a while ago, and I don't even disagree with most of the reasoning, but that song's gotten me through the last seven years, every single time I worry I'm lagging behind, every single time I worry about where my future's going or if I even have a future, so it's earned a spot.