#I realize this is a problem of my own making

[neellscapsule]

My Heart — Part One

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic slight yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. future conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, a bit of trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker. you are a bit of a yandere later as well.

word count | 4.9k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) i plan on making this a series. please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13.

next.

New York never felt like home, but it became the closest thing you could hold on to.

You’ve built a life here — tall, untouchable. You’ve shaped it with your own hands, your own colors, your own breath. Nothing about it belongs to the Waynes. Not the apartment nestled above a quiet coffee shop in the Lower East Side, not the canvases drying in the corners, not the framed articles about your exhibitions, not the soft hum of the city seeping through your open window at dawn.

You’ve never liked the quiet.

Which is ironic, considering how desperately you’ve built your life around it.

It follows you now, trailing after you like a shadow, as you pad barefoot across the creaking floorboards of your apartment. Your studio smells like turpentine and old coffee, acrylic paint staining your fingers, charcoal smudged beneath your fingernails. The city hums below you—cars honking, people yelling, life happening. But up here? It’s quiet.

You carved out this life for yourself—a life apart from Wayne Manor’s echoing halls, the Bat‑family’s midnight discipline, the nosey of Alfred, even your father’s distant pride. You’d rather have these narrow, straight streets than that cavernous mansion filled with ghosts.

Eye to eye, the portrait looks at you, analyzing, judging. It's almost like you are the prey, and she is the hunter. Huntress. Hadn't that been your name once? That stupid nickname that only your family knew about? 

With that, you decide that that piece is never going out to life. 

Here, you’re Y/N Wayne, and people know you because your paintings make them feel something. They know you because your words drip off pages like slow, sticky honey, because the chords you compose linger like ghosts. They know you. Not her.

Not the Huntress.

Not the child who spent her teenage years leaping across rooftops in desperate silence.

Not the kid who wanted, so painfully, to be seen.

“Y/N, are you listening?”

You blink, eyes pulling away from the list of upcoming press engagements your manager slid across the table. Ms. Morley — always Morley, never her first name — has her arms crossed, her expression calm but expectant.

You offer a polite, measured nod. “Yes, I’m listening.”

Her mouth twitches, something between a sigh and a smile. She’s used to this version of you: distant, composed, pleasant, but just far enough away that she’ll never get in.

“This showcase is the most important event of your career. You know that.”

You do. You know it in your bones. You’ve spent a decade painting your way here, clawing through the cement of your own insignificance to find something — anything — that could be yours.

It’s a refined gallery in SoHo. Exclusive, prestigious. People from the Met will be there. Patrons from across the Atlantic. Journalists whose words can either fold you into legend or erase you like you never existed.

“This is the kind of night that defines an artist,” Morley continues, sliding her tablet toward you, the event details highlighted in sharp white. “And the kind of night the press eats up.”

You keep your back straight, your breathing steady. “I understand.”

Her gaze sharpens, thoughtful. “We need your family there.”

The name curls in your stomach like bad wine. You lower your eyes to the tablet, as if rereading the date will change what she’s about to say.

“They should be there. All of them.”

Your throat dries, but your voice doesn’t falter. “They won’t come.”

“Maybe not. But the invitation matters. Publicly.” Her fingers tap softly against the glass table, a steady beat. “Their presence will shift the entire narrative around you. It gives your work weight in their circles. It’ll make people pay attention.”

People already pay attention. That’s why you moved here. That’s why you don’t sign your paintings with your last name. That’s why you carefully, deliberately, separated yourself from the empire back in Gotham.

“I don’t want to invite them.”

Morley doesn’t flinch. She never does. She’s not unkind, but she is immovable.

“You don’t have to want it,” she says simply. “You have to do it.”

You hate that she’s right.

You hate that part of you — the small, broken part — still wants them to come. Still craves to be seen. Still aches for Bruce’s approval, even now, even after you’ve stopped asking for it.

You press your fingers together, folding them tightly until the knuckles burn.

“They won’t come,” you whisper.

“They might surprise you.”

They won’t.

You’ve lived your entire life in the spaces they didn’t bother to fill. You remember what it felt like to sit in the Manor’s library, waiting for Bruce to come home, waiting to tell him about your mission, about how you stopped a robbery on your own. You remember how the words curdled in your throat when he brushed past you, eyes already on the next crisis, the next son, the next city to save.

Dick was the golden child. Jason was the loud one, the troublemaker, the broken boy everyone wanted to fix.

You were just… there.

You grew up alongside them, but you were never that much with them. Of course, your older brothers are much of your favorite part of your childhood; Dick teaching you about gymnastics before he became Robin. Jason being just one year older than you, close as nail and dirt before he died. You two became heroes together.

He, the second Robin. You, the only Huntress. You remember the night you saved a group of hostages from a deranged gunman. Sixteen, trembling, adrenaline high — Dick found you afterward, mascara bleeding, but alive. He didn’t say much. Just put his arm around you. That was the only time you felt he believed in you, briefly.

You remember, too, being a child in the manor: cold corridors, even colder glances, father absorbed in his mission, brothers leaving home, returning with scars. Your own scars—emotional, silent, winding through your teenage years.

You weren’t the strategist like Tim, or the quiet weapon like Cass. Your mind wasn't as fast as Barbara's. You weren’t the prodigy like Damian. You weren’t even the spirit like Stephanie.

You were just the girl who tried. The one who stayed polite. The one who made her own costume, patrolled the streets no one cared about, picked up the pieces the rest of them left behind.

The one they forgot to love properly.

It's not that they don't love you. A small part of them must have to love you, as you love them, as much as you hate them. Your father loved you, once, you surely remember that; and he did love you, you were sure of that, just not as much as you really wished. 

You spent your teen years similar to the image he gave. Spoiled, charming. The public loved you, still does, you are more than confident of that. Intelligent, sporty, an artist. Someone who loved Gotham, despite all.

“I’ll send the invitations,” you say at last, voice steady. “One for each.”

Morley gives a small nod of approval. “Thank you. It matters.”

You offer her a polite smile, but inside, something crumbles, quiet and familiar.

When the meeting ends, you walk back to your apartment in the gray afternoon haze, the memory of rain clinging to the pavement. You don’t want to write to them. You don’t want to remember.

But you do. You always do.

You sit at your desk — the one you built yourself, the one with the scratches from moving it too many times — and you pull out eight envelopes.

One for each of them.

You start with Bruce. The paper stays blank for a long time. What do you even say to the man who shaped your entire life by not showing up to it?

You remember him in fragments — his voice, his scent, the way his cape would brush your shoulder when you were little and you’d sneak into the Batcave just to see him. His soft smile when you rested by his side in the couch. You remember the big parties he threw at every single one of your birthdays, but you can't remember enjoying them.

Father,              I’m showcasing a new collection in three weeks. You are welcome to attend if you wish. It will be at the Holburne Gallery, in New York. I imagine your schedule is full, but I wanted you to have the information.

You hesitate.

I hope you’re well.

That’s all you write. That’s all you can.

You sign your name — just your first name — and fold the letter carefully.

You seal the envelope, knowing he probably won’t come. Knowing that if he does, he’ll stand at the back of the room like a stranger. Knowing he won’t say he’s proud. But you send it anyway.

The eldest of your siblings was next. You adored Richard. He had been the one you had most envied and admired at the same time. You were always just a step behind him. Always the little sister, never the partner.

Hi, Dick. 

                I’m presenting a new collection soon. It’s in New York. I thought you might like to know. You don’t have to come, of course. But you’re invited. Hope you’re well.

You sign it.

You try not to think about the Christmas he forgot to call. The birthday he skipped. The voicemail he never answered.

You and Jason always understood each other in a way that didn’t need words. Which is why the silence between you now feels like betrayal. His death had been . . . harsh on you. And then he came back. Nothing like the boy you remembered. Nothing similar to your rebellious yet sweet brother.

Jason,             You can leave early. You’d probably hate it.

You sign it.

You remember when you were kids, and he called you his “annoying little shadow.” You remember the first time he died. You remember visiting his grave every week, even when no one else did.

You remember when he came back, and didn’t call you.

Cass was the quiet one, but she was always the first to notice when you were drowning. She never said much, but she looked at you like she saw you, and maybe that’s why her absence cuts the sharpest. 

Cass,          There’s an exhibition. In New York. In three weeks. I think you’d like the paintings. They’re about what we don’t say. I’d like it if you came.

You don’t need to say more. She’ll understand.

She always did. You understand a bit less than her, but you were the first who learned sign language for her, and you resent her a bit when your father's eyes look at her.

Tim was younger than you, merely by two years. The brilliant one. The one who could solve everything except the rift between you. You don't really remember a time where you two actually got along. You were too hurt by Jason's death when he arrived. When your father replaced him.

There’s a show. I don’t know if you’d want to come. It’s not your scene. But you’re invited.

You almost don’t send his letter.

But you do.

You and Stephanie were always too similar in the worst ways — the loud, overlooked ones who made themselves easy to forget.

But you liked her.

Art show. New York. Three weeks. Come if you want. There’ll be wine.

You sign it.

You remember the time she hugged you after a mission and told you that you were her hero in her eyes. 

You remember that you stopped trying to be a hero that time.

Duke and you really don't know each other that much. You call him your brother, because in a way he is, but you are not really sure how much of a sister you are to him. If he calls you that or simply by your name. Probably the latest.

I’m having a show. You’re invited. You don’t have to come. Just thought you should know.

It feels strange to write to someone you barely knew. But he’s family. Whatever that means.

Damian was the hardest of them all: your blood, his blood, all the same. You share some gestures, gestures you both have from Bruce. You carry on your veins the same liquid that runs through his. He carries with his twisted hate to you. You do with tangled love.

Damian,                You probably have already read the other letters by now, but I thought you should be sent one too. I formally invite you to the presentation. Please, don't bring knives or any weapon if you are going to come. 

You sign that one with less happiness. 

You write one more. For Alfred.

Alfred,            I would love it if you came to my show. It would mean everything to me. You’re the only one I really want there. There is a painting dedicated to you. Hope you can see it with your own eyes and not in a photo.

You hesitate. You seal it.

For the first time all day, you allow yourself to feel the weight of it — the years you spent chasing them, the ache that never quite went away. The child in you still wants them to come. Still wants to believe they’ll show up.

But you know better.

You send the letters anyway.

Wayne Manor has never really been quiet.

Not in the honest sense.

The walls hum, always. The distant rattle of the grandfather clock, the soft padding of Alfred’s shoes against marble, the slow groan of old staircases. Even when no one is speaking, the house breathes.

Dick’s never minded that. Silence always had a weight in this place. And right now, it sits heavy on his shoulders as he drags himself down the long hall, wiping dried blood off the side of his chin with the edge of his sleeve.

The night had been rough. Long patrol in Blüdhaven. Longer arguments with Bruce over the comms. His knuckles still ache from where they met a thug’s jaw a little too hard, and his ribs burn with every breath.

He wants nothing more than to shower, crash in his old bed, and pretend—just for tonight—that the world isn’t asking him to carry it.

But as he turns the corner toward his room, something sharp cracks against the wooden floor down the hall.

It’s faint. Small. A box, maybe.

Dick pauses, body tense out of habit, head tilting toward the sound. No one should be up here. Damian with Titus, outside; Jason god knows where, Cass deeply asleep, Tim’s probably holed up somewhere with three screens on, and Alfred—well, Alfred would never let something fall.

Curiosity edges in, overtaking the tiredness. Carefully, quietly, he turns the knob. The door creaks softly as it swings open, revealing a space frozen in time.

It takes him a second to realize where he is.

The walls are bare now. The bed is made, but unused. The shelves are mostly empty except for a few scattered photo frames, one or two stuffed animals slumped in the corner, a cracked mug filled with stiff, dry brushes. It’s not as full as he remembers — a few boxes stacked neatly in corners, the bed made with precision that screams “Alfred.”

But what gives it away—what pulls the air straight out of his lungs—is the pale pink ribbon draped over the desk chair, with “Y/N Wayne” written in the soft, looping scrawl he remembers.

His sister’s room.

Or what’s left of it.

It’s not the warm, cluttered mess it used to be. He remembers tripping over sketchbooks here. He remembers her sitting cross-legged on the floor, hands smeared with charcoal, beaming at him as she shoved a half-finished drawing in his face.

He hasn’t stepped foot in here since…

God, when was the last time? Her high school graduation? No, even before that.

The faint smell of old books and faint perfume lingers — something subtle, floral, long faded. On the floor, near the desk, a box has fallen open. Papers, notebooks, and loose photos spill across the hardwood, an unintentional mess.

Dick sighs, rubbing a hand across his face.

“Alfred’s gonna kill me if I leave this here,” he mutters to himself, crouching down.

He starts gathering the scattered pages, stacking them neatly back into the box. Some papers are doodles — quick pencil sketches of rooftops, city skylines, birds. Some are old school essays, a few folded letters never sent.

Something flicks against his thigh. A small, thick card. He picks it up absently, ready to tuck it away—until his eyes land on the handwriting.

His name.

“For Dick” written in familiar, elegant cursive letters.

It’s an invitation. To a theater. The date is from years ago—2016. He flips it, heart thumping unevenly.

Hi Dick!! I know you’re busy but maybe you could come????????????Please. I got a solo part this time! I’d really like if you saw me play. It’s Saturday at 7pm. I saved a seat in the front row for you, just in case. :)

It’s signed simply: Y/N ❤

Dick’s stomach twists, a slow, sickening pull.

He doesn’t remember this.

He doesn’t remember any of this.

His fingers tremble as he gathers the rest of the papers. More invitations spill out — to gallery showings, poetry readings, little charity events. Some directed to him. Others to Bruce. Some marked for Cass, Steph, Tim.

Names written with hopeful, awkward loops. Names underlined, circled, doodled with little hearts or stars. All gathering dust in a forgotten box, untouched, unopened.

He can only vaguely remember you at galas, tucked behind the grand piano, fingers gliding across keys while the adults talked business. He remembers your drawings stuck to the fridge when they were younger, Bruce pinning them up absentmindedly like they were grocery lists. He remembers thinking you’d be an artist one day.

But he doesn’t remember these shows. These letters. These invitations.

And he missed them.

He missed you.

His throat closes around the guilt rising fast and sharp in his chest. He runs his thumb over the soft paper of the invitation, reading your bubbly handwriting again and again, as if somehow, maybe, he’ll remember being there.

Maybe, if he reads it enough, the memory will appear.

But it doesn’t.

The silence wraps tighter around him.

The box is still half-full. Beneath the papers, beneath the scribbled notes and dried-out pens, there’s a small stack of worn journals, their corners frayed from years of use.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s not fair to read them. But he’s already failed you in so many ways.

His fingers hover over the top one. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, then pulls it into his lap and opens it. It feels like an invasion. It is an invasion. But the guilt is heavy. The ache to understand her, to know the sister he most knew once, roots itself deep.

The pages are filled with your handwriting — messy, cramped, sometimes smudged with faint water stains. He thinks it's not water.

The first page is a sketch—a rough, childish drawing of a girl in a cape, standing next to a tall figure with a sharp cowl and a billowing cape. The girl is grinning. The figure is not.

The words underneath: I’ll make you proud someday.

“Shit,” he breathes softly, staring at the faded paper.

“I made a new piece today. I wanted to show Dad but he’s busy. Always busy. It’s okay. Jay says that’s just how he is. But maybe next time…”

Dick’s stomach knots.

He flips further.

“I sent Dick that invitation today. I hope he comes. I’m nervous. It’s dumb, I know, but it matters to me.”

His vision blurs, breath catching.

The pages bleed with more.

Frustrations. Dreams. Lonely nights in the Manor while the others trained or patrolled. Quiet resentment tucked behind polite words. The slow, steady heartbreak of being overlooked — not hated, not ignored on purpose, just… forgotten.

“I think if I’m good enough, they’ll come.”

“I think if I save enough people, Father will see me. Not just the mask. Me.”

He flipped to another entry, years later.

“They forgot again. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll just try harder next time.”

His throat burned.

Another.

“It’s not that they don’t love me. I know they do. They just don’t see me.”

“Maybe I was never supposed to be seen.”

Dick grips the pages so tightly his knuckles go pale.

He reads until the words blur, until the guilt curdles into something heavier — shame, self-loathing, frustration.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, but eventually, he shoves the notebooks back into the box, his chest aching with every inhale.

His feet move on autopilot.

The halls blur past.

Bruce is in his study — where else would he be at midnight — reading files, probably preparing for tomorrow’s crusade, like always.

Dick doesn’t knock. He pushes the door open, the box balanced in his arms.

Bruce barely glances up. “Dick.”

He drops the box onto the desk with more force than necessary. Papers spill slightly, the old invitation landing near Bruce’s hand. Bruce’s eyes flick down. His brow furrows. He picks it up.

The silence stretches.

“What’s this?”

“Her room,” Dick snapped. “Her life. All the things we missed.”

Bruce’s hand hovered over the box for a second, as if touching it would burn him. “Y/N’s?”

Dick folds his arms, jaw tight. “You ever remember getting that?”

His father studies the invitation. The date. The handwriting. Something flickers across his face — not recognition. Regret, maybe.

“I… no,” Bruce admits quietly.

Dick’s teeth grind.

“Yeah. Me neither.” His hand slams against the side of the box. 

“These? They’re all hers. Invitations. Shows. Letters. You know where I found them? Gathering dust in her old room. You know what else I found? Journals. Years of them.”

Dick’s voice cracks, low and bitter. “She wanted us there. All of us. You. Me. The others. You ever wonder why she left, Bruce? Why she never came back?”

Bruce’s jaw clenches.

“Don’t,” Dick warns, pointing a sharp finger. “Don’t give me some crap about her ‘needing space.’ I read it. I read every word. She wasn’t asking for space. I thought patrols, missions, saving the world — I thought it was enough. I didn’t realize I was walking right past her the whole time.”

“She made her choices.”

“She didn’t choose to be invisible to us.”

Bruce flinched at that, just a flicker, but Dick caught it.

“Did you even read any of her letters? Did you see how many times she reached out? How many times she tried?”

“She distanced herself,” Bruce said, softer now. “She left.”

“She left because we gave her nothing to stay for.”

The words cracked in the air like gunfire.

Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating.

Bruce’s gaze drifted to the box, to the memories packed haphazardly inside. His fingers traced the edge of the cardboard, lingering.

“I never meant—”

“I know,” Dick cut in, voice tight. “None of us did. That’s the problem.”

Damian heard everything.

It wasn’t hard, not in this house. Wayne Manor was old — creaking floors, thin walls, ventilation shafts that turned into hallways for sound. He wasn’t eavesdropping, not really. If they wanted privacy, they shouldn’t argue where the walls carried every word like a confession.

From his place crouched in the shadowed corner near the study entrance, Damian listened.

Dick’s voice came sharp and raw, slicing through the heavy air like a blade.

“…Your daughter. My sister. The one we’ve all been too damn busy to notice.”

Damian’s mouth flattened into a tight line.

Your daughter. My sister.

It shouldn’t sting. But it did.

Because no one ever included him in sentences like that. Not when it came to you.

His sister.

His daughter.

As if you weren’t his, too.

You are.

More than them.

You’re his only blood sibling. His only biological sister, even if the “half” in front of that always tasted bitter. It never mattered to him. Not the technicalities. Not the lineage arguments. Not the fact that you were gone before he ever got the chance to prove it.

You’re his sister.

His.

The others forget that. Dick forgets that. They all do.

He pressed further into the shadows, arms crossed, watching the tension unfold between Grayson and Father like a slow-burning fire.

He didn’t make a sound when the box hit the desk, when the contents scattered like broken memories across the wood. His eyes narrowed as papers slid free — letters, notebooks, old invitations — all marked with your name, your handwriting, your quiet, forgotten hope.

His jaw tightened.

So that’s what this was about.

You.

It always circles back to you, doesn’t it? Even when you’re not here. Especially when you’re not here. He’s thought about you more times than he’ll admit. Even when he pretends not to. Even when he wears his indifference like armor.

When he was younger, maybe ten, he’d wander the Manor searching for you.

Father told him you were away. Grayson said you were busy. Todd didn’t answer the question. Drake looked uncomfortable every time Damian asked. And Alfred?

Alfred always hesitated before replying.

“She’s finding her own way, Master Damian. Some paths are quieter than others.”

But your absence wasn’t quiet. It screamed.

You were a gap in the family photo. A missing piece at the table. A chair left cold at holidays Damian never liked anyway.

And the worst part?

You were the only sibling he wanted to know.

The others? They were fine. Useful, even.

But you?

You were supposed to be his.

His sister. His blood.

“Did you even read any of her letters? Did you see how many times she reached out? How many times she tried?”

Dick’s words echoed, and Damian’s throat constricted.

No, Father didn’t.

No, the others didn’t.

No, he didn’t.

But he has his reasons. Reasons the others wouldn’t understand.

You were already gone when he arrived. When the League sent him, when Talia made the arrangements, when Father reluctantly opened the doors of the Manor to his assassin-blooded, anger-wrapped child — you weren’t there.

They told him about you in passing. In clinical, detached terms.

“Y/N? She doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Y/N? She’s in New York.”

“Y/N? She’s not part of this.”

But you were. You always were.

Even if they didn’t see it, even if you didn’t want to be, you’re a Wayne by blood. And his only sister.

The Huntress.

He knew the stories long before he saw the evidence. They spoke about you — the siblings, Father, even Alfred and all the fucking villains he has encountered — like you were a myth stitched into Gotham’s history.

The vigilante who walked away.

The Huntress with the flawless reputation.

The sister who vanished before Damian could measure himself against you.

But he did, anyway.

He watched the tapes. Studied the case files. Collected every fragment of your old life like it was a puzzle only he deserved to complete.

He mimicked your movements when no one watched him train. He sharpened his stance, just like yours. He mastered the same grappling techniques. He replicated the calculated grace you carried on rooftops — the footage never lied, and neither did the ache of admiration buried deep beneath his ribcage.

No one had to tell him you were better.

He knew.

You’re the only one he compares himself to. Not Drake. Not Todd. Not even Grayson, for all his accolades.

Only you.

His sister.

His blood.

It’s why he’s always hated how distant you’ve stayed. How effortlessly you carved your place outside the family — like you didn’t need them. Like you didn’t want him.

You never came back.

You never called.

You sent birthday letters, even to him. You once sent a present: a beautiful robin, carved with your hands, created by your heart, an exquisite sculpture he stills has in his room, right next to where he sleeps, and no one can touch it. No one.

He knows he shouldn’t resent you for it. You never knew him. You were gone before his feet ever touched Gotham soil. But logic rarely softened jealousy. And the hollow, possessive ache in his chest when they whispered about you never faded.

It burned brighter, seeing your name scrawled across those invitations.

It twisted cruelly, hearing Dick’s broken anger crack through the room.

Would you even recognize him as yours? As your brother? As your blood?

He doubted it.

Still— still, a flicker of want buried itself deep in his chest, like a thorn impossible to pull free.

You should be here, not in New York.

You should’ve stayed.

You should’ve seen him, known him, claimed him as yours before the others did.

Possession tasted ugly in his mouth. But it was all he had left of you.

He slipped away from the doorway before they noticed him. His steps were soundless, as always. The halls felt colder as he walked. The Manor’s walls whispered memories that weren’t his — childhood laughter, quiet piano keys, the soft scratch of pencil on paper — echoes of a sister he never got to grow up beside.

You were a ghost here.

But to him?

You were a benchmark. An obsession. A sister in absentia who still defined him in ways the others couldn’t.

In the privacy of his room, Damian closed the door and sank onto the edge of the bed. His fingers twitched toward the small, hidden stash in the drawer — your old case files, outdated footage, grainy photos from years past.

A shrine built out of frustration and longing.

He flipped one of the photos over. It was you, half-hidden in shadow, your Huntress uniform sleek and sharp, posture flawless. Untouchable. Perfect.

He envied that version of you. Admired you. Resented you. Wanted you here.

It was unfair, how easily you left. How the others pretended they could move on. How you carved a life far from Gotham, far from him, with your paintings and music and words that never found him.

But it was more unfair how badly he still wanted to follow you.

His sister.

The only blood sibling they shared. Not that anyone ever reminded you of that. Not that you ever stayed to show him what that meant.

“She’s mine,” he muttered under his breath. “My sister. My blood.”

And he wasn’t letting you go again.

That's when he remembered Alfred's words. Your favourite brother had always been Jason. Closest to you: in age, in relationship, in language. That had made him burn before. But not . . . He saw clearly where he could get you again.

Who could.

[maskedbyghost]

toxic ex!Simon Riley x f!Reader, smut, mdni, you are your worst enemy...

You didn’t plan on ending up here. Not tonight, nor ever again, if you were being honest with yourself, which, let’s be real, you usually weren’t....

It was just supposed to be a drive. Just to clear your head, and maybe scream along to some angry music. You weren’t even heading toward his part of town until you were. Until your hands made the turn like muscle memory, because they knew what you needed before your brain could shut it down.

And now you’re sitting in the parking lot of his building, staring up at that third-floor window where the lights are on.

You wonder if he’s alone. Wonder if someone else is in his bed now, touching the parts of him you used to kiss. The thought makes your stomach twist, and you hate yourself for that, hate that it still hurts, that he still has that kind of power over you.

He always did.

Simon was the kind of mistake you didn’t just make once. He was the kind of mistake you returned to. Burned for. The kind of man who made you forget your name with his mouth on your neck and then left you wondering if he ever actually gave a shit in the first place.

And still, you’re walking up the steps to his door.

Your hand doesn’t shake when you knock, but your heart does. You already regret this, and you already know exactly how this ends.

The door opens almost instantly, and there he is.

Shirtless, with sweats low on his hips, and that familiar smug look already curling at his mouth like he knew it’d be you.

He leans on the doorframe like the cocky bastard he is, eyes flicking down your body slowly. “Well,” he says. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. You had a plan, you even had a whole speech rehearsed. But now that you’re here, standing in front of him, all you can hear is the low hum of his voice and the way your own blood is rushing in your ears.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you say finally.

He smiles like that’s the funniest thing he’s heard all day.

“No,” Simon says. “You really shouldn’t.”

But he steps back anyway. Opens the door wider and doesn’t say anything else. He just waits.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? He doesn’t beg, he doesn’t chase. He just stands there looking like that, with tattoos and sweat and sin wrapped in a body that ruined you more times than you want to count.

And, of course, you step inside.

The door clicks shut behind you, and that sound alone sends your nerves into overdrive. You can feel the heat of him without him even touching you. Feel the way the air shifts when you’re in the same room.

“I’m not staying,” you say, already lying.

He walks past you toward the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the counter like you’re not coming apart inside just from looking at the curve of his back and the flex of his arm as he pours water from the tap.

“Didn’t ask you to.”

Your jaw clenches. “You texted me.”

He sips his water and shrugs. “Yeah. Said it was important.”

You narrow your eyes. “So?”

“So I lied.”

That stops you cold. “You’re serious.”

Simon sets the glass down and turns back to you, arms crossed loosely over his chest. There’s a gleam in his eye now, something dark.

“Wanted to see if you’d come. That’s all.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole.”

“And you’re still standing in my flat,” he says smoothly. “Guess we’re both consistent.”

You want to scream, to slap him, or to kiss him until you forget why you hate him so goddamn much.

He walks toward you slowly enough to make your breath hitch, and your back hits the wall behind you before you even realize you’re moving.

“You really think I don’t know why you came?” he says. “You needed it. Needed me.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did,” he says, leaning in until his mouth is at your ear. “You do.”

His hand skims your waist, barely there, but it might as well be fire. You hate that your body still reacts, that you still ache for him in ways that feel more like addiction than affection.

“You like the way I ruin you, don’t you?” Simon whispers, and fuck, your whole body goes tight at the sound of it. “Missed how it feels. The way I make you forget every lie you told yourself after you left.”

“Stop talking,” you breathe.

He grins against your cheek. “Make me.”

And that’s when you finally give in and stop pretending this is anything other than inevitable.

You kiss him to shut him up.

That’s what you’ll tell yourself later. That’s why you grabbed the back of his neck and crushed your mouth to his... because you were angry. Not because you missed this. Not because the moment his lips touched yours again, your knees went weak and something hot and humiliating twisted low in your stomach.

But you did miss this.

The way Simon kisses you is like he’s claiming you. Like you belong to him, and he’s been waiting to remind you. His hands are on your hips in an instant, dragging you close, hard fingers digging into your sides like he’s trying to bruise his name back into your skin.

You gasp into his mouth, and he groans like it’s been killing him not to hear that again.

“Fucking knew you’d come back,” he mutters, lips dragging along your jaw, down your neck. “Knew you couldn’t stay away.”

“I hate you,” you gasp, but your hands are fisting in his hair, pulling him closer.

He grins against your throat. “Yeah, yeah. Hate me harder, sweetheart.”

He grabs your ass and lifts you like you weigh nothing, and your legs wrap around his waist automatically, your body moving with him even though your brain is still screaming at you to stop this.

He carries you to the bedroom and tosses you on the bed.

“Take your shirt off,” he says, standing at the edge of the bed, voice calm.

You hesitate, just for a second.

And he notices. Of course he does.

“C’mon, baby,” Simon says, tilting his head. That cocky little smirk back on his face. “You already made it this far. Don’t go all shy on me now.”

Your glare doesn’t land the way you want it to. Not when your hands are already pulling your shirt over your head, not when your body is already humming at the way he looks at you.

He drops his sweats, and fuck, you forget how to breathe.

You remember everything all at once. The weight of him, the stretch, and the way he used to fuck you like he was angry at you and obsessed with you at the same time.

He climbs on top of you, presses your wrists down into the mattress, and looks you dead in the eye.

“You gonna let me remind you how good I make you feel?” he asks, low and close.

You hate yourself when you nod.

His mouth crashes into yours again, and suddenly he’s everywhere, hands on your waist, mouth on your chest, dragging his tongue down your stomach until he’s between your thighs and spreading them with both hands like he has a right to.

“God, I missed this cunt,” he groans, voice muffled against your inner thigh, and your whole body jolts at how fucking filthy he says it.

He licks you slowly at first, teasing you lazily. Just enough to make you whimper and grind down against his tongue without meaning to.

“Still so fucking needy,” he murmurs. “Bet no one’s touched you like this since me, huh?”

You’re already shaking. Already breathless.

He knows what he’s doing. Every flick of his tongue, every pass of his fingers—he’s doing it slow on purpose, drawing it out, making you beg for it.

And he waits for it, too. Watches you through his lashes, eyes burning as he drags a finger inside you and curls it just right.

Your back arches, just as a cry slips out.

“There she is,” he murmurs, and it’s the smugness in his voice that pushes you over the edge. “Told you... You like the way I ruin you.”

You come with your fists in the sheets, thighs trembling, his mouth still on you.

He doesn’t even give you time to catch your breath before he’s crawling back up, grabbing your jaw, and making you look at him.

“Gonna fuck you now,” he says, voice low and dark. “Gonna fuck you like I know you want it.”

“Then shut the fuck up and do it,” you snap.

He laughs, and then he’s inside you in one rough, perfect thrust, and it’s too much and not enough and exactly what you needed all at once.

You moan so loud you’re glad the neighbors already hate you.

He moves like a man possessed. Like he’s punishing you and praising you all at once. His grip bruises your hips as he thrusts into you hard, rough, trying to fuck the memory of anyone else out of your body.

“You still mine?” he growls, grabbing your throat but not squeezing.

You don’t answer.

So he fucks you harder.

“I said,” Simon hisses through his teeth, “are you still fucking mine?”

And you don’t want to say yes. You really don’t.

But you do.

“Yes—yes, fuck, yes—”

He groans, low and deep, and slams his mouth to yours, biting your lip, tasting you like he needs to.

You don’t know how long it lasts. Don’t know when you stopped pretending this wasn’t going to happen. Don’t know when you gave up fighting him.

You come again with his name on your lips like a prayer and a curse, and he spills inside you with a growl, pressing his forehead to yours.

Neither of you say anything for a long time.

But when he pulls out and lies beside you, he doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t kiss your shoulder or pull you close.

He just lies there, and eventually, he says:

“You’ll come back again.”

You roll onto your side, heart still racing, breath shaky.

“Don’t count on it.”

He just chuckles. “Already am.”

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

i finally cleared out my drafts...

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @preeyas-world @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb

[virtual202]

Seems like the influencer word is really a German thing then. And yeah, it doens’t fit perfectly either. But then we’d have to create a whole new word and I think people are too lazy for that.

And— yes. People tend to not care about what they don’t feel— or maybe it’s just my philosophy because I believe people to be inherently selfish (due to the reasoning in sentence above). However, that does cause them to demand more and more for their own gain, forgetting that others are sentient beings as well. The more abstract something is, the more we alien-ize* (for example, we understand ‘animals*’ less and sympathize with them less**) things. At least some people realize they’ve been pestering someone and stop when they’re being told.

I think it’s true when you say that we’ve been straying farther and farther from the idea that work can be fun AND raise money, and that what you do is primarily for enjoyment, not raising money. Our society just doesn’t work like that anymore due to everything being monetized (capitalism?). However, that is a problem of the society, not of the small amount of people protesting against it— like many problems the society has.* And Like most, if not all problems of society, this is incredibly hard to fix.

Not to mention, social media is incredibly young. Older than AI, but still very young. Humans are a fast adapting race, but I don’t think we’re supposed to adapt this fast to new changes, especially when you are, essentially, a large group banded together and not a single person who makes their own laws. New things constantly come up and overwhelm the old, removing it from the display shelves at a rate that we can barely keep up with. Society is changing slower and the official laws are adapting even slower. Social media is, essentially, a wild running horse with no one to stop or redirect it, and that causes such problems like shifting priorities and public opinion/behavior that leads to things like the posts mentioned above.

*: (did I write that right? Is that a word? Because my keyboard is saying I wrote that wrong but there’s also no word like that)

*: Even though we’re animals ourselves, we often seem to ‘forget’ about that and assume that the other person is talking about every animal that is not human.

**: for example, people often say that one should not weight one life against another, but were one to choose (if you take the trolley problem here, for example,) between saving a dog and five humans, the choice would undoubtedly (for the major majority) fall onto the human. In other words, only a select few would go for the dog, or make no choice at all.

*: For example, there has been… (I am unsure what it’s called) something like under-maturity going on and people have been calling it out. Problem is that people feel like 15 when they’re physically 18. I’ve seen another post of someone saying to ‘suck it up’ the other day and that ‘everyone feels like this’ and I wanted to scream and tell them that no matter if the majority feels like this or not, this is not supposed to be! This isn’t okay! There are reasons for this! And if it’s where the human life’s are going because there is more and more to learn at school, more competition and less time for people to mature, maybe the law must be changed! Society should learn to adapt to the generation, not the new generation should adapt to society. However, since it’s common for veterans to show newbies how things are run, this is often pretty hard. Actually, it’s a tradition atp. Slow dev. is often better than fast dev. but you can’t always stay the same. Actually, it has to do with other factors as well and that’s how the development is set. Hold on this is way too much to think about.

idk how to word this properly but wrt the fanfic thing you reblogged earlier. Why do fanfic writers have such different expectations than any other content hosting platform?

Like lets take youtube as a point of comparison, Engagement like comments and likes largely exists to boost the works place in algorithm, thats why youtubers put in calls to action and other engament bait. Few with decent reach even read the comments and the audience shouldnt try to develop any weird parasocial relationship with the youtuber. Fanfic authors ask for likes (kudos, because the websites gotta use nonstandard language for some reason) and comments despite them not having any impact on an algorithm, and seem to want the audience to try and develop a relationship with the author based on tumblr posts like that one.

Why the radical difference in behaviour away from the norm? And honestly with all the (usually) metaphorical blood spilled online about parasociality why are authors really surprised that the audience tries to keep their distance as is best practice with any other content producer?

okay I am going to answer this as kindly and as calmly as I can and try to assume that you are asking this in good faith. because my friend, the fact that you feel the need to ask is, to me, The Problem.

[this is, for the record, in response to this post]

fanfiction writers are not *posting content.* (I also have reservations about engaging with the term "content producer" or "content creator" but let's put that aside for now, I'll circle back to it.) you say "they seem to want the audience to try and develop a relationship with the author" as though it is strange, off-putting, and incomprehensible to you, when in fact that is the point of writing fanfiction. it is a way of participating in fandom. it is a way of building community and exchanging ideas and becoming closer with people.

if authors wanted to solely ~generate content~ that would get them attention (?? to what end, the dynamic you have described seems to equate algorithmic supremacy as winning for winning's sake, as though all anyone wants to do is BUILD an audience without ENGAGING with them, which I cannot fathom but let's pretend for a moment that is, in fact, true) then like. if that were the case why on earth would they choose a medium in which they categorically cannot succeed and profit, because it isn't their IP?

you are equating two things that are not at all the same thing. to the degree that parasocial relationships are to be avoided, and "that person is not trying to be your friend they are trying to entertain you, please respect their boundaries" is a real dynamic -- which it is!! -- like. you have to understand that the reason that is true for the people of whom it is true is because it is their JOB. they are storytellers by profession, and they are either through direct payment, or sponsorship, or advertising, or through some other means, profiting off of your attention. i don't say this to be dismissive, many wonderful artists and actors and comedians and any number of a thousand things that i enjoy very much go this route but they do so as a *career choice.* and so when you violate the public/private boundary with them, you are presuming to know a Person rather than their Worksona. the people who work at Dropout or who stream their actual play tabletop games or who broadcast on TikTok or YouTube are inviting me to feel like i know them to the degree to which that helps them succeed in their medium and at their craft, but there MUST be a mutual understanding that that's a feeling, not a fact.

however.

a fanfiction writer is not an influencer, not a professional, and is not looking to garner "success." there is no share of audience we are trying to gain for gain's sake, because we are not competition with one another, because there is nothing to win other than the pleasure of each other's company. we are doing this for no other reason than the love of the game; because we have things we want desperately to say about these worlds, these characters, these dynamics, and because we *want more than anything to know we are not alone in our thoughts and feelings.* fanfiction is a bid for interaction, engagement, attention, and consideration. it is not meant to be consumed and then moved on from because we are NOT paid for our work, nor do we want to be. the reward we seek is "attention," but attention as in CONVERSATION, not attention as in clicks. we are not IN this for profit, or for number-go-up. there is no such thing: legally there cannot be. we are in this because we want to be seen and known.

like. please understand. i am now married to someone i met because of mutual comments on fanfiction. our close friend and roommate, with whom i have cohabitated for over a decade now, is someone I met because of mutual comments on fanfiction and livejournal posts. that is my household. beyond my household, the vast majority of my closest personal friends are people with whom I built relationships in this way.

you ask why fanfiction writers want THIS and not "the norm," but the idea of everything being built to cater to an algorithm to continue to build clout, as though the only method of reaching people is Distant Overlord Creator and Passive Receptive Audience being "the norm" is EXTREMELY NEW. this is not how it has always been!! please think of the writers of zines in a pre-internet fandom, using paper and glue and xerox to try and meet like-minded people in a world that was designed for you to only ever meet people in person, by happenstance, in your own hometown. imagine the writers of the early internet, building webrings from scratch to CREATE a community to find each other, despite distance. imagine livejournal groups, forums, and -- yes, indeed, of course -- comment threads IN STORIES -- as places where people go to *converse.* in the past, we had an entire Type Of Guy that everyone knew about, the BNF ("Big Name Fan") whose existence had to be described via meme because it was SO DIFFERENT THAN THE NORM. treating fellow fans like celebrities or people too cool for the regular kids to know was an OUTLIER, and one commonly understood to lead to toxicity.

in the past, I have likened writing fanfiction to echolocation. i am not screaming because I like hearing the sound of my own voice, though i can and do find my voice beautiful. i am screaming so that the vibrations can bounce back to me and show me the world. the purpose is in the feedback. otherwise it is just noise.

does this make any sense? can you see, when i describe it that way, why an ask like yours makes me feel despair, because it makes us all sound so horribly separate from one another?

perhaps I will try another metaphor:

a professional chef who runs a restaurant will not have her feelings hurt if you never fight your way into the kitchen to personally tell her how much you enjoyed the meal. that would, indeed, violate a boundary. professional kitchens are a place of work, and you have already showed her you enjoyed the meal by paying for it, or by perhaps spreading your enjoyment by word of mouth to your friends so they, too, can have good meals. you show your appreciation by continuing to come back. if a bunch of people sitting around randomly happen to have a conversation about how much they love the food, it wouldn't hurt that chef's feelings to not be included in the conversation. however: EVEN IN THIS INSTANCE, it is ADVISABLE AND APPROPRIATE to leave a good review! you might post about how much you like this restaurant on Yelp, and it would probably make the chef feel great to see those positive comments. but the chef doesn't NEED them, because the chef is, again, *also being paid to cook.* that's why she started the restaurant, to be paid to cook!

i am not being paid to cook.

i am at home in my own kitchen, making things for a community potluck where i hope everyone will bring something we can all enjoy together. some people at the potluck are better bakers, some better cooks; some can't cook at all but are great at logistics and make sure there's enough napkins for everyone; some people come just to enjoy the food, because that's what the party is for. and if I, as this enthusiast chef who made something from my heart for this reason alone, learned after the fact that a bunch of people got together in the parking lot to rave about my dish but no one of them had ever bothered to tell me while I sat alone at my table all night, occasionally seeing people come by to pick up a plate but never saying anything to me -- of course that would bother me, because I am not otherwise profiting off the labor I put in. this is not a bid to be paid, because if someone WERE to say "hey, great cake!! here's five bucks for a slice" i would say no, friend, that is not the point and give them the money back. i'm not trying to Get Mine. I am in it to see the look on your face. I'm in it so you can tell me what about it moved you, so that I can say back what moved me to make it in the first place. so we can TALK about it.

because what happened in the first place is this: one time I had a cake whose sweetness, richness, flavor, intensity, and composition moved me so much that I *taught myself to bake.* so I could see how much vanilla and sugar was too much, so I could learn how to make things rise instead of fall flat, so I could even better appreciate the original cake by seeing for myself the effort and talent and inspiration that goes into making one even half as good.

learning to do so is a satisfying accomplishment in and of itself, yes.

but I also did it because at the end of the day we should EAT the cake. and it's a lonely thing, to eat alone when a meal was always designed and intended to be shared.

so, to answer your last question: i'm not surprised, i'm just sad. because somehow two things that were never meant to be seen as the same have been labeled "content," and thus identical. and it diminishes both the things that ARE intended to be paid for AND the things that are not, because it removes any sense of intimacy or meaning from the work.

i hope you know i'm not mad at you for asking. but i'm frustrated we've come to live in a world where the question needs to be asked, because the answers are no longer intuitively obvious because we're so siloed.

[draculasintern]

Silco Headcanons (2)

Transcript from Draculasintern file #V016-X

So, more Silco because I might have a thing for old men who could kill me. Sfw and NSFW

He doesn’t say I love you out loud very often. But he shows it in the way he pours your tea before his own. In the hand at the small of your back when he walks you through the office. In the way he listens—really listens—when you speak, even if it’s about something small.

He has a specific spot on the couch where he relaxes after long days. You always end up curled there with him—head tucked under his chin, his arm over your shoulder, fingers absently brushing your arm. He doesn’t speak during those moments. Just breathes. Just is.

Calls you darling, my heart, sweet thing—but only in private. His voice drops half a register when he says it, like he’s afraid the softness might leak into his public mask.

His coat has become your coat. You said you were cold once. Now he wraps it around your shoulders before you even realize you’re shivering. It smells like him. You pretend not to notice how often you bury your face in it.

He watches you sleep. Not in a haunting way—just quiet, thoughtful, like he’s memorizing the curve of your cheek, the way you twitch when you dream. His hand usually rests near yours, just enough to touch, just enough to keep you tethered.

He keeps a framed photo of you in his office drawer. Only opens it when things are too heavy. When Zaun feels too much like a war and not enough like a home. He looks at you, then closes the drawer, steadies his breath, and continues.

If someone threatens you—even with a look—he’s suddenly there. Not loud. Not theatrical. Just close. Just deadly calm. “Is there a problem?” A hand on your back. His voice like ice. Problem solved.

He loves when you sit on his desk. Legs swinging or crossed, papers scattered, you making commentary while he works. He pretends to be annoyed. He’s not. He’s never more focused than when you’re nearby.

He doesn’t sleep much. But when he does, he sleeps better with you in the room. Even if you’re reading. Even if you’re quiet. He’ll rest his head in your lap with a soft exhale and let himself drift.

Sometimes he leaves notes. Sharp handwriting. Folded with precision. “Don’t forget to eat.” “Your scarf is on the rack.” “Wake me if you need anything.” You keep them. All of them.

He touches you like you’re precious and breakable, but he kisses you like you’re the only real thing he’s ever known. Lips to your knuckles. To your temple. Your pulse.

If you’re angry or upset, he gives you space—but not distance. He’s still there. In the room. Back turned, waiting. And when you’re ready, he turns around, opens his arms, and lets you fall into them without a word.

He lets you fix his tie. Run your fingers through his hair. Adjust his collar. All things he could do himself—but he likes when it’s you. He closes his eyes and sighs like your hands make the weight on his shoulders a little lighter.

You once traced the scar around his eye with your fingertip. He didn’t flinch. Just watched you with something molten in his gaze. “Does it frighten you?” he asked. You shook your head. “Good,” he murmured. “It frightens everyone else.”

He never really believed in softness until you. Never knew gentleness could be powerful. But you—your smile, your voice, the way you touch his face like he’s something worth keeping—you changed him. And he’ll never forget it.

He doesn’t rush. No matter how badly he wants you, his control is a blade honed to perfection. He undresses you slowly, step by step—hands dragging down your arms, your thighs, until you’re trembling and asking him to do something about it.

He has you spread out across his desk—hands gripping the edge, cheek to the cool surface—while he fucks into you slow, steady, deliberate. His voice is in your ear the entire time. “You like this? Like how deep I am, darling?”

He likes power in small, quiet ways. Holding your jaw while he kisses you. Keeping his hand on your chest while he pushes into you, just to feel your heartbeat stutter. “You’re shaking.” He sounds amused. “Is it from pleasure or fear?”

He doesn’t just talk dirty—he tells you what you’re doing to him. “You feel that?” he groans, fucking deeper. “That’s how wet you are. That’s how tight you’ve got me. Gods, you ruin me.”

If you tease him—flirt in public, whisper something filthy while he’s in a meeting—you’ll pay for it later. Bent over the arm of the couch, legs trembling, his voice a low rasp in your ear: “Next time you want to misbehave, think of this.”

He rarely lets go of control—but when he does, it’s desperate. You ride him and he’s all breathless groans, eyes fluttering, hands gripping your hips like he’s going to fall apart if you stop. “Don’t—don’t stop—please, just like that…”

He whimpers when he’s close. A sharp contrast to his usual calm. You kiss his throat, grind down hard, and he moans—high, needy, completely undone. “You’re too much, darling. I can’t—fuck—”

He adores when you talk him through it. Praise, teasing, all of it. “Such a mess, sweetheart. Can’t even think straight, can you?” You murmur, and he bites his lip, bucking up into you. “So sensitive, huh?” He whines into your mouth like he hates how much he likes it.

When he’s underneath you, it’s like the world vanishes. He watches your every move—eyes heavy, lips parted, letting you take what you want from him. His hands shake on your thighs. His voice breaks on your name.

Afterward, he clings. Chest pressed to your back, arms around your waist, breath still catching. “You’re… everything,” he murmurs. Quiet. Almost ashamed. But you know he means it. He always does.

So.. How we feeling?

-The Intern

[the-jason-todd-murder-weapon]

details I noticed after rewatching episode five of tadc

0:40 disappearing man watches the gang come back from an adventure

caine is getting darker and darker with his adventure ideas- possibly slowly beginning to downwards spiral because none of the circus members like his adventures (I imagine because he literally cannot perceive what they want because well. he isn't human)

jax is genuinely excited gangle plays along as an "extremist" (although this could be argued that he was just excited to see her blow up)

Bubbles is slowly getting weirder and weirder, to the point even caine is weirded out

It's implied jax also watches anime (he knows the genre they're in based off the first few seconds, and says that it's the worst kind of anime)

jax seems genuinely upset at gangle either 1. hanging out primarily with zooble or (the one I'm personally more inclined to) that she literally can't keep her comedy mask on

It's implied jax tried reaching out to ragatha about how the circus was affecting him, but ended up thinking she was being fake because she was constantly nice and basically refused to show that she was also affected

11:14 we see disappearing man's door, implying that he is, infact, not an npc like the characters seem to think. a second after we see an abstracted character's door with jax running to it, then stopping and just. staring for a moment instead of trying to open the door (which, in my own interpretation, because of the abstraction eyes all around, makes me think jax might've watched his friend abstract, and then possibly tried to talk to ragatha about it but she wouldn't reach to him with any "real" emotion, so he saw her as fake and trying to take advantage of him)

zooble pauses when she hears kinger request something with corn in it- which, while possible that it's just not a real drink, makes me think she knew jax was afraid of corn

Jax doesn't know what the vote is. he votes no because pomni votes no, he has no reason to think it's anything to do with him aside from the fact that he wasn't included in talking about it

jax starts genuinely spiraling about the maid dress, in a way that reminds me almost of dysphoria (ftm jax headcanon go brr)

I think most people already assumed this, but zooble is the one to place the corn

ragatha has genuine problems with pomni being friends with jax, to the point she's almost spiraling, I assume because she's slowly realizing the people pleaser way that worked in real life is causing everybody in the circus to only like her on the surface level, but not want to hang out with her

[lara635kookie]

My Personal Kpop Demon Hunters Song Ranking:

That was so hard because all the songs are SO GOOD, but I'll try, maybe my opinion will change with time.

7. TAKEDOWN:

Okay, don't throw stones as me. I love this song. But the other songs are just too SUPERB, that this one becomes... Less superb. Like Rumi, I think the song is... A little exaggerated at times. Something I like about this movie is that every part of the soundtrack is essential. It tells a story. At first, I thought this was going to be just a badass TWICE song, which I wouldn't have minded, but I'm glad they made it a part of the story, showing Rumi, ironically the one to ask for a diss track on the Saja Boys, can't sing it because it's too hateful on her demon side. It's a really great song overall, the other ones just stand out more.

6. How It's Done:

You realize how good the HUNTR/X's songs are when this MASTERPIECE is ranked so low. I love How It's Done, it's a song to introduce us to the girls and what they do, highlight their unique personality traits and show us how successful they are, both as k-pop stars and demon hunters. And it reaches its goal perfectly. You hear it and you already know a little about the girls and it makes you want to know more. It's a song that 100% excels at their purpose. However, the other songs on that list also excel on their purpose way too much (and also fit my personal tastes even better lol), sadly leaving How It's Done on this position.

5. Golden:

It almost feels like a crime putting Golden so low. But I just can't put it any higher because what's coming is EVEN BETTER. The song is a bop, and it just represents each of the girls so well. Their story, their struggles. As they said, it's a song about who they are, where they are, and where they are going next. The outfits are everything, the MV, the lines, and it all is just executed so perfectly. I have nothing but compliments to Golden, I tried to make it higher because I refused to accept it would end up so low, but there wasn't any other way. That's Golden's place on that list, for now, at least.

4. Soda Pop:

Don't judge me!!! Come on, it is CATCHY. The boys kill it!!! And just like How It's Done does with the girls, Soda Pop introduces us to the boys so well. I love it how, at first, it sounds like just a little innocent song about having a crush, but the deeper meaning behind it is demons saying they want to drink the fan's souls in a very sweet and sugarcoating way. It's something you have to listen a few times to catch on. It just truly fascinates me how a song called Soda freaking Pop, can have such a dark message in between the lines, like come on, look at those lines: "Don't want you, need you, Yeah, I need you to fill me up", "Every sip makes me want more, yeah", "Lookin like snacks 'cause you got it like that", "Take a big bite, want another bite", "'Cause I need you to need me", "I'm empty, you feed me so refreshing", "Come and fill me up, Just can't get enough", "You're my Soda Pop, gotta drink every drop". AND THAT CHORUS???

"You're all I can think of

Every drop I drink up

You're my soda pop

My little soda pop

Cool me down, you're so hot

Pour me up, I won't stop

You're my soda pop

My little soda pop"

Like, there's so much in this song that you need to hear it more than once (which is not a problem, you will because it's addictive). How do you even make a seemingly silly song about soda to be this filled with hidden meanings??? Whoever wrote Soda Pop, you're a genius, you're an icon, you're a legend, you're the moment, and I fear you own my life, I wish I had your brain. I just love this genre of Kpop where Idols use food/drinks to make an innuendo. Ice Cream by BLACKPINK feat. Selena Gomez, Cookie by New Jeans. Whatever that's called, I hope it becomes a trend. Give me more of this, K-pop idols. I need it. I need you to serve me colorful aesthetic with cute lyrics with a double meaning behind it(but please make sure you're all legal adults first okay?). Because somehow, a song about soda popping can have this much ways of interpretation. A cutesy one, a sexier one, and a darker one. It's just so mind-blowing what they did with this song. The fans will probably notice it's about sex with a cute aesthetic, like the songs I mentioned before, because it can also be interpreted like that to hide the actual meaning only the HUNTR/X catches on:They're demons trying to steal their fans souls. The intelligence level is just off the charts with this one. Whoever came up with this was allowed to COOK and cooked even harder that I thought it was possible. Before making this list, I was sure Soda Pop would make it to the podium, and it almost did, but the other ones are just too superior.

🥉 What It Sounds Like:

The perfect finale. This was so emotional in so many ways. Just talking about it makes me want to cry. It's so beautiful and so heart-wrenching at the same time. I don't think I have enough words to describe it. All the songs in the podium were almost in first place, because they are just THAT good, I love myself a grand ending with with a lot of magic, and color, and glitter, and the power of friendship (the girl obsessed with Equestria Girls Rainbow Rocks within me will never die). The lyrics are so poetic, and they are just everything to me. It also kinda reminded me a little bit of some of The Greatest Show, This is Me and Come Alive from "The Greatest Showman", it was just THAT EPIC. The girls acknowledging they made mistakes, and they can't come back, but they can still make it through together and defeating Gwi-ma was just so POWERFUL. Cliche? Yes, very. But I wouldn't have it any other way. It's a trope that WORKS.

🥈Your Idol:

I'm sorry, but always that the movie has a villains vs heroes final musical showdown battle, the villains are defeated, but in terms of MUSIC, we all know who the real winners are. Like, I'm sorry, Saja Boys, who gave you permission to SLAY SO HARD??? I think it's obvious that by now, they're all WAY hotter in their demon forms. I'm sorry, but if they presented themselves as demons since the start, no plot would have made me believe the HUNTR/X would be able to defeat them. If they were demons since the beginning of their careers, the HUNTR/X would have been defeated. Way sooner, in fact. And all the boys shined EQUALLY. Like, I feel like the boys were more balanced than the girls in this aspect. Like, Rumi always starts and ends the song. Yes, Mira and Zoey have very memorable parts, but still Rumi always ends up standing out more. Which I think might be a reflection of external bias. Rumi's younger version is played by Maggie's Kang daughter(and she's the only one we know more about as a kid), Rumi was a character that was created a long time ago for a project her husband was part of and even the movie itselfs say "Celine built HUNTR/X around her" (Rumi). And with the Saja Boys, don't get me wrong, Jinu is the one that sings more and is on the center more, but he leaves more space to the other members than Rumi does. I'm gonna make it clear I don't think that's Rumi's fault and I don't hate her character for it, but the way Kpop Stans are, I just know in real life Rumi would get lots of hate for "stealing all the lines" like many other idols received before. And I don't think the Saja Boys would have that problem because specially here in Your Idol, Abby is the one that starts the song, than Mystery and Romance and just then Jinu. Rumi always comes earlier into the song. There were times I felt like Mira and Zoey's parts were too short just for her to come in. Which is not exactly a bad thing, it would explain why her losing her voice affects not just her but the others so much, because she's the very foundation of HUNTR/X. Which I get why, she's a nepo baby (a very talented one may I add). Her mom was a Sunlight Sister and her adoptive mom is another one of them. But still, the balance of the Saja Boys attracts me more. Because even though Jinu sings more, all the lines from all the members are equally iconic (well almost, some are a little bit more than others). Let's count:

Abby: "Keeping you in check, keeping you obsessed", "Anytime it hurts, play another verse", "I can be your sanctuary", the part of the first chorus he sings, "Don't let it show, keep it all inside", "The pain and the shame, keep it outta sight".

Mystery: "More than power, more than gold", "Yeah you gave me your heart now I'm here for your soul" (Love it how the camera focus on Zoey smiling when he sings)

Romance: "Know I'm the only one right now", "I'ma love you more when it all burns down", "Your obsession feeds our connection", "give me all your attention" he also sings a part of the second chorus.

Jinu: His whole entire pre-chorus and Chorus to be honest, his vocals at the end are pure and sheer PERFECTION, "I will make you free, when you're all a part of me", "Watch me set your world on fire", "No one is coming to save you" (love the foreshadowing), "You're down on your knees, I'm be your idol".

Baby Saja: His whole entire rap that mind you is the very best part and dare I say the very CORE of this song. He was owning this era for real and that's what I'm trying to say, I think it seems like Rumi owns every era, from what they showcased to us, so I like how the Saja Boys divide the spotlight between all the members better.

And I'm sorry but Your Idol's bridge ALONE is bigger than the HUNTR/X's entire carreer. I said what I said. It's genuinely one of the best bridges I've ever heard in a song, I'm not even kidding.

I understand why they only had two songs and then disappeared, if they had more, no other Kpop artist, group or soloist, in this universe would stand a fricking chance.

I genuinely love how just like Soda Pop, Your Idol has so many meanings. The situation with Rumi, the message to the fans, the control Gwi-ma has over all the demons including the Saja Boys themselves and it even gives a little more of depth to the other members of Saja Boys, just so we can say they are not completely shallow. And they do it in a way that makes you want to learn more about them. Apparently all demons of this species, were humans who sold their souls to Gwi-ma.

So it makes you wonder, what happened to them? Both Abby and Baby mention pain, Abby mentions shame. Mystery talks about power and gold so maybe he wanted those things when he gave his soul to Gwi-ma. Romance talks about obsession, connection, attention, being the only one, so what if he gave his soul to Gwi-ma for love?

I also just love the parallels of a song being named Your Idol, in a movie about Kpop Idols, which they sing in a big show after they just won basically everything in the Idol Awards. Brilliant!

Speaking of the Idol Awards, we needed to see the Saja Boys performing there. I know it was a part of the plan for them not to, but I feel like they did the transition from Human to Demon too quickly. It was good, but it would have been better if they first had Soda Pop, when they're in their human forms with a cute concept, then after that had their dark performance as humans but with their marks showing on their black outfits at the Idol Awards, something kinda like this post I made before the movie came out:

And then they would have their even darker performance at the end at the final show at Namsan Tower.

That being said, I loved the way Your Idol was executed. Nearly flawless in every single possible way. No aspect to criticize. I love How they shift to "Don't you know I'm here to save you?" from "No one is coming to save you". Jinu and Rumi proving they are made for each other because just like Rumi, Jinu's highnotes give me goosebumps, and that latin part at the start roughly translates to:"That day of wrath will dissolve you into ashes, the accursed master into eternal flames." Which is so cool, every detail in Your Idol is so thought out with the utmost care, nothing feels wrong or out of place, it's almost unreal.

One would think that it's my favorite song at first glance, since I yapped about it so much, and I admit, it was close to making it into first place, but the last song just had the final word.

🥇Free:

There is not a single individual in the world that loves this song more than I do. Do you think you love Free more than me??? You fucking don't!!!

The heavenly ethereal vocals that make you float to paradise and ascend high to the sky??? The aesthetics??? The lyrics??? The melody??? Free couldn't be more perfect even if it tried. Because it's already PEAK. There's nothing higher to reach than this. The standard is already set. Free sets an unreachable bar for every other song in this movie. Gotta admit that What It Sounds Like and especially Your Idol got pretty close, to the point I almost reconsidered my choice, but Free still rises above and wins at the end. Because no other song in this soundtrack can compare to the IMPACT of this one. The truth's gotta be said.

Why do I like Free so much, you ask? I could give you a whole PowerPoint presentation on that, but let's keep it simple, shall we?

I'm a sucker for romance. I don't know if you all have watched Julie and The Phantoms (also on Netflix, one of the many very good series they canceled) but Free just reminded me so much of "Perfect Harmony". Tell me those lines don't scream Rujinu (you can't because it's impossible):

"Life can be so mean, But when he goes, I know he doesn't leave"

"The truth is finally breaking through, Two worlds collide when I'm with you, Our voices rise and soar so high, We come to life when we're in perfect harmony"

"You set me free, You and me together is more than chemistry, Love me as I am, I'll hold your music here inside my hands"

"We say we're friends, we play pretend, You're more to me, we're everything"

"I never knew a love so real (so real), We're heaven on earth, Melody and words, When we're together we're in perfect harmony"

And Julie and Luke (the ones who sing this song) they're not even forbidden love like Rumi and Jinu, they're impossible love, because Julie is still alive and Luke is a ghost. I can see some similarities between the two pairings and I love them so much, so Free hit me right in the feels, giving me everything I like.

Every line just hits different and even better than the last one. It felt to me like the song that was sang with the most emotions, and the most intense ones too. EJAE and Andrew Choi made a PHENOMENAL SPECTACULAR SHOW-STOPPING GAME-CHANGER JOB.

But if it was just a romantic song, it wouldn't have made it to first place. But there's more to Free than what meets the eye on the surface.

There's more to Free than just romance.

It deepens and gives us a better understanding of Rumi and Jinu as individual characters as well, with Rumi having lines such as:

"I tried to hide but something broke

I tried to sing, couldn't hit the notes

The words kept catching in my throat

I tried to smile, I was suffocating though"

"All the secrets that keep me in chains and

All the damage that might make me dangerous"

And Jinu having lines like:

"Time goes by, and I lose perspective

Yeah, hope only hurts, so I just forget it"

"Between imposter and this monster

I been lost inside my head

Ain't no choice when all these voices

Keep me pointing towards no end"

And also Free talks about a lot of the themes of the movie, especially something that pretty much all the characters want:Freedom. From what's holding them back: The past. Like Mira and Zoey with their families. Jinu also wants to break free from Gwi-ma.

It also talks about stop hiding and fight what they're running from. Because they can't fix it if they never face it.

It also talks about Rumi wanting to change and believing she can change, but she won't change if Jinu is not by her side. And in the end she changes and that motivates Jinu to change for the better too. They both change for good.

And change is the key word in this movie:They wanted the Honmoon to change to gold, but instead it changes to a new one they still have to make gold.

Rumi learns how to accept herself, and Jinu redeems himself. Their bond goes deeper than just romantic love. It involves mutual understanding, acceptance without judgment, etc.

For most of the movie Celine (person who knew all her life about Rumi's marks) and Jinu (first outsider to find out about them) were the only ones that knew about Rumi's patterns. Celine feared it, thought it was a mistake that should be erased with the Honmoon turning gold. But Jinu sees it, and he likes what he sees. He falls in love with it. They were the first people who saw each other for who they truly were and fell in love with the good and bad parts.

They save each other. In all the ways a person can be saved. Jinu, a musician in his former human life (Ahn Hyo-seop crushed Jinu's Lament with his voice, Gwi-ma deserved the hit) helped Rumi to be able to sing without struggling again and Rumi helped Jinu see that is still hope for him, it wasn't too late and he gave his soul to her in order for her to win Gwi-ma's fire and then the final battle with the girls (he's coming back people, he's gonna leave that sword, I know it).

Oh I remember a lot of people before the movie came out and we had the confirmation there was a romance, going like:"I don't want romance, just badass ladies kicking butts (because apparently you can't kick butts and be with a man, you can only have one not both) and that a romance sub-plot would ruin the story, that Jinu was too plain, basic and generic-looking for Rumi (when he's the literal walking LIVING male beauty standards in Korea and guess what? Is a movie about South Korea!!! Shocking, isn't it? Guess the title "Kpop Demon Hunters" didn't make that clear enough) and that people wouldn't fall for straight propaganda on pride month (which is ironic because I think almost everyone in this movie is bisexual, including Rumi and Jinu)." And where are those people now??? Exactly. Gone. That's the power of Free. And a well written and well developed couple, of course. Rujinu is like Ferrari in F1. Everyone is a Ferrari/Rujinu fan. Even if they say they are not, they are Ferrari/Rujinu fans. Even if they root for another team/ship, they also root for Ferrari/Rujinu. It's inevitable.

Rumi, Jinu, Mira, Zoey. They all face what they have to face and their past starts to feel weightless, like Free says. Rumi is free from having to hide her true self. Jinu is also a free soul (who will come back to the sequel, don't tell me otherwise), all the remaining demons I suppose are still in the underworld are free from Gwi-ma, etc. And that is why Free is supreme.

[ichxgo]

Shiro gives him that glare and Ichigo is dead certain he’d let him scoop his heart straight out of his chest and demolish it in the nearest kitchen appliance. And then he’s thinking about taking Shiro on the nearest kitchen appliance. 

He opens his mouth and then closes it. Caught out, except he wasn’t really trying to hide anything worth hiding. “Then it must’ve been the first thing. And I don’t fucking want to hear whether you’re alive or not from the news.” He slants Shiro a look. “Maybe you’re lucky I like you, since you’re such a hard sleeper.” That’s bullshit really, considering he just said he wants him alive, but he doesn’t like being told he isn’t supposed to be sneaking in and seeing him when he wants, and he realizes it’s because he’s done it so much he feels entitled. He makes a face. “You’re just mad I didn’t wake you up.”

“The point is it’s my fantasy. I get to have them sometimes.” Even if he’s not nearly as oversexed as Shiro. Though that’s not even true. He’s just as oversexed, he’s just pickier about who he’s oversexed with. But he snorts. “You’re the one that had a problem with it, not me. Go ahead.” 

Ichigo scowls, lips pressed. He’s not even that private, but he doesn’t want people going through his things. Especially his business shit. Especially people who already know what qualifies as his ‘important things’. 

He pushes a long, hard breath from his nose and mutters, “I hope they blow themselves up.” 

He picks at the plate, finding all that alcohol has turned his stomach. He forces it anyway. “Yeah, well. They’re mostly dead now.” It won’t stay that way. New people will filter up and it’ll all be thriving again as long as there’s a demand for what they sell. Trimming them continually would be a full time job all on its own. 

He huffs around his bite of food. If he had the guy in front of him, he could make it happen. But. Shiro is right. “A professional. An assassin. Someone who would kill him outright without getting caught.” Someone good, because there’s no way security isn’t tight. “Probably Yoruichi.” Fuck, she’s going to rob him blind.

Ok he kind of walked right into that. Maybe he's starting to feel his alcohol. He shoots Ichigo a withering look. "Business if you're not careful." As if he could threaten Ichigo and actually mean it. What a joke.

Yes he does know how Ichigo uses it. That's exactly what he's thinking about right now, but he keeps stuffing the thought back down. Ichigo would keel over if they tried to bang right now. "Thorough." He snorts, swirling the ice in his glass slowly. "You coulda just picked up the phone if you wanted to know I was still breathing. Hell. If I had died, it'd probably be all over the news." It's a poor excuse as far as he's concerned, so either it's true or it's just true enough to make him think it could be true so Ichigo can hide the real reason. That sounds like a conspiracy theory. Never mind. It's probably true. "Doesn't make it less weird. You're lucky I like you." He's kidding but also not.

He smirks into his glass when Ichigo agrees so readily, then snorts a laugh. "What's the point then? You know I can't keep my hands to myself. If we're having a threesome, I'm gonna be touching." Even if it was hypothetically his brother.

He nods, then reaches over to take his phone back. There's very few names or phone numbers saved into his phone, mostly he has his contacts memorized. He dials a number and the other end is picked up on the second ring. "My guest needs an overnight bag, run to his place and grab his things." He pauses, listening briefly. "Yeah, just the important things for now. And be discrete." Then he hangs up and puts his phone back on the table.

After Ichigo sets down his glass, Shiro knows that look well. He glances toward the bottle, but then rethinks refilling Ichigo's glass for him. He's had too little food and water, too much of god knows what pumped into his system to keep him down. He can make some educated guesses, but Ichigo's one of the very few people who's health he'd prefer not to gamble with.

The slight slur is amusing, kind of endearing even, but the words themselves sound too grave for the smirk to make it to his lips. He ignores the glass being pushed toward him and instead nudges Ichigo's place of leftovers closer to him. Briefly, recognition and an unhappy expression flinches through his expression when Ichigo name drops. The trouble he got himself into is starting to make more sense. He drops his elbow onto the table and leans his chin in his palm. "That specific group is a nasty bunch." There are few large scale, shady organizations that he doesn't know of, at least by word on the street.

He exhales a slow breath. "What a fuckin' mess." So much for suggesting that Ichigo lays low and waits for his shit storm to blow over. He doesn't have time for that with the threat to his old man. "You're in no shape to be goin' after anyone. Who would you be makin' a call to?"

[big-ooof]

Playing Pretend

college au, fake dating; heeseung x f!reader

Your ex was already grinning like he won something. The problem with pathological charmers like Ryan wasn't just that they cheated, it was that they somehow made you feel like the dramatic one for being upset about it. Like catching him kissing someone else at a party last weekend was an overreaction.

“Y/N,” he says now, his arm slung around his latest conquest like he’s hosting some twisted reunion. “Didn’t think you’d show your face today.”

You clench your jaw, ignoring the sudden tightness in your chest. “Why wouldn’t I?” You shoot him a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Just because you have the emotional maturity of a soggy napkin doesn’t mean I’m hiding.”

“Ouch,” Ryan fake winces. “Still bitter?”

Behind him, Sunghoon shifts, arms crossed, a flicker of warning in his eyes. You catch it, but your pride is louder than your caution today. Pride, and maybe something else. Something reckless.

You glance past Ryan and your gaze lands on him. Heeseung. Black hoodie, headphones around his neck, expression unreadable as always. He's walking alone across the quad, coffee in one hand, textbook in the other. Tall, quiet, and completely unattainable. You’ve shared maybe five conversations in total, and three of those involved library seating disputes. He thinks you’re chaotic. You think he’s insufferably smug.

Perfect.

“Actually,” you say, turning back to Ryan with a wicked smile. “I’m not bitter. I moved on.”

His eyebrows rise, amused. “Yeah?”

You shrug. “Yeah. I’m dating someone now.”

Sunghoon straightens beside you. “You’re—”

Heeseung is just close enough now. You step away from Sunghoon, and before your brain can remind you this is a terrible idea, your hand wraps around Heeseung’s wrist, stopping him mid-step.

“Hey, babe,” you chirp, plastering on a grin. “You forgot to walk me to class.”

Heeseung blinks. One second. Two. His gaze slides to your hand. Then to your face. Then to Ryan. And then… his expression doesn’t change, but his voice lowers just slightly.

“You’re late,” he says, smooth as sin. “Again.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to hide the shock. Did Lee Heeseung just… play along? Heeseung steps closer, slipping his hand around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His fingers brush your hip and your breath hitches, but you hope no one notices.

Ryan does. His smile falters. “Didn’t realize you two were… a thing,” he mutters.

Heeseung’s eyes narrow just enough to be noticeable. “That makes two of us.”

You jab an elbow into his side. Subtle. Sharp. Heeseung’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t flinch.

“We keep it quiet,” you say quickly, hoping that’s enough to cover the weird tension building between the three of you.

Ryan’s already backing off, a sour look on his face. “Whatever. Good luck.”

He stalks away, muttering something under his breath. The girl on his arm giggles like she’s won a prize.

You exhale once he’s out of earshot. “Okay. Crisis averted. Thanks for that, I’ll just—”

“Wait,” Heeseung interrupts, gaze sharp. “Care to explain?”

Sunghoon appears at your side again. “What the hell was that?”

“I panicked,” you say, pulling your arm back. “I didn’t think he’d actually believe me.”

“You grabbed Heeseung of all people,” Sunghoon mutters, crossing his arms again. “The guy you argued with for twenty minutes about chair etiquette last semester.”

“It was a first come, first serve table and he stole it while I went to pee.”

“It’s a library, not a battlefield,” Heeseung mutters.

You both glare at each other.

Sunghoon watches the exchange like he’s watching two cats hiss across a couch. “Okay. This is a disaster waiting to happen.”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “Look, just… pretend you’re dating me for like, a week. Maybe two. I just need Ryan to back off and stop acting like he still owns a piece of my life.”

Heeseung raises a brow. “And why me?”

“Because you were standing there and you look like someone I’d be stupid enough to fall for.”

A pause.

“That supposed to be a compliment?”

You smile, tired and a little sad. “Take it however you want.”

Heeseung watches you for a beat longer, like he’s searching for something. Then, softly: “Fine. Two weeks.”

You blink. “What?”

“I’ll do it.”

Sunghoon looks like he just witnessed a glitch in the matrix.

“But only in public,” Heeseung continues. “No cutesy texts. No matching lock screens. And absolutely no kissing.”

Your stomach dips— why did that part sting?

“Deal,” you say quickly.

You both nod, stepping back like two business partners finalizing a contract. As you turn toward the lecture hall, you feel Heeseung’s gaze on you. You don’t look back.

But you swear, just before you disappear inside, you hear him murmur: “This is going to end badly.”

You couldn’t agree more.

There’s a whiteboard in Heeseung’s apartment kitchen, typically used by his roommates for passive-aggressive reminders like “CLEAN THE DAMN SINK, JAKE” or “don’t touch my leftovers, I swear to god – Jay.”

Today, though, it reads:

FAKE DATING RULES (Y/N + Heeseung) No kissing No cuddling No pet names No talking about feelings No real feelings NO KISSING (yes, again)

Jake squints at it from the couch. “You sure you guys don’t want to kiss just a little? For realism?”

“Out,” Heeseung says, pointing toward the door.

Jake laughs but grabs his keys. “Okay, okay. But if you fall in love and write poetry about her on the bathroom mirror, I’m telling everyone.”

Once the door shuts, it’s just you and Heeseung in the kitchen. “You really had to write it down?” you ask, leaning against the counter, arms crossed.

He’s leaning back in a chair, long legs stretched out, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. “Visual clarity helps avoid misunderstandings.”

“I feel like I’m being onboarded into a job with emotional liability.”

“That’s because you are,” he says dryly.

You try not to smile.

Honestly, you expected this to fall apart by day two. But Heeseung hasn’t backed out. You’ve walked to class together twice, he carried your bag once (“Don’t get used to it”), and he dropped a casual “she’s mine” during lunch when some guy from your psych lecture asked for your number.

You’re starting to realize something dangerous: Heeseung is very good at pretending. So good it makes your chest ache a little.

“I think we need to talk about Sunghoon,” Heeseung says suddenly.

You blink. “What about him?”

Heeseung shrugs, a little too casual. “If people see you with him all the time, it’s gonna raise questions. And if we’re ‘dating,’ shouldn’t you be spending more time with me?”

You squint. “Is this a jealousy clause?”

“It’s a realism clause.”

You step forward until you’re standing right in front of him, arms crossed. “Sunghoon is my best friend. If this fake relationship requires me to abandon him, it’s not happening.”

Heeseung stares up at you, jaw tight. “I didn’t say abandon.”

You’re not sure why your voice is quiet when you respond. “Why does it bother you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies you, like he’s trying to figure something out and can’t quite land on it. Finally: “He looks at you like he owns a piece of your heart.”

The silence between you stretches. Heeseung stands, chair scraping lightly against the tile. He’s close now, not touching you, but close enough to feel the tension vibrating in the air.

“Let’s just be careful,” he says. “You asked for pretend. That’s what I’m giving you.”

Later that night, Sunghoon corners you outside the campus café with a hot chocolate in each hand and that knowing look that makes him seem a thousand years older than you both.

“You okay?” he asks, handing you a cup.

“I’m fine.”

He arches a brow.

You sigh. “It’s not real, Hoon.”

“You sure?”

You meet his eyes, and for a second, something inside you wavers. “I need it to not be real,” you whisper.

Sunghoon doesn’t push. He never does. He just reaches out and gently knocks his cup against yours. “To temporary delusions, then.”

You laugh softly.

It’s Jay’s idea to go bowling. Which turns into an arcade. Which turns into pizza and late-night chaos. You, Heeseung, Sunghoon, Jake, and Ni-ki pile into a booth at the local pizza dive, the kind with neon lights and sticky tables. Heeseung slides in beside you, his arm brushing yours. You flinch, not from discomfort, but from how not uncomfortable it feels. Sunghoon watches.

Jake pokes at a breadstick. “So when’s the fake couple going to kiss and make this believable?”

Heeseung doesn’t even look up. “Ask again and I’ll throw you in the soda machine.”

Ni-ki grins. “Just admit you’re obsessed with her.”

You elbow Heeseung lightly. “Obsessed with me, Lee Heeseung?”

He turns his head, eyes locking with yours. His voice is low. “You wish.”

Your stomach flips. The table goes quiet for a beat.

Sunghoon clears his throat. “She’s always had someone wrapped around her finger. Don’t let her play you too hard.”

It’s meant to be teasing but Heeseung’s jaw ticks again. “Good thing I’m not easy to play.”

You glare at Sunghoon. “He’s not a game.”

The second it leaves your mouth, you regret it. Heeseung looks away. The tension burns.

Heeseung doesn’t text you that night. Which shouldn’t matter. Because this is fake. Because he said “no pet names, no kissing, no feelings.” Because you agreed. But you find yourself staring at your phone anyway, scrolling up through the short, sarcastic exchanges from earlier that day. You almost send a “thanks for not completely hating this,” but stop yourself. You throw your phone under your pillow like it’s cursed.

Sunghoon finds you on the library steps. He’s holding a coffee he knows you like: extra cream, one sugar, just enough caffeine to keep your thoughts sharp but not jittery.

“You doing okay?” he asks, sitting beside you. You don’t answer right away. He sighs. “This thing with Heeseung… is it working? For you?”

You press the coffee cup to your lips. “It’s not real.”

“I didn’t ask if it was real.”

You glance at him. “Why are you pushing this?”

He shrugs. “Because I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And I’ve seen the way you don’t know what to do with it.”

Your stomach tightens. “Heeseung doesn’t look at me.”

Sunghoon leans back, his voice soft. “He does. Like he’s trying not to.”

You don’t respond. You can’t.

Heeseung shows up at your apartment door at 7:02 p.m., wearing a leather jacket and holding a plastic bag with snacks and a bottle of something that looks suspiciously not grape juice.

“Since we’re supposed to be a couple,” he says, “figured we should do a couple thing. Low stakes.”

You blink. “You brought me… strawberry milk and flaming hot chips?”

He shrugs. “You’re weird. I had to improvise.”

You snort but step aside to let him in.

You end up sitting on your bed with your laptop between you, watching a dumb horror movie neither of you really pay attention to. There’s a half-eaten bag of chips between your knees. Heeseung is lounging beside you, head tipped against the wall, socked feet crossed at the ankles.

It’s so… normal. So dangerously comfortable. At one point, during a quiet scene in the movie, your arm brushes his. Neither of you move. The tension feels alive.

“Did you always know Ryan was bad news?” you ask quietly, eyes on the screen.

Heeseung doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, his voice is low. “I didn’t know how bad. But I knew he didn’t deserve your attention.”

You glance at him. He’s already looking at you. The air shifts. Your heart stutters.

Heeseung leans in— just a little. Not enough to cross the space completely. Just enough for you to feel his breath, for the weight of the moment to fall hard and real between you.

Your lips part. He stops. Eyes flicker down. He swallows hard. Then he pulls back.

“Rule six,” he says, voice rough.

You feel cold. “Right.”

He turns away. “I should go.”

You want to stop him. But you don’t. Because this is pretend. Because he told you not to fall. Because the rules said no kissing. And the part that hurts most is how badly you wanted to break them.

Heeseung doesn’t talk to you for two days. You tell yourself it’s fine. You agreed on boundaries. This wasn’t supposed to be messy. But it is.

Because now every time your phone buzzes and it’s not him, your chest tightens. Because now when you run into each other in class, he nods instead of smirking, and sits two seats away instead of beside you. Because now you know what it feels like to almost kiss him, and your lips won’t forget.

You spend an evening in Sunghoon’s dorm just to stop thinking about it. He puts on music, tosses you a blanket, and says nothing when you sit cross-legged on his bed with a silent ache behind your eyes.

Finally, he says quietly, “You miss him.”

You don’t respond.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Your heart lurches. You laugh, too sharply. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

You meet his eyes. And the silence says more than your words ever could.

Jay was hosting a party Friday night. The music is too loud, the lights are too dim, and the drinks are all watered-down disasters. You’re in the kitchen pretending to scroll through your phone when Heeseung walks in. He sees you. You see him. Neither of you moves.

He’s wearing black again, always black, and his hair is still a little wet, like he didn’t care enough to dry it properly. You hate that he still looks like your favorite thought. You look away first.

Jake’s the one who grabs your hand and spins you into the living room. He’s already tipsy, but his grin is warm. “Dance with me,” he says, “before I make a fool of myself alone.”

You laugh and let him pull you into the crowd. You let the beat take over, swaying to it, forgetting yourself— just for a second. Then you see Heeseung on the edge of the room. Watching. Jaw tight. Fist clenched.

Sunghoon appears beside him, a red cup in hand, voice low and sharp. You can’t hear what he says but Heeseung flinches. Then he storms out. And you follow him.

Heeseung’s sitting on the edge of the patio steps, head in his hands.

You stop just behind him. “Are you seriously going to avoid me forever because we almost kissed?”

He doesn’t look at you.

“Don’t do that,” you say, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down just because it got real.”

“You said you didn’t want real,” he mutters.

You sit beside him. “Well maybe I didn’t expect it to feel like this.”

He turns to look at you, his eyes are raw. “You’re killing me,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

He stands. “You’re in my head. All the time. And I’m trying so damn hard to be what you asked, pretend, platonic, cool. But I’m not. I can’t be.”

Your throat tightens.

“I told you no kissing because I knew if I kissed you once, I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

Silence.

“I didn’t plan this,” he says. “...falling for you.”

You stand too. Your voice is soft. “Then don’t pretend anymore.”

He hesitates, then steps forward, cupping your jaw. And this time, there’s no rule. His lips brush yours once, twice— then finally, fully, like he’s been holding his breath for weeks. It’s gentle. And painful. And full of everything you were both too afraid to say.

The kiss haunts you. Not because it was confusing, but because it wasn’t. Because it felt so real, so familiar, so right, that the moment it ended, the only thing you could think was: I want more. Heeseung didn’t say anything after. Just stared at you like you were breaking him in slow motion, then mumbled “I’ll call you” and walked off into the dark.

You stood there too long. Thinking about how dangerous honesty feels once it’s been denied for too long.

The next day: No text. No call. You don’t sleep. You replay the kiss a hundred different ways, wondering if you leaned in first or if he did. Wondering if it meant the same thing to him. You know it did. And still— nothing.

You go to Sunghoon’s. He opens the door, sees your face, and pulls you in without a word. You sit in his desk chair while he sits on the edge of his bed, arms crossed, watching you like you’re a ghost still deciding to haunt.

“He kissed me,” you say.

Sunghoon blinks. “You kissed him back?”

“Yes.”

A beat.

“Finally.”

You laugh, broken and soft. “Don’t say that like it’s good.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not fake anymore.”

Sunghoon tilts his head. “Was it ever?”

You go quiet.

He sets his cup down. “Listen… I know you don’t want to screw things up. But I’ve watched the way you look at each other— like the room stops spinning when you’re close. That’s not fake. That’s gravity.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “What if I’m not enough for the real thing?”

Sunghoon stands and walks over, crouching in front of you. “Then he’s an idiot. But I don’t think he is.”

You’re halfway through overthinking whether to knock when the door swings open. Heeseung looks like hell. Like he hasn’t slept. Like he’s been pacing. Like the storm inside him hasn’t calmed.

His voice is hoarse. “I was gonna come to you.”

“I came first,” you say softly.

A beat. He steps aside, and you walk in. The door clicks shut. No games now. No rules. No hiding.

You turn to him. “I don’t want to pretend.”

His voice is rough. “Neither do I.”

You step forward until there’s nothing between you. “Then say it.”

He looks at you like he’s memorizing you. Like the answer to every ache he’s ever had is written on your skin.

“I’m in love with you,” he says quietly. “I have been since you argued with me about a chair in the library last year.”

Your breath stumbles. You nod once. “Then let's stop pretending.”

He steps in, wraps his arms around you, pulls you to his chest like a prayer finally answered. And this kiss, this second one, is nothing like the first. It’s not careful. It’s not almost. It’s everything.

You and Heeseung don’t leave his apartment until the following afternoon. You don’t do anything, not really. Just lie there, tangled in blankets and unspoken relief. His arm stays draped over your waist like he’s scared you’ll slip away if he lets go. You don’t want to move either.

He brushes your hair back when he thinks you’re asleep. You’re not. You’re memorizing the weight of his breath.

He sits up suddenly, hair messy, voice still gravel from sleep. “So… what are we?”

You blink. “Are you seriously asking me that now?”

“I just—” he scratches his neck. “If you tell me you want to go back to fake, I’ll respect it. But if there’s a chance this is real for you too—”

“Heeseung.” You reach for his hand. He meets your eyes. “I wasn’t pretending last night,” you say softly. “And I’m not pretending now.”

He exhales. Like he’s been holding it for years. “Then this is real, we’re real,” he says.

Your fingers tighten around his. “We’re real.”

On Monday, Jake and Ni-ki find out and are insufferable about it. Jake spits out his coffee when you and Heeseung walk into the quad together holding hands.

“Oh my god,” he says dramatically, pointing. “They’re in love.”

Ni-ki squints. “Wait. So the fake dating thing wasn’t fake?”

Jake smirks. “Or the fake dating worked too well.”

You roll your eyes. Heeseung flips them both off and kisses your temple.

Jake makes a gagging noise.

Ni-ki pulls out his phone. “Group chat’s gonna be wild tonight.”

That evening you were meeting Sunghoon on the basketball courts after class. He’s already there, shooting hoops in a quiet rhythm that slows when he sees you. You sit on the bench. He joins you a minute later, towel over his neck, skin glistening under the last golden light of the day.

“So,” he says. “You and Heeseung.”

You glance down. “Is it that obvious?”

“Everything is,” he says gently. “When you’re in love.”

You swallow. “Are you mad?”

He shrugs. “Not at you.”

“Sunghoon—”

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You don’t owe me anything.”

You stay quiet.

“I think… there was a moment,” he says, voice soft. “A version of this where I was the one you fell for.”

You inhale sharply.

“But even then, I think I knew— he was the one you looked at like he held the sky.”

Tears sting the back of your eyes.

He bumps your shoulder. “I’m not disappearing. I’m just… stepping back. Giving you space to love him without guilt.”

You wipe at your eyes. “You’re the best person I know.”

He smiles. “I know.”

Two days later, it’s pouring outside when Heeseung drags you under the eaves of your favorite café, both of you soaked and laughing.

“You could’ve waited five more seconds to grab the umbrella,” you say through a laugh.

Heeseung shakes his wet hair like a dog. “I panicked.”

You press close under the awning, breathless.

He looks at you, suddenly serious. Rainwater clings to his lashes. “Loving you,” he says, voice barely louder than the rain, “was never the hard part.”

You blink. “What was?”

“Believing you could ever love me back.”

You don’t answer. You just reach up and kiss him, slow, steady, deep, like proof. Like a vow.

You and Heeseung aren’t exactly hiding your relationship, but you're not broadcasting it either. Still, people notice. It’s in the way you share a drink without asking. The way he waits outside your lecture hall, leaning against the wall, tapping out a rhythm only you recognize. The way he looks at you like nothing else exists.

Jake and Ni-ki make dramatic commentary every time they spot you holding hands. Sunoo tries to hide his smile but fails. Jungwon tells you both to “get a room” but then shoves his phone at you to show a picture he secretly took of you and Heeseung laughing under a tree.

And Sunghoon? He gives you space, like he promised. But every now and then, you catch his gaze across a room— soft, steady, still protective. Some people don’t fall out of your life when the story changes. They just step into a different chapter.

You have your first fight on a Thursday. It’s not dramatic. You’re tired. He’s frustrated. You snap about something small— a missed call, an assumption, a joke that felt too sharp. He fires back. You both go quiet after that. For hours. And then he shows up at your door, hoodie soaked from the rain, eyes glassy.

He says, “We’re gonna fight sometimes. But I don’t want to sleep tonight without fixing this.”

And you let him in. You curl into his chest. Apologize. So does he. And for the first time, you realize: this isn’t perfect. But it’s real. And it’s yours.

Later that week, Heeseung waits for you outside your class, holding two cups of coffee. The walk is quiet, peaceful. There’s a weightlessness in just existing together.

Halfway down the path, he says, “This all started because you needed a fake boyfriend to get your ex off your back.”

You snort. “Worst plan ever.”

“Or the best,” he says. “Because I got you.”

You slow your steps. He keeps talking, softer now. “I don’t care what happens after this year— where we end up, how life changes. I just want you to know…”

You stop walking. He faces you before saying, “I meant it when I said you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You don’t rush your reply. You let it settle in your chest, heavy and light at once. Then you reach for his hand. “You’re the best part of all my days, Heeseung. Even the hard ones.”

He smiles— full, real. You keep walking. Hands warm. Hearts steady. No pretending. Just love.

One Year Later — Graduation Day The sky is obnoxiously blue. The kind of clear that looks photoshopped. Students fill the lawn like a field of mismatched wildflowers— caps and gowns, families yelling names, camera flashes sparking every few seconds. Chaos, beauty, endings.

You spot him through the crowd. Lee Heeseung. Tassel crooked. Button undone. A lazy grin spreading across his face the second his eyes land on you.

After the ceremony the two of you walk the campus one last time— past the quad where Jake caught you kissing, past the old art building where Heeseung made up a reason to “accidentally” run into you during your 8 AM, past the bench where you both sat the first time you admitted that none of this was pretend anymore.

It’s quiet now. He’s quiet, too. You squeeze his hand. “Nervous?”

He shrugs. “A little. New city, new job. No more late-night ramen runs. No more bunking with Ni-ki and threatening to set his alarm clock on fire.”

You nod. “It’s a lot.”

“But,” he adds, stopping in front of the old library steps, “I’m not scared of the change.”

You tilt your head. “Why not?”

He meets your eyes. “Because I’m doing it with you.”

Later that night you were packing and found a box labeled: Fake Dating Agreement. You laugh as you open it. Inside is the old napkin contract from a year ago, complete with your signatures and doodles of stick-figures holding hands.

Heeseung walks in, sees you holding it, and groans. “God, burn that.”

“No way,” you say. “This is historical evidence.”

He walks over, wraps his arms around you from behind, rests his chin on your shoulder.

“I like where we started,” he whispers. “But I love where we are.”

You lean your head against his. “Me too.”

He turns you around slowly, eyes soft. Then he kisses you, quiet and deep and sure. Not fake. Not just real. Forever kind of real.

[alexanderlightweight]

Hi! I'm a huge fan of your writing(you're low-key why I downloaded Tumblr so I could read more)! If you were up for it I'd love to read more from your to be or knot to be universe, or literally any of your freak4freak stuff! Thank you so much for writing, and I hope you're having a good day<3

hi! that is very sweet and i hope you're enjoying it! and i'm still just very happy and a little surprised how much people enjoy my malec verses (it's not a self-confidence problem i promise! i'm just still surprised ppl like the same stuff as me)!

i also hope you are having a good day too!!

here is some more of to be or knot to be last part here'

i hope you enjoy it and i am having a delightful time because i have a puppy who keeps pretending to get scared by something out the window so he has a reason to come climb in my lap (he doesn't need a reason? but like he's very particular about how things are done and he especially likes it when i comfort him if i think he's been scared?) but it did take me about 6 different instances to realize he was laying down sleeping, would wake up and feel lonely, boof at nothing and then look to see if i was watching him and then run to me 'so terrified!'

now that he's laying next to me, i'll sometimes kind of watch him and he'll wake up, look to see if i'm paying attention and most of the time he can't tell i can see him? so then he'll boof first and then jump up like he had a nightmare.

it's really ridiculous. i love nightshade so much tho

<3 lumine

Magnus pulls Alexander to him, enjoying the hitched groan as metal tightens and Alexander’s forced to come closer. Nephilim blood is a potent ingredient and yet instead of collecting it for use, Magnus licks it away.

Alexander’s fingers are covered in blood and under that are small, tiny little cuts. Magnus sucks each digit into his mouth to carefully clean away the blood and viscera, letting magic heal the wounds.

“You took too long.”

Alexander’s laugh at his reprimand is breathless, the look in his eyes wild and his boy swallows heavily against the martingale chain. The hunger in Alexander’s eyes only grows as the metal around his neck bites further into his skin and Magnus is tempted, so very tempted.

Yet warlocks have certain traditions that Magnus wants to follow.  Not only to give Alexander every legitimacy and protection as his mate, but also to ensure the Clave has as little authority or ways to meddle as possible.

Magnus has no interest in shadowhunter politics, except in the ways it will help his own people.  The kind of influence and access to information he’ll have thanks to a shadowhunter mate isn’t something to be taken lightly.  Alexander is a threat for the Clave and they’ll know it immediately.  Even if Alexander never expressly commits treason, just going against them as publicly as he’s doing makes Alexander dangerous.

If his mate gets to keep the Institute, then Magnus will do everything in his power to support his boy. Including join Alexander not perhaps in an official position, but even just as his mate,  supporting him and being seen around the Institute.

Alexander has certain privileges as a shadowhunter Commander that won’t disappear simply because the Clave hates his mate. Magnus has seen some of the papers and strategies that Alexander has gone over and they’re good.

Good enough that Magnus can boldly state that it’s better not to have his mate for an enemy, simply by the measure of Alexander’s own merits. The Clave probably know that, which is yet another reason they’ll be both  furious on wary.

“How long is your leave?” Magnus asks and his voice is hoarse with want but he holds himself back, managing not to twist the loop of Alexander’s collar and instead just leaning forward.

Alexander meets him, their foreheads pressing together as they both sigh in the relief of being close enough to share breath again.

“A minimum of three weeks. I wasn’t sure how long warlock mating instincts require so I set the maximum at five.  If you need longer then I’ll take sick leave or resign if they refuse.”

The steadfast way Alexander makes it clear that Magnus is his priority has Magnus sighing with delight and nuzzling Alexander as he pulls him closer.  The blood grows tacky between them and the thrill of Alexander being covered in it turns into disgust that his boy is still covered in such unworthy filth.

A snap of his fingers and Magnus cleans and strips them both, it probably isn’t needed and he could have simply cleaned their clothing — as evidenced by the fact that Alexander’s collar remains and is now pristine — however he wants to.

Alexander grins, something delighted and awed in his expression as he brings one of Magnus’ hand up to nuzzle and then kiss his palm.

“There are a few rituals we need to do, before we share a rut.” Magnus rubs his other hand down the curve of Alexander’s arm and then tangles their fingers together. “So while I will share a bath with you, I’m afraid as tempting as you are, I cannot fuck you just yet.”  Magnus can’t help the chuckle he lets out at Alexander’s bewildered and crestfallen expression.

“Don’t worry kitten, we can start the rituals tomorrow. It won’t be long Alexander, I promise.”

AN:

alec: ... i should have left the institute even quicker. this is terrible. my self-control is going to be both better and worse being around magnus

magnus: oh he's so cute when he's flustered. this is going to be delightful.

magnus is 100% treating this like foreplay and alec is too caught up in the shock/whiplash to realize he's getting played (in a good way and magnus isn't lying about the rituals he's just also enjoying himself) and alec's still getting used to Magnus and Magnus' scent and him and his magic and he's catching up but it'll take him a little bit. like he'll definitely figure out how to tease magnus but he's still learning how to breathe around magnus atm so... he needs a bit.

alec is going to be suffering... but like, not in a bad way

alec wants magnus there, as his mate, as his alpha, respected and capable of ordering (and being obeyed) by alec's institute because it's another way for alec to show that he belongs to magnus. so completely that what is his to rule also belongs to magnus to a certain degree. like obviously magnus can't tell them orders contradictory to the claves or alec's, but yeah. alec basically has a set of standards and if clave cant meet them, he wont stay. magnus is more important to him than that. and so are his own persona priorities and instincts

[brokenbough]

Thinking of mean!Ghost who just... does it wrong.

At first, you were into it. Yeah, maybe you liked being manhandled in bed, liked when he squeezed just a little too hard, liked when he put you where he wanted.

And yeah, maybe you liked being told what to do, liked challenging him only to lose in the most delicious way.

But you've had sort of a shitty day and being called dumb time and time again hasn't had the best effect on your already decaying sense of pride.

"Cmon doll." He sneers, the way you like, pulling your hair a little to get you to look at him.

You'd usually like it, but now it just hurts and you think it's giving you a headache.

He doesn't clock his mistake immediately, only realizing when your wrestling his hand away from you, mumbling about him being too mean.

He's confused, rightfully so, because usually you'd be pulling him closer, asking him what he'd do if you didn't listen.

"Can't hear ya, speak up." His says with his usual gruff tone. He tries putting his finger under your chin, making you look at him-- just the way you like it-- but you're pulling away and he just doesn't understand.

"You're being mean." You say again, unable to look at him.

He tilts his head, looking like you just told him the sky isn't blue.

"You-- huh? You said you liked that." He says, defensive. Like you're the problem. "That's what this whole thing was." He argues as if you're not just trying to have a conversation with him.

"Yeah, but you just..." you start, mulling over your next words. "I... just not right now." You explain.

His words aren't as reassuring as you would've hoped. The opposite in fact.

"So, you just pick and choose when you feel like being degraded and I'm supposed to read your mind?" He says more like a statement than a question. Blunt as ever. Something you usually like but now he's sounding like a dick.

"I didn't say that, I just--"

"That is exactly what you said." He scoffs, pulling away. "Come to me when you're in a better mood, yeah?" He states curtly before just leaving you there to sift and sort through your actions and his words.

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

You spend the rest of the day holed up in your room. You start to question most of everything, wondering if you were in the wrong and overreacting or if he was being a dick to you. You question if you even want to be around him anymore.

He doesn't give you much choice in the matter because he's at your door at the end of the day, incessantly knocking.

You open the door, much to your annoyance. "I thought you didn't want me around until I was in a 'better mood'." You say, immediately coming in with the venom.

He realized around noon that he was in the wrong and would take whatever you threw at him. He should've listened to you instead of painting you as the bad guy because you didn't stick to a set of rules he made up in his head.

You hadn't followed the agreement in his head, and he had blamed you for it.

He knows now you weren't something he could put in a mold and control. You had feelings too. You weren't a mind reader either.

The silence between the two of you stretches on before he sighs, shaking his head.

"I was being an asshole. Sorry."

"I don't accept your apology. You.." you quiet down. "You hurt my feelings." You admit barely above a whisper.

He sucks in another breath. "I know. I..." He mulls over his own words, looking at you properly now.

Your face was tear streaked, puffy, red eyes and cheeks. All accompanied by dark circles under your eyes.

It wasn't in him to feel bad, but it made his stomach churn and chest tighten in a way he wasn't used to.

"I was being mean, and you didn't like it. I understand that now." He finally says, forefinger under your chin. But he wasn't squeezing, he wasn't grabbing, he was... holding. "I'm sorry." He says again.

You stare at him for a long moment, not wanting to give in just yet, but it was exactly what you needed to hear. Accountability and an apology.

You huff, rolling your eyes at him and pulling away from his hand. It pains him in a way he can't describe. He isn't sure what to do as you take a step back, looking at him again.

His hand falls back down to his side but you haven't shut your door on him yet and that sliver of hope is carving its way up and up and over each vein, climbing higher and higher before burying itself in his chest. His very heart.

"I'll be nicer." He coos, looking at your reaction. You almost seem to recoil at the very thought.

"I don't want you nicer, Simon." You say quickly, the thought almost laughable. Almost.

"Then what do you want?" He says, his voice sounding more pleading than he intended.

"I- I don't know. I just... I don't want you nicer, but I don't want you mean right now." You explain looking at your fuzzy socks, wording it the best way you could.

"Alright. I can... I can do that." He answers as if he knows exactly what you mean.

A breath of relief flooding between the two of you at the same time.

"Don't cry over me though. 'M not worth your tears." He says, smoothing the pad of his thumb over your face again. You hadn't even noticed you started crying again. He doesn't know if he can live with himself knowing he made you cry.

When you start full on sobbing, he pulls you to his chest, walking the two of you backwards into your room, into your bed. You curl up to his side, clinging to his shirt. And despite how uncomfortable he is-- your tears wetting his shirt and all-- he lets you. Cause these tears aren't for him, they're for the shitty day or week or month you've had. That he can live with.

He doesn't question or prod. He just stays.

Plus, he's sure you'll tell him all about it in the morning.

[weiszklee]

The other problem with rent control is that it can incentivize weird shit like people holding onto leases on flats and subletting bc they can make money from the large arbitrage between the rent the market will bear and the rent they are paying (cf Berlin). Even where it’s dubiously legal it’s hard to enforce, and bc finding a flat is incredibly difficult (due in part to rent control) renters will still take that deal if they have to. You can try to ban that sort of thing, but as long as there’s a strong incentive toward it, bans are at best going to require costly enforcement efforts. In that way you can create a situation where renting is great if you’ve been living in the same flat for the last fifteen years but really bad if you need to move for some reason, and given that people will often need to move for various reasons (they have kids and need bigger space, they want to downsize or save and need less, they want to move closer to their job or to a specific neighborhood to be near an ailing relative etc) you’re just shifting the friction of the rental market from the Kaltmiete sticker price to spending months or years having to hunt for flats.

If you want to keep rents low or lower them, it’s much better to directly put downward pressure on rents by building extensively, than to enact awkward price control schemes that have lots of weird side effects from market distortions. As triv says, rent control isn’t a big deal if you pair it as a sop to renters along side good policy, but many cities treat rent control as sufficient. I think this is because enacting rent control is seen as “doing something” and relieves political pressure, even if it doesn’t on its own relieve scarcity. It would be better if rent control was off the table, so that if politicians wanted to be seen to be doing something, they were forced to look at other policies.

I suspect rent control is also better for property owners—it usually lapses when a new tenant takes over, or owners are allowed to increment the rent more, so rents can still rise in principle, keeping property values higher. Building more reduces the rate of rent rise in a more durable way (or, if you really go all out, lowers rents), which is terrific for renters but bad for existing property owners. Obviously it would be better for owners if there was no rent control, but if you had to choose between the value of your property rising more slowly and the value becoming stagnant or falling you would choose the first.

Okay yeah I agree that building more is better than rent control on its own, but that does not make rent control in general bad. Absent other options or, as in the discussed case, alongside other measures, rent control does indeed do something and isn't just for appearances.

To be fair, my personal experience with renting is only in flatshares. The one I am living in right now has existed for decades, with inhabitants slowly rotating in and out, thus keeping the GbR (which is the actual renting party) instact and keeping rent low. Of course this is not an option for families, but like ... every person who is helped by a policy is a win. That it isn't helping everyone is not an argument against it. (I realize this is easy to say when I am one of the people who are in fact benefitting.)

Subletting for profit defeats the purpose, of course, and should be restricted or at least heavily taxed. I am not like familiar with the matter, but intuitively this seems hard to hide from bureaucracies. Is this actually that big of a problem? I have never lived in Berlin.

and bc finding a flat is incredibly difficult (due in part to rent control)

Again here is the implication of a causation. How does rent control induce scarcity if it doesn't even apply to newly built houses? It should have no effect either way on incentives for building. It helps the people already living there, but that does not mean it screws over those who want to move to a city, it should just have no effect on them. Unless, I guess, you think people stay living in the city despite wanting to move away just because they are in a rent controlled flat, which I don't think is very common. Like, there will be a few people who this describes, but this should not make a significant dent in supply.

About politicians choosing to do rent control over incentivising building more just because it's easier, I have no idea how to evaluate if this is a big problem. Sure rent control might silence the nagging renters a little, but housing scarcity has a lot of detrimental effects besides making renters complain to politicians. Politicians should already want to solve this.

[wkngsnds]

Jax and Ragatha Mini Analysis PT 2

Here’s part 1

Jax is fucking hilarious bro because why did he spend so many of his interactions with Pomni talking about Ragatha. He clearly cares about her deep down and just wants her to be honest— straight up saying “let yourself be mean, it’s funny”. Then when he found out about her abusive mom the mission changed from “let’s expose her” to “you need to let it out before you abstract bro”

Not gonna lie I genuinely feel like he stopped making fun of her after the bar scene because the way she described her mom is exactly how he has been acting towards everyone— with yelling and berating especially. He is aware of his actions and attitude and how that makes him look, which is why he obviously deflects when he’s vulnerable (I.e ‘also she’s dumb and looks weird); he’s got a tough guy act to maintain. Now, he’s trying to make her realize what she’s doing is not helpful if only for her own sake.

Deadass, he’s trying to be his own version of Pomni to her, and let’s be honest in the end he’s the best person to do. He knows her best of all the cast— I don’t think he’s going to save her, but I do do believe he’s gonna be the one that makes her see sense.

On the other end, Ragatha wants to have a genuine connection with Jax or reconnect with him. Some people think this episode confirmed that Ragatha hates him, but I don’t think that’s right. In my opinion, I think she is frustrated by him— not even because of his physical attacks or petty comments towards her, but specifically because he seems to be just as deluded as he makes her out to be, yet he insists on her dropping her persona first and tells her she isn’t authentic enough when he’s also fake as fuck.

That’s the problem, he’s being a huge hypocrite and no one else can see it, because everyone else (kind of like the fans who hate him) write him off as being one dimensional. Or, in Pomni’s case, is seeing another side to him that might make him amicable.

Basically, this is where they’re at with each other right now

I hope they have a one on one a la Pearl and Greg; their problems, I feel, are too intertwined that Pomni won’t be able to play ref

[nows-world]

mon Amour

Everyone encounters problems in their earthly life. They're doctors, but they practice this profession in their lives, where nothing works so well. So how can we treat someone, form an opinion about someone when we're facing other problems ourselves?

Besides, you didn't do anything, you were asleep, my love, you couldn't have killed, so they want to treat someone who's fine; the real patient is still at large.

What surprises me is that they don't realize you're innocent; they only believe what a higher authority told them.

Medicine isn't that advanced, that's all it indicates. They're told: he's killing, and they're unable to see that you're not a murderer. Medicine has a lot of progress to make.

Tender kisses, my love. Project yourself, talk about what you like, show your sensitivity to beauty, to nature, perhaps they will realize that they are being asked to take care of someone who is comfortable in their own skin, who is good, who loves people and whose behavior is irreproachable, my Love.

I kiss you with à lot of tenderness and love

We stay connected

See you

[tj-crochets]

so in the past I have made themed gifts for people who have helped me* and it's been a little weird but like. Understandable to the person I am gifting the thing to weird? My current problem is that I want to make something for my endocrinologist because he has improved my quality of life hugely** but endocrinology doesn't have an easily themed gift and my endocrinologist reminds me very very strongly of like a sad greyhound or a whippet but I cannot explain to this very nice, very normal man that "hey I made you a plushie of a dog because I wanted to thank you for the steroids and you remind me of a dog. In a good way!" *like teeth plushies for the dentist who helped me figure out I have to have dental anesthetic without epinephrine in it, or a chicken plushie for the people at the chicken restaurant that went the extra mile to get their ingredients list that were the reason I figured out I'm allergic to coconut **I had what would have been a severe allergic reaction and it wasn't pleasant but I didn't end up in the hospital and I didn't take like a week minimum to recover and

[stemmmm]

its really funny how hard i fought not to get back into gf as my wife went down the billford rabbit hole when my track record for characters i get insane about now looks like this

[millenianthemums]

parents of disabled kids will be like “we know our kid is disabled but we just won’t tell them about it. we don’t want them to think they’re less valuable than other kids. we don’t want them to feel limited by their disability, we want them to know they’re capable of anything.”

meanwhile those kids are growing up thinking “why is everything so much harder for me than it is for everyone else? there’s no reason i shouldn’t be able to just do this. i guess i’m just a failed, broken person.”