#Massive Crack Theory

[shinysamurott9]

I was skimming through the ZX Mangas to try and gather some references for ZX Era clothing, which is tragically lacking btw, and when I got to the introduction to the Gaurdian Base with the angle they show it at, you can actually see that the figure at the front of the ship seems to be modelled after Ciel. Like that is very much her hairstyle, at least with the bangs. I think even the face shape is kind of similar.

Hell if you look closely this is even in the game, just hard to see because of the upward angle. I do have to wonder if it was supposed to mean anything or if it's just a coincidence.

[elimaybeafish]

WELCOME BACK TO EVEN MORE CRACK POT ONE PIECE THEORIES WITH ME ELI

Every devil fruit awakening is slightly different between user of the same fruit

Emet (egg head robot) was joyboys franky (suuuppper) and zou was his chopper

Brook knows of islands that have been erased and some erased history and will (unintentionally) foil a government plot by revealing this info

Someone has a copy of the Vegapunk recording

Vegapunk put together that Luffy was Nika fruit users and the return of joyboy and his importance to the one piece (thus more people want to join and stop Luffy and probably massive bounty increases)

The ancient technology was lost because both sides destroyed it, to slow the other down

[comradecowplant]

I understand why libraries prioritize contemporary fiction, especially when the physical space of the library is limited, but I am officially declaring war on my local library where it is impossible to find a single piece of genre fiction published before the second obama administration. I don't think you can even find your normal over-hyped "Classics(tm)" like Hemingway or Joyce-- you can find fucking helen joyce though & her shitty transphobic book there, and a million books about the evils of socialism, but no LeGuin or Gibson or Ballard or even Stephen King (yeah yeah i know but i do like his spoopy easy reads) or political theorists to the left of the single chomsky book & lone graphic novel adaptation of the communist manifesto. They largely rely on their interlibrary loan system I think, which is also lacking & just a mess to navigate because computer science was not the passion of whoever put the site/database together. Bah, and I cannot stress this enough, humBUG!!!!!

[svtiddiess]

Sex Education

Synopsis: In all your years of education you learned that there are many methods to study: flashcards, study groups, the pomodoro method etc. But you find that practice is better than theory. And what better way to study Biology than practice with your study buddy?

Pairing: loser!virgin!med student!Mingyu x afab!med student!reader

Genre: smut, slight crack, med school! au, mini-series

Rating: mature

Word count: 2.6k

Warnings: pet names (puppy), penetrative sex, unprotected sex (don't do this!), creampie, size kink, choking, loss of virginity, sub!Gyu, big dick!Gyu, loser!Gyu, riding, masturbation, lemme know if I missed anything!

Note: Thank you so much for helping me with the synopsis my twin @tomodachiii! As promised, here's sub!Gyu.

Thank you so much to @onlymingyus for beta reading!

Read part 2 here!

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Reblogs are appreciated ♡

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Mingyu.

That's the only thing on your mind right now—nothing else, just Mingyu. You should probably be paying attention to the lesson, but how could you, with the hot nerd sitting right within your line of sight? Okay, maybe you chose this seat specifically so you could look at him without getting caught, but still! He’s a distraction you’re more than happy to have.

You rest your chin in your hand, sighing as your eyes trace over his figure. He’s built like a Greek god—strong, tall, with perfectly styled black hair, and his large square glasses barely hide his handsome, tan face. Oh, what you’d give just to see him without those glasses on.

You’ve known Mingyu since middle school. You never really interacted, but you definitely noticed him around. Back in school, he was known as the nerdy kid with glasses and a scrawny, lanky frame to match. Shy and awkward, he was an easy target for bullies. But over the years, his muscle mass increased, and his frame filled out. It seems he’s been putting in serious hours at the gym, and it’s definitely paid off.

Although he’s the most handsome guy in med school, he’s still incredibly shy and reserved, keeping his circle small and close-knit. Despite numerous people, especially girls, trying to get closer to him, he just pushes them away. That’s why, despite your massive crush, you haven’t made a move. You’re too scared he’ll shut you out and avoid you for good.

You can't help but bite your bottom lip and squeeze your thighs together as you rake your eyes over his bulging biceps, his shirt barely able to contain the muscle. Just one chokehold; one chokehold is all you're asking for, really. You sigh once again, knowing that you'll never be able to have him.

Your train of unholy thoughts is abruptly interrupted by the sound of your professor calling your name. Startled, you sit up and look towards him.

"Miss Y/N, are you even paying attention?" Prof. Choi huffs, crossing his arms.

"Of course I am, professor," you reply, flashing the sweetest smile you can manage.

"Then, for the third time, please answer the question on the board," he says, gesturing to the problem.

"Uh…" you trail off, completely lost.

Prof. Choi sighs and tells you to see him after class, to which you reluctantly agree. You sink into your chair, dreading what’s to come. Shaking your head, you let out a sigh and shifted your gaze back to Mingyu, watching in awe as he effortlessly answered the very question you stumbled over. Tall, muscular, hot, and smart—he really is the perfect guy.

You grumble as Prof. Choi calls your name, sabotaging your plan to slip out of class. Sighing, you drag yourself over to his desk, only to be surprised when Mingyu joins you. You glance between Mingyu and Prof. Choi, waiting for an explanation.

"Y/N, I’ll get straight to the point—you’re failing this class," Prof. Choi says. "At this rate, I’m not sure you'll be able to move on to the next year."

Well, it’s not your fault that a hot distraction named Kim Mingyu exists.

"That’s why I’ve assigned Mingyu here as your tutor to help you pass," he says, nodding toward Mingyu.

Your eyes widen, and you struggle to suppress a smile. Mingyu tutoring you? Spending time alone with him? This feels like a dream come true. You silently thank both Prof. Choi and the heavens for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Mingyu gives you a shy smile. "I hope we can get along well," he says, extending his hand.

You gratefully take it, noticing the blush coloring his cheeks.

"Please take good care of me, Mingyu," you say, beaming, already looking forward to your tutoring sessions.

You smooth out your skirt one last time before opening the door for Mingyu. You made sure to wear your sluttiest outfit today. After insisting that your brain works better when you study in your room, Mingyu shyly agreed to hold the tutoring sessions there.

You smile and step aside to let him in, watching as he sheepishly steps into your house. Making sure your ass is sticking out, you made him follow you upstairs to your room.

You sat down on your bed, subtly raising your skirt, and gestured for Mingyu to take a seat next to you. He awkwardly took his seat and started pulling out his notes.

He keeps his eyes on his notes as he starts explaining today’s lesson—something about the Krebs cycle, though you’re not really listening. You’re too busy admiring his handsome face. You twirl a strand of hair and blink sweetly as you ask (hopefully relevant) questions, but he barely glances at you while answering.

After what feels like hours of studying (it’s been 30 minutes), you whine and beg him for a break, and he blushes as he agrees.

"Would you like some snacks? Or maybe water or juice?" you ask, perking up.

"Just a glass of water is fine," he mumbles, still focused on his notes.

You nod and grab a glass of water for him and a snack for yourself. Returning, you hand him the water with a smile, which he accepts with a quiet “thank you,” while you peel your banana for your snack.

You lick the tip of the banana before biting down on it, smirking when you see Mingyu gulping at your actions. Noticing you looking at him, he blushes and quickly averts his gaze.

"Want a bite?" You offer him with a sultry smirk.

"N-No, thank you," he mumbles, his ears turning red.

You giggle as you finish your banana and scoot a little closer, prompting him to continue the lesson. But he’s a stuttering mess, tripping over his words and repeatedly asking for more water to soothe his suddenly dry throat.

After stuttering his way through, Mingyu finally managed to finish the lesson. Sore from having hunched over, you stretch, not so subtly pressing your chest against his arm. Mingyu flushes, quickly gathering his notes and mumbling something about being late for a gaming session with Wonwoo.

You see him out, throwing in a wink and waving goodbye. You watch as he stumbles a bit while getting onto his Vespa and driving off. Chuckling to yourself, you can't help but smile at how cute he is.

The rest of the tutoring sessions go the same way: you not-so-subtly flirt with Mingyu, while he either purposely ignores it or remains completely oblivious. You even try to out-slut your outfits with every tutoring session, but nothing seems to work.

One night, after yet another session, you lie in bed, frustrated that Mingyu isn’t picking up on your very obvious hints. Who knew the loser nerd would actually turn out to be a huge loser? You sigh, but him being a huge loser is what you find most endearing about him.

You bite your lip, remembering what he wore today—a black polo that stretched perfectly over his muscles, jeans that hugged his thighs just right, and of course, those thick black frames.

You can't help but sneak your hand down your torso as you remember how his arm felt pressed against your boobs. They felt so strong and firm, you bet that he could easily carry you and fuck you mid-air.

You shiver as your hand sneaks under your panties. You circle your pussy, collecting your arousal before pushing a finger into your hole, sighing at the slight stretch. You moan at the thought of Mingyu's fingers being way bigger than yours. His fingers would stretch you out so well before he finally fucks you with his huge cock.

You insert another finger and start thrusting your fingers, moaning out Mingyu's name. You imagine him hovering over you as he relentlessly thrusts into you, groaning your name right beside your ear. He'd growl as your fingers rake his back, leaving angry red marks. You'd wrap your legs around his hips and push him in deeper, making him breed you.

Your other hand circles your clit as you feel yourself getting to the edge. You imagine him thrusting from behind as his large bicep chokes you, putting just enough pressure to heighten the pleasure. He'd whimper and moan in your ear, letting you know how good you feel wrapped around him. He'd fill you up with his cum, again and again, and again, until the sheets underneath you are soaked with your mixed fluids.

Your breath hitches as you cum, whispering his name like a prayer, hoping that if you say it enough times, he’ll appear before you and make your dreams come true.

But he doesn't, and you're left lying in bed, sticky, sweaty, and alone.

You yawn for the umpteenth time as Mingyu drones on about anatomy; you're sure your brain has shut down by now. You sigh as you lean back onto the bed, too tired even to sit up.

"Mingyu, can we please take a break? I don't think my brain can take any more of this," you groan, resting your arm over your eyes.

"U-Uh, yeah, sure," Mingyu mumbles, fiddling with his notes. "We could always switch to a different topic if you want a change of pace…"

"What's the next topic?"

"The reproductive system."

Your eyebrows shoot up, and a smirk paints your face as an idea pops into your head. You sit up and grin at Mingyu.

"Sure, let's learn about the reproductive system."

Happy that you're finally interested in a topic, Mingyu gathers his notes and starts to explain. After about 15 minutes of explanation, you put your hand over his and gently push away his notes.

"Mingyu, I don’t understand the topic at all," you say with a pout, shifting to sit directly in front of him. His face turns bright red, clearly flustered. "I think it would help if we put the theory into practice so I can learn better," you purr.

Mingyu stumbles over his words, stuttering, his brain clearly short-circuiting. You giggle at his flustered state and shift to sit on his lap, your legs on either side of him.

"Will you let me use you to put the theory into practice, Mingyu?" you ask, tilting your head with a pout as you gently cup his face.

"I-I’m not sure h-how…" Mingyu stammers, swallowing hard.

"Oh, you poor thing," you coo. "It's okay, I'll guide you, puppy. Will you let me?"

He licks his lips and lets out a shaky breath before giving a small nod.

"Don't worry, puppy, I'll make sure to take good care of you," you hum as you gently remove his glasses.

He blinks and looks up at you, lips parted and cheeks flushed. You take a moment to admire his handsome face without the glasses. Cupping his face, your eyes trace over his features—his strong jawline, his parted lips, and the small mole on the tip of his nose. Unable to resist, you lean in and place a gentle kiss there, making him shiver.

"Can I kiss you, puppy?" You whisper.

"P-Please," he whimpers, and you can't help but smile over how pathetic he sounds.

You lean in and press your lips against his, and he kisses back desperately, hungry for your lips. You chuckle into the kiss, his inexperience showing with every hesitant movement. When you pull back, he leans forward, chasing your lips and letting out a soft whine when you don’t return the kiss.

"Puppy, if you don't behave, I will punish you," you scowl, furrowing your eyebrows.

"'m sorry," he mumbles with a pout.

You plant a soft kiss on the tip of his nose, then slowly run your hands down his torso, gently squeezing each muscle through his white polo. He moans and shivers under your touch, his eyes squeezing shut.

"Puppy works hard in the gym, hm?" You giggle, squeezing his chest slightly harder, eliciting a gasp from him.

You giggle, then start slowly dragging your hands to his arms, squeezing his biceps.

"God, your arms are so big and strong," you moan, squeezing him hard. "I want you to choke me, puppy. Can you do that for me? Choke me with your biceps?"

Letting out a shaky breath, he nods. You shift, pressing your back against his chest. He gently puts you into a chokehold and squeezes his arm slightly. Your eyes roll back, and a moan slips from your lips when you feel his biceps push against your throat.

You can't help but feel small in Mingyu's hold; he's just so big and beefy. You grind your hips against him, and you feel his grip faltering. He whimpers and pushes his erection against your butt.

"P-Please, I can't. I-It hurts," he whimpers against your ear.

You sneak down your hand and palm him through his jeans, making him groan and buck your hips against your palm.

"Need me to take care of your problem puppy?" You giggle, palming him roughly.

"Please," he strains out, choking back a moan.

He releases you from the chokehold, and you quickly clamber over to grab the bottle of lube you've stashed on the side table. You look over to see that he's already pushed his jeans and boxers down and freed his aching cock.

"Impatient are we now, puppy?" You chuckle, making his cheeks heat up.

Locking eyes with him, you give him a sultry look as you slowly peel off your panties but keep your skirt on. He gulps hard, shifting in place, anticipating your next move.

Biting your lip, you slowly crawl back over to him. You pour lube all over his cock and give him a few pumps, he whines your name and bucks his hips, making you giggle.

"Gonna make you feel so good, puppy," you whisper as you shift to hover over him.

You grab onto his shoulders and slowly sink onto his big cock, the stretch making you moan out loud. Mingyu whines and groans under you, his hands fly to your hips, fingers digging into you.

"F-Fuck," he groans, squeezing his eyes shut as your warmth slowly envelopes him.

Your mouth goes agape, and your eyes roll back when you feel his tip kiss your cervix.

"M-Move, please move. I-I can't," he begs, muscles straining under you.

You slowly lift yourself and slam back down onto him, making the both of you moan out loud. Slowly picking up your pace, you start riding him. He becomes a blubbering mess under you, moaning your name and whining at how good it feels.

"Look at the mess we're making, puppy," you pant out, lifting your skirt and showing him the sticky mess forming at the base of his cock.

He looks down at where both of you are connected and moans. He starts picking you up and slamming you down at an animalistic pace, his hips meeting you halfway. You squeal at the feeling of him rutting into you.

Unable to hold back any longer, he cums hard, filling you up to the brim with his seeds. Desperate to reach your high, you continue to ride him despite his chokes and whimpers. You capture his lips into a messy kiss to distract him from the overstimulation.

"C-Circle my clit," you mumble in between the kiss, and he complies, his hand immediately sneaking down and rubbing your clit in circles.

You yell his name as you cum around him, squeezing every drop of cum out of him. Mingyu moans, and a few tears slip from his eyes at the feeling of you squeezing him with a vice-like grip.

You both take a moment to catch your breath, your head resting on Mingyu’s shoulder as he leans back against the headboard. Licking your lips, you cup his face and look into his dazed eyes.

"You did so well, puppy," you coo, watching him blush and give you a fucked-out smile.

"But I don't think I've fully understood the topic yet. Maybe we should go over it again, just to be sure," you say before smashing your lips on his again.

Taglist: @tinyelfperson @gyuguys @stay-tiny-things @unlikelysublimekryptonite @miyx-amour

@iamawkwardandshy @codeinebelle @brownbunnyb @do-you-remember-summer-127 @sclovreina

@theidontknowmehn @aliiikareed @jennwonwoo @toplinehyunjin

[dammit-tazmuir]

TLT Theory: Pyrrha was the Necromancer

No get back here, hear me out. I'm not saying Gideon didn't become one as a Lyctor. But I've been noticing a lot of things adding up weird here...

In Ch6 of HtN, when preparing for the first trip through the River, they call it Pyrrha's trial.

Much later, when Pyrrha is mad at Palamedes for the soul fuckery he and Camilla are doing, she refers to it as one they designed together, but that doesn't negate Mercy calling it Pyrrha's first and foremost. And...

She's worried about Camilla's brain, and okay, sure, they only have Camilla's body. But with Cris and Mercy, it was Cris getting cracked open. With Harrow and Gideon 2, it was always Gideon in danger, not Harrow. And with Gideon 1 and Pyrrha, it was Gideon's skull, Gideon's brain, getting the testing done. No mention of the same kind of testing or Mercy or Pyrrha. The principle of it is the necromancer's consciousness being overlaid onto the cavalier's brain, right?

But okay, maybe Pyrrha just doesn't mention herself, and Gideon's "a control variable" to compare herself to? But there's more.

Pyrrha fights with guns, prefers them. Gideon fought with not just a sword but a whole ass massive spear for an offhand, and has easily more physical prowess than any other necromancer we've ever seen. His stomach is still desiccated in typical necromancer fashion, he's dehydrated and not a scrap of fair fat on him, but he's a wall of muscle and sinew. Yes he looks "like an idiot's construct", probably because John regrew him from an arm when he was still getting the hang of using that level of power, but he's distinctly not built like other necromancers. If he wasn't a necromancer prior to being a Lyctor, his build might make more sense. Moreover, we've seen other cavaliers turned into sort-of-constructs, with both Protesilaus and Kiriona.

I also want you to look at the Saint of Duty and tell me that man isn't the walking essence of what it means to be a Cavalier.

And he rarely uses necromancy. He can travel in the River, and he drains thanergy, but he never really uses theorems or sets up wards. His necromancy is used pretty exclusively in passive ways or to remove obstacles between himself and his weapons. But Pyrrha is extremely knowledgeable about all kinds of necromancy. She tells Harrow fresh thalergy is harder to drain. She sees Ianthe's brilliantly inventive combination of wards creatively mimicking the effect of Mercy's trial and can accurately tell what they're going to do, as well as how to break them. Among other things. She also says she walked the Eightfold. Maybe that means being led willingly as a cav, but what if she was in control of the process?

With Harrow, Gideon was constantly in and out of awareness, watching from Harrow's subconscious, things that Harrow was fully conscious for. Palamedes doesn't have that with Camilla, and both of them being conscious is rare and dangerous, as detailed above. Pal and Pyrrha are frequently compared with their situations. How did Cam and Pal work out how to do the switcheroo, especially while Pal had extremely limited ability to move or perceive? How did they work out a safe time limit before too much irreparable damage was done? Could they have had guidance from someone who's done it? Done it with a necromancer's knowledge, letting him know where he can safely go under in the brain, how to come out at will, what to watch out for?

On a separate note:

Lyctor names are sacred, but the Houses were founded before Lyctorhood was achieved. Anastasia did not become a Lyctor, so her name was not removed from history, and became common in her House. Judith and Marta are part of the Dve Territorials, and while that doesn't prove anything or could even be evidence against, I feel like it would make sense to have named prestigious military groups after the House's "main" Founder, before there were Saints and the decision to erase the Saints' names.

On a more meta level, I think it would be weird to have "their names were meant to be forgotten", history knowing jack shit about the cavaliers of old, and even emphasis on the Lyctors forgetting each others' House names, only to have a cavalier's House name in active use somewhere, if that information wasn't supposed to be serving a narrative purpose. If we weren't meant to question why.

"But they call her his cavalier. She calls him her necromancer."

Sure. And maybe that's straightforward; this is a theory, I could be wrong. But switching titles after Lyctorhood doesn't sound too out of the question to me. What's a bit of revisionist history in TLT? John knows where memory lives in the brain, and on Pyrrha's end, at least after Lyctorhood Gideon was the necromancer, after all.

(Edit to add: Augustine calls attention to how astonishing it is that Pyrrha never divided opinions, that not one of them has ever had a single bad thing to say about her. She's great but we've met her. We've seen John rant about her calling out his bullshit, in the dream. Not one bit of annoyance or criticism, from anyone? I'm just saying, if Something Happened that led to John needing to tweak memories, making everyone remember her nothing but fondly feels plausible.)

"So why can't she do necromancy when she's in control?"

"He took more from me than got taken from you" feels like explanation enough to me. He got her aptitude and more. She's a partial soul. If anything, she could even still has an ounce of it, to retain the body's healing capabilities. If Gideon was fully giddy-gone and the soul that was left had zero aptitude, what would the furnace be burning? But if Gideon's consciousness is dead and what's left of his soul is in the furnace with a (partial) necromancer at the helm, well, that's not far off from Lyctorhood working as intended.

"Why though?"

And there's the part that gets really tricky but interesting. My best guess short answer is, one of them was dying, and it was an act of desperation.

Maybe Pyrrha was dying and so brutalized her body wouldn't have healed right even becoming a Lyctor, but given what they're like and the Cam/Pal parallels, I feel like an even more likely answer was that Gideon was dying. Cris and Alfred had already put Mercy and Augustine in that position, and they took their souls to preserve something, but Pyrrha would have seen how well that worked, assuming the third ascension wasn't immediately after the first two. So perhaps in her own desperation, with endless adoration for the man so willing to burn for what he believed, she said no. You don't get to throw your life away. If you're going to keep throwing yourself on things, I will make sure you can survive it and keep surviving it, even if it kills me instead. And then walked the path in reverse, pinning her own soul to his instead of pulling his into her.

I've seen a post around here pointing out how when Pyrrha tells Nona about her first tantrum, she's laughing with her mouth but not her eyes, and it looks like it reminds her of something her brain doesn't want to bring back, and the post proposes maybe Alecto killed Pyrrha. And I do think there's a solid possibility it was Alecto's tantrum that mortally wounded whichever (or maybe even both!) of them and prompted them to ascend. If Pyrrha didn't blame Varun for Gideon recently, I doubt she'd hold it against Alecto either.

Either way, wouldn't something like that more than earn the title of Duty? Wouldn't it be beautiful that they both fit the title if both had in ways been the cavalier? Wouldn't it be fitting to allow the name Dve to stand in the military as a monument to such a woman?

I know this might still be a long shot, but I definitely think there's enough little things sprinkled around to at least to warrant some solid suspicion. And it honestly would explain a lot.

[myrleius]

the side hustle — kozume k.

kozume k. x fujoshi fem!reader│word count: 1.2k

synopsis: Kenma finds himself supplying BL intel to his hopelessly addicted girlfriend.

cw/tags: crack, fluff, established relationship

Kenma wasn’t sure when his life had turned into this.

One minute, he was living peacefully—gaming, volleyball, minding his own business. The next? He had a girlfriend. A loud, affectionate, chaotic girlfriend.

For all their differences, they just fit. Yn was all bright eyes and boundless energy, always ready with a new obsession, a wild theory, a reason to make the world more exciting than it was. Kenma was quieter, content to observe rather than chase. But with her, watching wasn’t enough. She made things feel worth engaging in.

She never dragged him along—just opened the door, left it unlocked, and smiled when he eventually wandered in. She could fill a room without suffocating it, knew when to push and when to leave things be. And even in her loudest moments, she never felt too much. Kenma didn’t think he needed that. Until he did.

But there was one tiny downside.

She was a massive BL fan.

Not just casual, oh-this-is-cute levels of obsession. No, yn was the type to pause mid-conversation just to gasp at two guys standing within five feet of each other. The kind to turn a simple, innocent interaction into a star-crossed love story before he even had time to blink.

And somehow, he’d been roped into the madness, officially serving as her dealer, slipping her BL intel on the volleyball team while she, a hopeless addict, kept coming back for more.

He honestly didn’t get it. What was so special about imagining people who weren’t dating… dating? But then she would just light up at the smallest details, gasping dramatically like she had just uncovered a hidden treasure.

Yeah. That was probably the reason he went along with it.

Which is why, even though this was objectively ridiculous, he still let her in when she came over, already knowing what she was about to ask.

The door to his room slammed open.

Kenma barely flinched. Without looking up from his Switch, he deadpanned, “You’re late.”

Yn practically bounced at the sight of him, her eyes already gleaming with barely-contained excitement. “Were there any important developments?!”

Kenma sighed, saving his game before setting the console aside. “Close the door first.”

She kicked it shut behind her and hurried over, plopping down cross-legged on the floor. Elbows propped on his bed, hands clasped under her chin, she leaned in expectantly. “Report.”

“Lev got hit in the face with a volleyball today.”

Yn nodded sagely. “Classic.”

“Yaku patched him up while cursing him out. Lev said, ‘Wow, you’re so gentle, Senpai.’” Kenma kept his voice as flat as ever, knowing full well she was already eating this up. “Yaku kicked him.”

She squealed, grabbing his arm and shaking him. “That’s so cute!”

Kenma gave her a pointed look. “It’s assault.”

“But it’s their love language.”

He propped his elbow on his knee, using his hand to hide the smirk twitching at his lips. “Right.”

Yn’s eyes sparkled, no doubt already conjuring up an entire romantic subplot in her head. She clutched his sleeve, gaze full of manic determination. “Did he say anything else?”

Kenma pretended to think, dragging it out for maximum effect.

After a long pause, he finally said, “Lev thanked him. Then Yaku just grunted and told him to shut up.”

Yn gasped, eyes widening before slamming her hands onto the bed. “They’re definitely in love!”

Kenma snorted, shaking his head. “That’s normal, yn.”

“No, no, no.” She scooted closer, eyes alight with conspiracy as she went full lecture mode. “Kenma, it’s the classic ‘grumpy pretends they don’t care but totally does’ dynamic. You know, the grumpy one does something nice, the soft one gets all flustered, grumpy brushes it off like it’s no big deal. But then it keeps happening, over and over, until grumpy finally snaps and is like—” She dropped her voice to a dramatic growl. “‘Why do you make me feel things?!’”

Then she flung her hands up for emphasis. “And boom—accidental love confession, the soft one melts, they kiss, and then they finally fu—”

“PG-13, Yn.”

She waved him off. “Right, right. My point is, it’s only a matter of time.”

Kenma rolled his eyes, watching as she practically glowed, completely lost in her own world. “You’re so delusional.”

Yn grinned, completely undeterred. “Oh, Kenma. My sweet, naïve, blind-to-true-love Kenma.” She patted his hand like a disappointed parent. “You just don’t have the vision. The ability to see the tension, the build-up, the inevitable.”

He stared at her, unimpressed. “Yeah, crazy how I missed the deep romance in ‘shut up, Lev.’”

Yn grabbed his shoulders and shook him slightly. “IT’S CALLED SUBTEXT!”

Kenma lets out a quiet chuckle, letting her have her moment. Arguing was pointless. She was too far gone. And, really, he didn’t mind.

She recovered quickly, but the moment her eyes flickered toward him with that mischievous glint, Kenma already knew what was coming.

“And what about you and Kuroo?” she asked, grinning.

Kenma side-eyed her. "What about us?"

She clasped her hands together, forming a finger gun before pointing it at him. “Did he ruffle your hair today? Call you cute? Maybe stare at you for too long?”

Kenma sighed. “I lost rock-paper-scissors and he took the last vanilla ice cream at the convenience store.”

Yn gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. “The betrayal.”

Kenma nodded solemnly, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. It had become an ongoing joke that yn shipped him with Kuroo. Worse, Kuroo was entirely on board with it, feeding her delusions at every opportunity just to mess with him.

“I told him we were over,” Kenma said, indulging her.

She crossed her arms and nodded, looking thoroughly pleased. “Childhood best friends turned bitter exes.”

Kenma huffed out a laugh, shaking his head before reaching up to pinch her cheek. “I can’t believe I’m dating you.”

Yn beamed, her voice dripping with affection. “You love it.”

And, yeah. He did.

Kenma wasn’t sure when it had happened. When her chaos had become something he craved rather than tolerated. When her dramatics had turned from amusing to endearing. When the idea of not having her around felt... unthinkable.

She made things complicated, ridiculous. But he wouldn’t change a single thing.

Before she could say anything else, Kenma turned slightly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear before pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. No hesitation, no build-up. Just done.

She froze, her body going completely still. Kenma’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “You get excited over the dumbest things,” he murmured against her skin before pulling back.

When he met her gaze, her face was bright red, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“It’s cute.”

Yn let out a strangled noise before flopping forward, burying her face in his shoulder. He let her, wrapping his arms around her with ease.

“That was… so boyfriend of you,” she mumbled.

Kenma didn’t even blink. “I am your boyfriend.”

She groaned, clutching his hoodie tighter. “Stop. I can only take so much.”

Kenma let out a quiet chuckle, gaze flickering toward her. For all her dramatics, she really was cute.

For a moment, she stayed curled up against him, completely still. Then, without warning, she shifted slightly and grumbled, “I still don’t understand why Kuroo thinks he’s the top between you two. You give off way more top energy than he does.”

Kenma hummed in agreement. “Mm.”

A beat passed. Then, with zero hesitation, he added—

“I’d top you too.”

“WHAT?!”

[ooooo-mcyt]

I know I keep talking about it but I genuinely will never stop thinking about that stretch of time in Third Life between Jimmy dying and Scott dying.

I think the big thing for me is that it's hard to imagine Scott is capable of fracturing and spiraling like that. I mean, obviously everyone has their limits in theory, and sanity is a fickle thing.

But Scott is good at looking untouchable, to a degree even I (number one scott smajor fan in the world) can admit can come across as frustrating sometimes. Scott is always incredibly blase about what inconveniences him, ever clever and calm and confident. Always collected and in control. Sometimes it feels impossible to get him to crack, even in small ways, much less break entirely.

But he did absolutely shatter in Third Life, didn't he?

Dully and reckless, aggressive, sloppy, hopeless, detached. Moving numbly on instinct toward..revenge, I think? But sometimes the targeted vengeance truly did fizzle out into aimless aggression. He fluctuated rapidly between feeling the crushing weight of grief and rage and then feeling almost nothing at all.

People noticed. If nothing else, Scott is very good at keeping up a reputation, but when he fractured, people noticed, and whispered, and Scott didn't have the mental capacity to care about..anything, really, except sometimes his desire to brutally tear Skizz apart with his own hands.

And then Scott died. Scott was reckless and sloppy and clearly not thinking straight, and despite his normally uncanny ability to survive, Scott was easy prey this time. With Skizz dead it's not like he had much fight left in him, and even if he did, I suspect his rage wouldn't have made up for how shaky and detached and reckless he was at this point in a fight.

Of course, Third Life has long since passed, but I'm sure Scott's not over it. I mean. Even going beyond everything else, the actual state of being so unwell is traumatic on its own. It's scary, and a massive loss of agency, to have a break in sanity like that. To be robbed of your basic control over your own mind with everyone watching. That, in of itself, would be traumatic for anyone, but especially for someone like Scott who bases so much of himself around his ability to be in control of his mind, responses, and reputation? I can't imagine it doesn't gnaw at him still.

[spr1ngpvrinbunny]

🐣 Happy Easter at Playtime Co. Headcanon — Featuring Harley Sawyer (and his reluctant descent into madness)

Note: Sorry for not posting any content about PPT Harley x reader, so here's a make-up post for y'all…Now I'm going back to my hole.

You wanted to organize an Easter event for the orphans raised in the company’s care. You wanted color, joy, light—a break from sterile hallways and somber routines. You wanted Harley to be involved. He wanted nothing to do with it. You won.

🌸 Context

You, of course, bring it up during a meeting, with that look in your eyes that always means something big.

Stella’s ecstatic. Eddie says something like “Let’s make it the best Easter they’ve ever had!”

Leith suggests egg-hunting mazes and “bunny-themed hazard corridors” (he’s joking... mostly).

Harley just... slowly turns to look at you.

"Absolutely not."

"Do you understand the risk of exposing them to that much unregulated glitter?"

"And who approved this– oh. You did."

🐰 Preparations Begin

You:

Designing pastel-colored banners.

Assigning rooms for Easter egg painting, storytime, and "bunny cookie science."

Sneaking chocolate eggs into everyone's lockers, including Harley's.

Stella:

Goes full Spring Fairy Mode™.

She wears bunny ears unironically.

She starts calling it “The Spring Festival of Renewal.”

She insists the orphans do a flower-crown making session.

Leith:

Designs a massive egg-hunt route inside the facility.

Is too excited about hiding eggs in "high-risk, low-visibility areas.”

(Harley is Not Amused.)

"That’s an OSHA violation waiting to happen, Pierre."

"You don’t even know OSHA."

Eddie:

Brings in speakers.

Plays disco-remix Easter songs.

Bakes cookies that are absolutely loaded with sugar and then passes them around to the kids.

🥚 Harley’s Reluctant Involvement

You put him in charge of the Egg Dyeing Station.

He wears gloves, a lab coat, a grimace, and the smallest pink bunny sticker you managed to sneak onto his sleeve.

He says things like:

“Do not consume the dye.”

“That’s not how color theory works—give me that—”

“…Fine. Add glitter if you must. Just don’t get it on the—”

One of the orphans hands him a hand-painted egg.

It says “Doctor Hoppy.”

He stares at it in silence.

He doesn’t speak for the next five minutes.

He keeps the egg. You notice it later on his desk.

💖 The Moment

As the event goes on, Harley’s resistance slowly cracks.

He watches you helping a child tie their bunny ears.

He sees Stella lifting a kid onto her shoulders to help them reach an egg hidden on a pipe.

He sees you smile at him from across the hall—just a little messy, a little tired, but glowing.

The moment he lets out a sigh and adjusts a child’s poorly fastened bowtie, you know he’s doomed.

“If you must frolic… do it safely.”

��� Later That Night

You find him alone in the lab, looking over an Easter egg one of the children handed him that has both of your initials drawn (poorly) in crayon.

He doesn’t say anything as you approach, but when you lean against the counter next to him, he murmurs:

“You’ve turned this place into chaos.”

“They laughed. They smiled. Even Eddie stopped breaking things long enough to be useful.”

“…Maybe it wasn’t the worst use of company time.”

He hands you a small, carefully-wrapped chocolate bunny. The tag says your name.

“Scientific curiosity.”

“…I wanted to see if you’d smile.”

🎁 Bonus: The Aftermath

Harley still finds glitter in his lab weeks later.

Someone (probably Leith) taped a picture of him mid-egg-painting to the bulletin board.

The orphans start calling him “Dr. Hoppy” unironically.

He never corrects them.

🌙 Post-Easter Soft Moment — You and Harley, After the Chaos

The facility had gone quiet. The streamers had been taken down, the confetti vacuumed, the cookies either devoured or confiscated, and the orphans were sound asleep in the guest dormitories, sugar crashing like little meteorites. Even Leith was finally gone, after a three-minute chase around the cafeteria involving a water gun and a rogue bunny puppet.

But Harley?

You found him in the East Observation Lab, where the glass windows looked out over the city like a crystal dome. The lights were off, save for the blinking panels on the monitors, casting a cold blue light on everything. His lab coat was still rumpled from the day’s chaos, and there was a faint smudge of pink dye near the collar he hadn’t noticed.

He didn’t turn when you came in—just spoke quietly:

“You survived.”

You smiled faintly.

“Barely. One of the kids tied my shoelaces together and said it was a ‘trap for the egg bandit’.”

“Hnh.” A dry sound. Possibly a laugh.

You joined him at the counter, where he was examining something with a level of intensity usually reserved for corrupted data or misbehaving prototypes.

It was the egg.

The one with your initials and his, scribbled by a child with too much crayon and too much hope. It was lumpy, imperfect, and cracked slightly down one side. He’d placed it on a weighted display tray, as if it were some rare relic.

“You kept it.”

He didn’t look at you.

“It was structurally interesting.” “The layering of paint was inefficient, yet…” He trailed off, brow furrowing. “…charming.”

You looked at him from the side—how the light caught the edge of his jaw, the curve of his mouth held just a little tighter than necessary. You could still see the remnants of stress under his eyes, but they were softer now. Warmer.

You nudged his elbow.

“You did good today, Doctor Hoppy.”

“Say that again and I’ll cancel Christmas.”

“Not even a little hop?”

He finally turned to look at you, and the expression he wore was… unreadable at first. Then it softened further—an almost bewildered fondness, like he couldn’t quite understand how you’d gotten under his skin and rearranged the wires without him noticing.

“Why do you care so much?” he asked, barely above a whisper. “About these… things. Events. People.”

“Because someone has to,” you replied simply. “Because I believe in joy. Even here.”

His gaze lingered.

Then, carefully—as if afraid the moment might break—he reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a small foil-wrapped shape. A second chocolate bunny.

But this one… wasn’t from the event. The wrapper was matte black and gold. It looked expensive.

He placed it in your hand without a word.

“Happy Easter,” he said after a long pause. “…I acquired this prior. In case you… didn't like the corporate treats.”

Your fingers brushed his as you took it.

“You’re spoiling me, Doctor Sawyer.”

“I haven’t even started.”

It slipped out so quietly that it almost didn’t feel real—but it was. His voice held no mockery, no defense. Just a subtle admission, wrapped in his usual clinical delivery.

You smiled.

And for once, he didn’t look away.

[cheeseatlantic]

hi guys bunny is back so am i (I WAS BUSY!!!!)

BUNNY LOVE 2/6

You didn’t notice it at first—just little things here and there that seemed… off. Like the sudden appearance of a massive plush rabbit bed in the living room, soft as a cloud and way too expensive for an animal you were still getting used to. Or the way Simon had started bringing home bags of organic carrots, the kind that were labeled with pretentious names like locally-sourced and gourmet.

At first, you chalked it up to coincidence. He was probably just trying to get comfortable with the idea of your new bunny, right? But as the days went by, it became clear that there was something more to it.

You were sitting in the living room one evening, the soft flicker of the TV casting shadows over the room when you noticed Simon at the desk, his back to you. His hands were on the keyboard, but he wasn’t scrolling through the usual news sites or looking over any missions. No, your boyfriend—your tough, no-nonsense soldier—was researching rabbit care.

You squinted at the screen, your eyebrow raising in surprise. “What the hell are you looking at?”

Simon didn’t jump or startle like you thought he would. He just calmly glanced back over his shoulder at you, the faintest hint of guilt flashing across his face before he quickly minimized the window. “Nothing,” he muttered, voice gruff. “Just checking something.”

You slowly walked over, crossing your arms as you stood next to him. “Checking what, exactly?” you pressed, leaning over just enough to catch the name of the website he was browsing.

His face went a little red, but he refused to look at you. “It’s just… some rabbit care thing,” he muttered, voice low, as if trying to make it sound casual. “I thought maybe… I dunno, we could get her some better stuff.”

You blinked, stunned. “Better stuff?”

He glared at the screen, eyes avoiding yours like it was the most embarrassing thing in the world. “Yeah. Like the best food, best bedding… That kind of thing.” He cleared his throat, looking completely out of place. “Don’t get any ideas, I’m not spoiling her or anything. Just… trying to make sure she’s comfortable.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Since when did you start caring about comfort?”

He grunted, sitting back in his chair, clearly flustered. “I don’t care. Just want to make sure she’s settled, alright?”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re really into this, huh?”

Simon’s eyes shot to you for a brief moment, almost as if he was ready to snap at you, but then he sighed, rubbing his face in frustration. “It’s just easier when she’s quiet, okay? And I—” He hesitated. “I don’t want her tearing up the house.”

You couldn’t help it—your laughter spilled out, and Simon shot you an annoyed glare, but there was something in his eyes that softened as he glanced back at the screen. You took the opportunity to sit beside him, leaning in a little to look at what he’d been reading. The title read The Ultimate Guide to Pampering Your Rabbit.

“Well, I’m glad you’re taking notes,” you teased, nudging him lightly with your shoulder. “What’s next? Organic bunny treats?”

“I—I’ve already got those,” he muttered, eyes narrowing at you. “It’s a special mix, alright? They’re good for her teeth.”

You raised both eyebrows now. “Wait. You’ve already bought them?”

Simon didn’t answer right away, his fingers fidgeting with the mouse. After a moment of silence, he gave a frustrated grunt. “Yeah, okay? I did. But it’s just… she’s not like a dog or a cat, alright? She needs… stuff.”

You stared at him, blinking in disbelief. “Wow. I never thought I’d see the day Simon Riley goes full-on bunny dad.”

His expression darkened, but there was a slight tinge of red on his cheeks again. “You be quiet,” he growled, but you could see the tiny crack in his gruff exterior.

The next day, you decided to test your theory. You walked into the living room to find Simon on the floor—completely on his stomach, his face inches away from your bunny. She was nibbling on one of those gourmet carrots you hadn’t noticed before. Simon was holding up his phone, looking at something on the screen with an intensity that you hadn’t seen since one of his most complicated operations.

“What are you doing?” you asked, arms crossed, a grin tugging at the corner of your lips.

Simon immediately looked up, panic flashing across his features. “Nothing!” he barked, but it was too late—his phone screen was already showing a detailed chart of different types of rabbit food.

“Are you… meal planning for the rabbit?” you asked, incredulous.

“I’m making sure she’s getting the right nutrients!” he snapped, but it was clear the panic in his voice wasn’t matching the tough persona he usually held.

“Oh, I’m sure she’s going to love this,” you teased, kneeling down next to him. “So, what’s on the menu? Carrots? Pellets?”

He glanced at the bunny, then back at you, completely avoiding your gaze. “She’s had too many pellets. It’s better to switch it up with some… high-quality hay.” His eyes darted to you. “You wouldn’t understand.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry. Are you telling me that you are researching the best food for my rabbit, and I wouldn’t understand?”

Simon rolled his eyes, clearly embarrassed but trying to hold his ground. “I’m just looking out for her. That’s all.”

But the way his fingers gently scratched behind her ears, the soft murmur of praise he gave every time she nuzzled into him, told a completely different story.

The next week, you caught him, once again, scrolling through the internet. This time, the page was titled ‘Best Rabbit Accessories for Your Furry Friend’.

“Not again,” you sighed dramatically, crossing your arms.

Simon immediately slammed the laptop shut, the red tint on his neck returning. “I’m not doing anything. It’s just… a gift for her,” he muttered, sounding utterly defeated.

You walked over, gently lifting the lid of the box he was hiding. You peeked inside—bunny-sized pajamas, a plush blanket, and a custom-made rabbit playpen with more space than most apartments.

You stared at him, fighting back a laugh. “So… You bought her a playpen?”

“Y/N,” Simon grumbled, clearly flustered but unable to fight the softness in his tone. “I’m just making sure she’s got everything she needs.”

You looked at him, trying your best to hold back your amusement. “You know, I think you’re the one who’s spoiled here, not her.”

Simon turned away, muttering something under his breath, but you could hear the hint of pride in his voice as he added, “She deserves the best.”

You knew better than to push it. The truth was, Simon had fallen for the bunny just as hard as you had. He might not admit it, but it was clear as day that she was his little baby now—and you were just the person who got to share the love.

i have everything done but im posting antagonizingly slow to toryure you

[crowleyholmes]

Hello friends, lovers, hereditary enemies, and fellow Good-Omens-brain-rot-afflicted!

Inspired by some lengthy conversations and the need for reassurance regarding a renewal for season 3, the lovely Eena @michaelsheens and I have decided to start a little Project!

(Sorry, Crowley, we had to…)

THE NICE AND ACCURATE PROPHECIES* WEEK

Running from SEPTEMBER 25TH to OCTOBER 1ST, it’s all themed around season 3 and the assumption we’re gonna get that renewal. (Manifesting, baby.)

✨ THE PLAN ✨

Every day will focus on a theme around which everyone who wants to participate is encouraged to create any kind of content they want to! Art, fanfic, edits, playlists, speculation, meta, go nuts!

(Also please don’t worry if something doesn’t fit neatly into a day’s theme; they’re only meant to give somewhat of a prompt and structure. Ultimately it’s not that strict and serious, we just wanna see your stuff :))

✨ HOW TO PARTICIPATE ✨

Share whatever your big heart and massive brain comes up with and use the tag #gomensnaap

(It’s like a long nap or something.)

You’re also welcome to give shoutouts to other people’s work you love and want to celebrate, but please make sure to link and credit properly (!!!)

Most importantly: have fun <3

✨ THEMES ✨

(under the cut)

DAY 1: “And there will be great lamentations.”

Let’s talk the Second Coming! We start off and warm up with everything plot-related. Theories, meta, crack ideas, let’s hear your thoughts on where you think the Big Main Plot is going to go!

DAY 2: “I can make a difference!”

For day two, let’s focus on Aziraphale’s arc in season 3. Did he go to Heaven with a plan? Or is he winging it? (Pun only somewhat intended.) Was he threatened or manipulated or both or neither? Will he tell Heaven just where they can stick it or can he actually succeed? What’s in store for our favorite angel?

DAY 3: “Hated by Heaven, loathed by Hell. How will our hero cope?”

Day three is all about Crowley and what we think he’s going to get up to. Is he going to go drink himself senseless and have a good cry? Go snek and hybernate for a bit? Hang out with Muriel and do some tempting? Does he have a plan and how will he cope being on his own?

DAY 4: “There was magic abroad in the air…”

Let’s talk Ineffable Husbands! How are Crowley and Aziraphale going to resolve things between them? Will there be a massive fight? Radio silence for days/weeks/months/years? Will they learn to Actually COmmunicate? Will there be grudges, grand gestures, secret meetings, a big rescue mission from either side?

DAY 5: “Extreme sanctions.”

On day six we wanna make ourselves anxious, sad and upset. (As one does.) What thing that may or may not happen in season 3 are you most worried about? Dark/depressed/evil/etc Crowley? Memory-wiped/brain-washed/archangel Aziraphale? Book of Life? How could Neil & Co hurt us the most?

DAY 6: “Do you…want a hot chocolate?”

After day 5’s spiral, it’s time for a metaphorical treat. What are you most looking forward to in season 3? What do you really want to see? Headcanons coming true? Scenes you wish for? Things that’ll make you wanna name your cat/dog/fish/insert other pet here Neil Richard Gaiman or Sir Terence David John Pratchett?

DAY 7: “It’s starts, as it will end, with a garden.”

Finally, to finish it all up, let’s speculate about the end of season 3. How do you think we’ll leave this story? Will things just go back to how they’ve always been? Will there be peace? Earth hidden from Heaven and Hell with a big 500 Lazarii miracle? Aziraphale and Crowley turned human? Or will they get their cottage in the South Downs for the rest of eternity?

[offtorivendell]

Truth-Teller, Gwydion and Illyrian Runes... or are they actually Wyrdmarks?

This post was written for @azrielappreciationweek Day 7 - Free

Disclaimer: as always, this is just a theory that I think is fun and it makes no claim of being canon. It's definitely entering crack theory territory. This post also isn't Azriel specific - it's more about the dagger he has used for centuries and how it may tie into the Maasverse, or Prythian's plot, as a whole than Azriel himself. I know it's Azriel Appreciation Week, but this is his dagger, at least currently, so I feel like it's okay. It also rambles a bit, sorry.

Spoilers: there are big, huge, massive Maasverse spoilers ahead, so please beware.

Other posts about Azriel and/or Truth-Teller you might find relevant:

Why is Azriel so different? On Dusk, Hel and the Valg

What if Azriel - or his Shadows - are Made Beings?

Azriel could be Koschei’s heir; a crack theory

Shadows, siphons and fog; has something happened in Velaris?

Powerful Heirlooms and the Four Treasures of the Tuatha de Danann

Does Truth-Teller portend a future relationship between Azriel and Elain Archeron? Especially the first section, about Fragarach inspiring TT.

The possible significance of Azriel and Elain Archeron, the Embrace of Solas and Cthona, the paired blades Gwydion and Truth-Teller, and thin places; a theory - in particular the section about the two Made blades.

Love it or hate it - though personally, I love it for many reasons - we all know about the "Truth-Teller scene" in ACOWAR. While I do think it will end up being incredibly crucial and symbolic for Azriel and Elain Archeron as a couple (you may disagree of course), I also think there is a good chance that its importance to the overall plot was intentionally highlighted by its inclusion in the ACOTAR colouring book, which is what I hope to discuss here (plot, not romance, though as this is romantasy I do think the couple will be reflected in the plot/vice versa).

Here is the passage again, to refresh your memory:

Viviane stepped in, offering a Winter Court fashion that was far less scandalous: leather pants, but paired with a thigh-length blue surcoat, white fur trimming the collar. In the heat, it’d be miserable, but Elain was thankful enough that she didn’t complain when we again emerged from the covered wagon and found our companions waiting. She refused the knife Cassian handed her, though. Went white as death at the sight of it. Azriel, still limping, merely nudged aside Cassian and extended another option. “This is Truth-Teller,” he told her softly. “I won’t be using it today—so I want you to.” His wings had healed—though long, thin scars now raked down them. Still not strong enough, Madja had warned him, to fly today. The argument with Rhys this morning had been swift and brutal: Azriel insisted he could fly—fight with the legions, as they’d planned. Rhys refused. Cassian refused. Azriel threatened to slip into shadow and fight anyway. Rhys merely said that if he so much as tried, he’d chain Azriel to a tree. And Azriel … It was only when Mor had entered the tent and begged him—begged him with tears in her eyes—that he relented. Agreed to be eyes and ears and nothing else. And now, standing amongst the sighing meadow grasses in his Illyrian armor, all seven Siphons gleaming … Elain’s eyes widened at the obsidian-hilted blade in Azriel’s scarred hand. The runes on the dark scabbard. “It has never failed me once,” the shadowsinger said, the midday sun devoured by the dark blade. “Some people say it is magic and will always strike true.” He gently took her hand and pressed the hilt of the legendary blade into it. “It will serve you well.” “I—I don’t know how to use it—” “I’ll make sure you don’t have to,” I said, grass crunching as I stepped closer. Elain weighed my words … and slowly closed her fingers around the blade. Cassian gawked at Azriel, and I wondered how often Azriel had lent out that blade— Never, Rhys said from where he finished buckling on his own weapons against the side of the wagon. I have never once seen Azriel let another person touch that knife. Elain looked up at Azriel, their eyes meeting, his hand still lingering on the hilt of the blade. I saw the painting in my mind: the lovely fawn, blooming spring vibrant behind her. Standing before Death, shadows and terrors lurking over his shoulder. Light and dark, the space between their bodies a blend of the two. The only bridge of connection … that knife. Paint that when we get home. Busybody. - ACOWAR, chapter 69

I have previously theorised that Truth-Teller may have pierced the veil of Prythian's world in order to let Elain shadow walk through the murky realm/void to save Nesta and Cassian at the end of ACOWAR - which of course parallels Azriel's threat to "slip into shadow and fight anyway" - but it also ties into the power that Truth-Teller and Gwydion/the Starsword can activate together: instead of opening a portal to somewhere, as a few of us had previously theorised about Truth-Teller alone, we learnt in HOFAS that the dagger and sword will open a portal to nowhere.

A black hole... or a Void?

@wingedblooms has previously suggested that the woman on the cover of HOFAS, who had runes - or were they really Wyrdmarks? - down her arms, may be Wyrd, and I agree. We would both especially love it if Wyrd was the secret language of the universe - the language spoken by shadow, wind and stone, or even what Singers used to cast spells - because how much would that make sense? It would also tie TOG in with a tidy bow, given the importance of Wyrd, Wyrdmarks, Wyrdkeys and Wyrdgates to Aelin's story.

But it could get wrapped up even tidier. I hope.

The markings on Truth-Teller's sheath

Take a much closer look at the "Illyrian runes" on Truth-Teller's scabbard, the runes that SJM made sure existed in print, in May 2017 (the colouring book was published the same day that ACOWAR came out, on the 2nd of May).

But back to the runes.

Do you see what I see?!

They are so similar to the runes on HOFAS' cover that it cannot be coincidental? I acknowledge that they're not identical, but they pass the vibe check.

A. I've previously discussed the possibility of the first rune on the HOFAS cover being derived from the Embrace of Solas and Cthona, and that it might have been indicating the two Made blades, Gwydion and Truth-Teller, coming together to create a portal to nowhere. @wingedblooms has also brilliantly suggested that it could be depicting the three mountains of the Night Court, or even the three sister peaks. But do you see the similarity with the top rune(s) on Truth-Teller's scabbard? The dot and two ^ type markings come together differently, but imo the components are still there.

B. This portion is the weakest link for sure, not least because there are more runes on the woman's arm than Truth-Teller's sheath - and I'm no artist so my opinion definitely comes with a huge heaping of salt (if anyone wants to weigh in then please do!) - but I can see similarities in the elements of certain runes. If I put my clown hat on then the spiral could be referring to a vortex/portal, and the marking half hidden by the O could be depicting a ship... you know, like those names after the Archeron sisters.

C. The two opposing triangles on Truth-Teller could be referencing the diamond on the woman's forearm and the crescent moon shape half hidden by Azriel's thumb could potentially be linked with the crescent moon shape above the diamond. Could the diamond on each of her forearms be suggesting siphons, like those worn by Azriel and Cassian? And is the crescent moon referring to the Mother, or Wyrd? SJM paralleled siphons and invoking stones were in ACOSF, was she hinting that the Illyrians and the priestesses all serve Wyrd in the end?

If I'm correct - a big "if" - the difference in runes, or Wyrdmarks, could be down to one of a few potential reasons (though the following list is not exhaustive):

It was always intentional so we wouldn't piece it together too easily.

The almost seven year gap between ACOWAR and the colouring book coming out in 2017, and HOFAS in 2024. Things change.

The in-universe time difference between Wyrd's birth/creation and Truth-Teller's forging. Did the wyrdmarks "evolve," so to speak?

The Wyrdmarks are not actually identical; perhaps they only look similar because they have similar or even complementary meanings?

I'm actually completely wrong and need to remove my clown makeup right now. 🤡

It would make sense that Truth-Teller's wyrdmarks were not identical to those we would see on Wyrd (assuming it is actually Her on HOFAS' cover). One of those things is a goddess, a force who created their entire universe, and the other is a dagger that can help open a portal to the Void and ferry the bearer through. Truth-Teller's scabbard might tell a story, it might hold a warning, or even contain a spell or the instructions for activating its magic etc; are they a spell to contain the power of the blade, as Bryce hinted at in HOFAS, or something else?

As if their sheaths had kept their power contained, the naked metal now throbbed against her palm, up her arms, tugging toward each other so violently it took all her strength to keep them apart. - HOFAS, chapter 48

It's just a pity that - unless I missed it - we weren't told about any markings on the Starsword, though that's assuming that its scabbard¹ was the original (or that Truth-Teller's is the original, of course - maybe it was given a new sheath, one with a very specific message, after Silene returned to Prythian). All we know is that both blades were Made by the Cauldron, with their obsidian² (wyrdstone?) hilts and black Iridium blades that can devour light (though Gwydion's blade can sparkle) and appear muted in darkness, I assume because there is no sunlight to charge their magic.

¹ @ladynightcourt3 has previously suggested that Truth-Teller may have been blessed by the God of Truth, who also blessed Damaris - the Sword of Truth, first wielded by Gavin Havilliard and currently claimed by Dorian Havilliard - which also has Wyrdmarks on its scabbard and was used in the Valg king Erawan's death. She's also reminded me that the Asterion blades in TOG also have markings, and are described as being made of a dark metal imbued with starlight... sounds familiar!

² @emmitaaa4 reminded me that wyrdstone can cause headaches in those who carry it - and who is known to rub his temples so much that Elain gifted him headache powder? Azriel.

I have spoken before about the possibility of the obsidian hilts either being possessed by some sort of Void based being, or that the material may help the Made blades attract a prince of Hel by design (here and here). Imagine if the Iridium³ blades come from a meteorite originating in Hel. Could the Made blades be secret wyrdkeys thanks to their hilts?

³ The element iridium's name is derived from "Iris," which means rainbow. Could this be where the meteorite that went into forging Gwydion and Truth-Teller have fallen... in the Rainbow of Velaris? What does this mean for Velaris' history, or the future of the Made blades? Will Feyre, the protector of the Rainbow, become involved?

What might this mean for Prythian?

Let's revisit the Truth-Teller scene, and pay close attention to Elain's clothes: Winter Court attire. Too warm, but Elain didn't complain... is that because she suspected she may have to brave the cold, harsh environment in the space between before the day was done? My next suggestion is unlikely, but could her face have turned crimson because she didn't know how to ask for warmer clothes without explaining that she'd Seen that she'd need them, especially if she knew that she was going to be sent away and she'd have to work from the shadows, as uaual? This could even tie in with my theory that the Archeron sisters will "sail" (for lack of a better term, sorry I know it's silly) the bat brothers by Singing them across the Void, possibly to Hel, as Nesta wanted insulated leathers in ACOSF. @elrieldreamer and I have previously discussed the fact that the serpents (dragons?) on HOFAS' cover look like they could be passing through Wyrdgates, which could also circle into the "sailing through the void" idea I mentioned in my post about The Weaver's Song, because Illyrian armour is known to feature scales. So isn't it handy that Emerie can source fleece-lined leathers!

“I was about to write to you before Bellius interrupted me. I asked about making leathers with fleece inside.” Emerie leaned her forearms on the immaculate counter. “It can be done, but it’s not cheap.” “Then it’s beyond my means, but thank you for finding out anyway.” “I could order it and let you pay it off as you’re able.” - ACOSF, chapter 25

Then there's the blade-like object that appears to be pointing down onto the eight-pointed star above the woman's head; could it be indicating Truth-Teller or Gwydion, or even Damaris - the Sword of Truth - from TOG?

The eight-pointed star obviously holds relevance to Nesta, given the tattoos that she and Cassian shared for much of ACOSF and Bryce's parting remarks in HOFAS, and we know the Starborn used it as their symbol, but why? Many don't realise that it may also have been the symbol on 'The Elain' ship that Papa Archeron commissioned among the three named for each of his daughters. Could it be a seafaring compass rose/rose of the winds, as Wingedblooms has previously discussed? Is it also related to Ishtar, another amazing theory shared by @wingedblooms' and @merymoonbeam? Or could it actually be the Chaos⁴ star, and truly be a symbol of Wyrd as Chaos, the Mother - or dam - to all?

⁴ I hope to post this theory soon.

I cannot move past the fact that, in addition to The Elain flying an eight-pointed star with nothing on either side (referencing the Void?), The Nesta was flying a dragon with two suns, and The Feyre was flying two crescent moons and diamonds. It has to mean something, right?

I still find it really interesting that one of the eyes of the woman on HOFAS' cover - which seems to be all about depicting gate travel and world walking - appears to be bleeding, when Gwyn remarked in ACOSF that reading Merrill's theories about multiple worlds made her eyes bleed.

Gwyn frowned. “Lots of things. Merrill’s brilliant. Horrible, but brilliant. When she first came here, she was obsessed with theories regarding the existence of different realms—different worlds. Living on top of each other without even knowing it. Whether there is merely one existence, our existence, or if it might be possible for worlds to overlap, occupying the same space but separated by time and a whole bunch of other things I can’t even begin to explain to you because I barely understand them myself.” Nesta’s brows rose. “Really?” “Some philosophers believe there are eleven worlds like that. And some believe there are as many as twenty-six, the last one being Time itself, which …” Gwyn’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Honestly, I looked at some of her early research and my eyes bled just reading her theorizing and formulas.” Nesta chuckled. “I can imagine. But she’s researching something else now?” “Yes, thank the Cauldron. She’s writing a comprehensive history of the Valkyries.” - ACOSF, chapter 13

Now, Gwyn was obviously being flippant while attempting to demonstrate the extent of Merrill's brilliance, but who do we know who has peered across one world so far, who may be set up as a worldwalker with a strong affinity to any thin places? Elain Archeron, the sister whose ship flew the eight pointed star sail for all to see. A Seer. Will the Seer's eyes bleed when she looks too far, or past wards of "mist and shadow" designed to keep her out?

“Firebird by day,” Rhys mused, “woman by night … So she’s held captive by this sorcerer-lord?” Elain shook her head. “I don’t know. I hear her—her screaming. With rage. Utter rage …” She shuddered. Mor leaned forward. “Do you know why the other queens cursed her—sold her to him?” Elain studied the table. “No. No—that is all mist and shadow.” Rhys blew out a breath. “Can you sense where she is?” “There is … a lake. Deep in—in the continent, I think. Hidden amongst mountains and ancient forests.” Elain’s throat bobbed. “He keeps them all at the lake.” “Other women like her?” “Yes—and no. Their feathers are white as snow. They glide across the water—while she rages through the skies above it.” - ACOWAR, chapter 33

Its over-large teeth clacked faintly. “Thrice now, we have met. Thrice now, you have hunted for me. This time, you sent the trembling fawn to find me. I did not expect to see those doe-eyes peering at me from across the world.” - ACOWAR, chapter 58

Alpha and omega. Ask and answer (and Azriel told Elain that Truth-Teller would "serve" - a synonym to "answer" - her well). Made (or Make) and Unmade (or Unmake). Matter and antimatter. Gwydion can kill the unkillable, while Truth-Teller slew an almost unstoppable king. They Sing⁵ to each other - is it a spell, or are they communicating in Wyrd, the secret language of the universe > Chaos > eight pointed star? - and to those who bear enough Starborn magic to hear it. Azriel learnt that he can charge a Starborn fae like Bryce in HOFAS, there are three Archeron sisters who share significant parallels with Bryce and Theia... and wouldn't you know it, Azriel has two brothers. I could always be wrong, but this all seems fated to me.

⁵ I know I'm not alone in speculating whether Elain heard Truth-Teller Singing to her like kin, as @wingedblooms, @emmitaaa4, @psychologynerd and @ladynightcourt3 all share this theory at least (I've also wondered if she can hear Azriel's siphons singing, but that's another theory). Is this why Elain's eyes widened when Azriel offered Truth-Teller? Did it Sing to her? Is she a Singer, as @silverlinedeyes, @wingedblooms and I suspect? Was this in addition to (or instead of) her Seeing herself using it to kill the king? If true, this could parallel the scene earlier on in HOFAS where Elain's eyes widened at "the shadowsinger's display" just before Azriel winnowed her to Windhaven; was Elain listening to his shadows and/or Truth-Teller such that she could activate the blades (or her own) hypothetical shadow walking magic later on?

Anyway, sorry for rambling on a fair bit there, if you made it this far thank you for reading my nonsense! I am so excited to learn what SJM has been planning, because just like Koschei I think she's been playing the long game and setting all of these pieces up for years, even if it was just in case.

[lobotomist-at-tabs]

mcr5 is real in my heart and here's how it could happen

disclaimer: this isn't actually evidence of mcr5, this isn't based on stone cold facts, i just think this concept would be really cool

buckle up and get ready for a crack theory i came up with while half asleep on my floor last night🫡

so, we know this tour is themed after the rise and fall of a dictatorship - draag, this sort of militarized land as shown in the tour teaser videos. according to the description of one of these videos, draag cast away the band (called "the black parade" in this lore, not "mcr") into some kind of prison, but tbp was being brought back as it was the dictator's favorite band. if tbp was a band with enough anti-govt sentiments to be banished in the first place, why was draag bringing them back? - to make a draag propaganda album. mcr5, if you will.

(if any of you are clikkies, you may know the scaled & icy lore - to my understanding, it's tyclancy being forced to make an album to promote dema, which is why its so markedly different than tøp's other works. this is what inspired me - it's possible that mcr would try to do the same thing.)

it could start off something very pro-draag, but in an almost sarcastic way. the same way that vampire money is a massive promotion of hollywood & capitalism, when we can tell it's actually a tongue-in-cheek critique of those who 'sell out'. then, it would become steadily more and more unhinged - the music getting 'weirder', the lyrics becoming more upfront, losing the image that draag curated for them as they take back control of the narrative and use art as a weapon for change. if they wanted to be awesome they could perform one new song at each long live show, and have the shows slowly become more disheveled.

and then, the album closes with foundations of decay: a song all about how all things end and return to the world, which could perfectly represent the fall of an empire. it would also establish that long live is a prequel to swarm tour - swarm is the aftermath of this collapse, which is why foundations of decay was part of it.

and of course after the tour they could release professional versions of these live songs, making mcr5 into a reality.

i do believe that if mcr was going to come back and make new music, it would have to be very rebellious / political, along the vein that danger days and conventional weapons began to fall into. after all, if frank can write I Am Going To Kill The President Of The United States under the Obama administration, i can't even begin to think what they would cook up in this current political climate lmao

anyway! only time will tell what this tour has in store for us, and there's a million different ways that mcr could go with both their lore and their music (and i'd eat it up no matter what). this is just an idea that i thought would be really fucking cool :D

[moncherriecoups]

Muted Hearts

Some love stories are whispered, not spoken. Some promises are signed, not said.

This is ours.

──────────────────────────────

Seungcheol x f!oc | Minghao x f!oc (?)

Tags: tense relationship, idolxoc, slowburn relationship, angst

Word count: 3k

──────────────────────────────

Chapter 11

Ari barely slept.

Correction: Ari did not sleep at all.

Despite Sua’s countless reminders that they had to wake up early, Ari had spent the entire night tossing, turning, and buzzing with uncontrollable energy. Every time Sua started drifting off, a sharp whisper would cut through the silence—pulling her back into the waking world.

“Where did you even get the ticket?”

Sua groaned into her pillow. “Ari.”

“No, like, where?” Ari flopped onto her side, hugging her giant Hoshi plushie like it contained the answers to life’s greatest mysteries. “You just—had a spare VIP ticket lying around? For a Seventeen concert? A BARRICADE ticket?”

Sua pulled the blanket over her head. “Go. To. Sleep.”

Ari did not go to sleep.

Instead, she kept running her mouth, voice growing increasingly dramatic.

“I’ve never even won a raffle. I never get lucky. I have, like, the worst karma in the universe! But suddenly, my best friend is out here casually flexing VIP seats?”

Sua kicked her.

Ari shrieked, half-laughing, half-offended. “HELLO? EXCUSE ME??”

"Shut up." Sua turned away, trying to bury herself deeper into the mattress.

But Ari wasn’t done.

She gasped, sitting up as if she’d just cracked a conspiracy theory. “Wait. Wait.” She turned to Sua, narrowing her eyes. “Did Xu Minghao give it to you?”

Sua froze.

Ari leaned in, lowering her voice like they were exchanging black-market information.

"You know... since you're, like, besties now or whatever?"

Sua groaned, rubbing her temples. "Ari."

“I mean, it makes sense!" Ari started counting on her fingers. "One: You’re his favorite gallerist. Two: You guys always talk at the gallery. Three: He was totally into your exhibition, all of it, don’t even deny it." She wiggled her brows. "And four—"

"Ari." Sua shoved her back down onto the mattress. "Shut. Up."

Ari huffed, flopping onto her back. She did not shut up.

Morning came too fast.

Even with less than four hours of sleep, Ari was fully charged.

She emerged from the bedroom dressed head-to-toe in Horangdan gear—a bright orange tiger hat perched on her head, complete with floppy ears. Her nails were painted with tiny tiger stripes, and her oversized Hoshi fan was tucked securely under her arm like a prized possession.

Her phone screen? A live countdown to the concert.

Her energy? Unmatched.

Sua, meanwhile, was exhausted. She barely had the strength to grab her purse, let alone deal with Ari’s never-ending excitement.

The moment they stepped into the apartment lobby, a sleek, black luxury van pulled up to the entrance.

The door slid open—revealing plush leather seats, dim mood lighting, and a fully stocked snack bar.

Ari froze mid-step.

Silence.

Then—

“EXCUSE ME?” Ari turned so fast her tiger hat nearly flew off. She grabbed Sua’s wrist, voice rising an octave. “WHO DID YOU SLEEP WITH TO GET THIS?!”

Sua smacked her arm. “Shut up.”

Ari pointed at the van like it was a holy relic.

“This is a PRIVATE VAN. A luxury van. This—this is IDOL TREATMENT.” She turned back to Sua, eyes wild. “SUA.”

Sua ignored her and climbed in, casually settling into the plush seats.

Ari scrambled in after her, immediately inspecting the interior.

“Oh my God. It has mood lighting.”

—

If Ari had been feral in the van, she was borderline unhinged by the time they arrived at the venue.

The second their tickets were scanned, and they were let inside for soundcheck, Ari nearly fell to her knees.

“Sua.” She gripped her shoulders. “I need you to physically restrain me.”

Sua deadpanned. “I think I need to put you on a leash.”

They made their way into the standing section, right up to the barricade. The massive stage loomed ahead, still empty, save for a few staff members setting up in the background. Around them, other VIPs were already buzzing with excitement, adjusting their cameras and murmuring in anticipation.

Ari? Absolutely losing it.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS,” she whisper-shouted, gripping the barricade. “HOSHI IS GOING TO BREATHE THE SAME AIR AS ME. IN APPROXIMATELY FIVE MINUTES.”

Sua rubbed her temples. “Can you chill?”

“CHILL? CHILL?!” Ari turned to her, wide-eyed. “HOW CAN I CHILL? LOOK WHERE WE ARE, SUA.”

Before Sua could reply, the music started.

The crowd erupted into cheers as the stage lights shifted, and one by one, Seventeen members stepped out.

The energy in the venue spiked instantly. Even though it was just a soundcheck, the sheer presence of thirteen idols on stage was overwhelming.

And then—

Hoshi walked out.

Ari died on the spot.

She grabbed Sua’s arm so hard she nearly cut off her circulation. “OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD—”

Sua sighed, gently prying Ari’s claws off her. “Please don’t pass out.”

“I MIGHT.”

Hoshi adjusted his in-ear monitor, scanning the crowd casually. Then, his eyes landed on Sua.

For a split second, he hesitated.

Then—his expression shifted.

A knowing smirk.

His head tilted slightly, recognition flickering in his eyes.

Oh, he remembered her.

Sua blinked. Oh, no.

She quickly looked away, but it was too late.

Other members had noticed too.

Minghao, for one, had been casually chatting with Jun when he followed Hoshi’s gaze—and his expression hardened slightly.

Seungcheol?

Well.

Seungcheol had already spotted her the moment he stepped onto the stage.

He hadn’t reacted much—just a quick glance, a brief flicker of something in his eyes—but the slight tightening of his jaw didn’t go unnoticed.

Ari, however, was blissfully unaware.

Because at that exact moment, Hoshi waved.

Directly. At. Them.

Ari stopped breathing.

“H—H—H—” She made an unholy noise, slapping Sua’s arm aggressively. “DID YOU SEE THAT?! HE LOOKED AT ME. HE LOOKED. AT. ME.”

Sua exhaled. “You’re literally wearing a full Horangdan uniform. Who else would he look at?”

But Ari wasn’t listening. She had entered a new plane of existence.

Meanwhile, just a few feet away, a cluster of hardcore fans in the VIP section had begun whispering.

Not about Hoshi.

About Sua.

One of them—a fan with a DSLR camera slung around her neck—narrowed her eyes, staring directly at Sua like she was trying to confirm something. She whispered something to the girl next to her, who immediately glanced up, her face twisting in recognition.

Then—a phone appeared.

The girl began typing rapidly, her fingers moving fast across the screen.

Ari didn’t notice.

But Sua?

She felt it.

That familiar, uneasy feeling.

It was subtle, but it was there.

The shift in energy.

The quiet murmurs.

The stolen glances.

She swallowed hard, gripping the barricade a little tighter.

Something told her something will happen.

—

“You’re staring.”

Seungcheol blinked.

Jeonghan smirked. “Should I get you a telescope?”

“Shut up,” Seungcheol muttered, adjusting his in-ear monitor.

But he wasn’t fooling anyone.

Because his eyes kept darting back to the barricade.

Specifically—to Sua.

She was right there.

Front row, center.

His girlfriend, in the middle of thousands of fans.

She looked adorable.

Her oversized sweater swallowed her frame, her Seungcheol fan tucked under one arm like she was embarrassed to hold it up. Her hair was tucked behind her ears, and she kept adjusting her grip on the barricade, her eyes flickering between the stage and the fans around her.

He knew she was nervous.

Even from this distance, he could tell.

She was standing still, too still, while Ari bounced beside her like an overcaffeinated rabbit.

And Seungcheol—he hated that he couldn’t do anything.

Not now.

Not when the lights were dimming, and the soundcheck was about to start.

Still, he couldn’t stop looking at her.

And apparently, everyone noticed.

“HYUNG!”

Seungkwan yanked his arm, hard.

“You’re BLUSHING,” Seungkwan whispered dramatically, eyes gleaming with pure chaos.

Seungcheol scowled. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” Jeonghan hummed, eyes twinkling.

“You look like you wanna jump off the stage,” Mingyu added.

Seungcheol was this close to throwing his mic at them.

But before he could snap, the music cue boomed through the venue, and they moved into their positions.

Just as the lights hit the stage—

A scream pierced through the air.

Not just any scream.

Sua’s scream.

But she wasn’t screaming for him.

She was screaming for—

“DOKYEOOOOM!!!”

Seungcheol whipped his head around so fast he almost snapped his neck.

Dokyeom, who had just been vibing peacefully, flinched.

“Huh?” he blinked, clearly startled as he looked toward the crowd.

Sua waved enthusiastically.

Seungcheol’s eye twitched.

Jeonghan burst out laughing.

“Oh, this is PRICELESS,” he cackled. “She just screamed for Dokyeom right in front of you.”

Mingyu clapped a hand over his mouth, trying—and failing—to stifle his wheezing laughter.

Meanwhile, Dokyeom looked extremely confused.

Because he knew exactly who Sua was.

And she was, very much, his hyung’s girlfriend.

So why was she yelling for him like some excited fangirl?

Seungcheol felt his blood pressure rise.

Because he knew why.

She was messing with him.

That little—

He turned back to the barricade, and—

Yup.

Sua was smirking.

Smirking.

Like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Seungcheol narrowed his eyes.

“You okay, hyung?” Seungkwan snorted, nudging him.

“I’m fine,” Seungcheol gritted out.

But he wasn’t.

Not when Sua was still grinning at him, her face full of mischief, as if daring him to react.

Oh, it’s war.

—

The soundcheck had been an experience. For Sua, it was a mix of secondhand embarrassment from babysitting Ari and the awkward tension from the members recognizing her. For Ari, it was the greatest moment of her life—or at least that’s what she had been shrieking about the entire walk back to the van.

Now, as they finally climbed into the vehicle, Ari collapsed onto the seat with the drama of an Oscar-winning actress.

“Oh. My. God.” She clutched her chest like she had just run a marathon. “I can die happy now. Hoshi looked at me. He actually—” She gasped. “We made EYE CONTACT.”

Sua, still reeling from her little stunt with Seungcheol, let out a breathless laugh.

“Uh-huh.” She plopped down beside Ari, kicking off her shoes.

“No, you don’t get it, Sua,” Ari whined, clutching her wrist. “He saw me. He acknowledged me. He even—” She suddenly grabbed Sua’s shoulders.

“WHAT IF HE RECOGNIZED ME?!”

Sua blinked. “…Why would he recognize you?”

Ari froze.

Then she slowly let go, clearing her throat. “Right. Never mind. Not important.”

Sua narrowed her eyes. “Ari…”

“ANYWAY.” Ari abruptly turned away, eyes lighting up as she finally noticed the inside of the van.

And then she froze.

Her mouth fell open.

“Sua,” she whispered.

Sua turned to her, confused. “What?”

Ari’s eyes darted around the spacious, pristine interior—the plush leather seats, the stocked mini fridge, the perfectly arranged blankets and warmers, the small basket of snacks nestled beside them.

A basket of snacks that was filled with…

Ari snatched one of the packs of shrimp chips and held it up like it was evidence in a crime scene.

“This is your favorite snack.”

“...Yeah?”

Ari grabbed a bottle of chamomile tea from the fridge. “And this. You always drink this at night.”

“Ari—”

Ari slowly turned to her, eyes narrowed.

“…Sua.”

Sua gulped.

Ari’s voice dropped. “Be honest with me.”

Sua swallowed hard.

“Are you,” Ari leaned in, “dating Xu Minghao?”

Sua choked.

“What?!”

Ari pointed at the snacks. “Be fr! No friend would go this far unless he’s—” she gasped, hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my God. Are you his secret muse?!”

Sua buried her face in her hands. “Oh my God, Ari.”

“I KNEW IT!”

“You did NOT.”

“Then how do you explain this?!” Ari waved around the luxurious setup. “A VIP ticket. A private VAN. Snacks stocked exactly to your taste?!”

Sua sputtered.

“Admit it, Sua,” Ari said dramatically. “You and Minghao… It all makes sense now. You’re secretly dating—”

“Ari.”

Ari stopped.

Sua gave her a deadpan look.

“I’m not dating Minghao.”

Ari squinted. “Then who—”

Sua’s phone vibrated.

She glanced down and saw a text from Seungcheol,

Hey, I'm glad to see you

I hope the van is comfortable enough

Did you eat yet? See you again soon

Sua’s stomach flipped.

She hesitated, thumbs hovering over the screen.

Ari leaned over.

Sua immediately tilted her phone away. “HEY.”

“OH MY GOD.” Ari gasped. “WHO WAS THAT?!”

“N-NO ONE.”

“NO. THAT REACTION??” Ari grabbed her shoulders. “SUAAAAA. WHO WAS THAT??”

Sua shoved her off. “NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.”

Ari LET OUT A SCREAM.

“Oh my God, YOU’RE DATING SOMEONE—”

“ARI, DROP IT.”

“OH, I AM NOT DROPPING THIS.”

Ari slumped back into her seat, arms crossed.

“Fine,” she huffed. “I’ll find out eventually.”

Sua sighed, rubbing her temples.

Ari suddenly leaned forward. “Can I have these shrimp chips?”

“…Take the whole basket, Ari.”

Ari cheered.

—

By the time the concert was about to start, the atmosphere inside the venue had shifted completely. What had been a chaotic mix of screaming, excitement, and restless energy during soundcheck had now transformed into something electric—anticipation crackling in the air like a storm about to break.

Sua felt it.

The vibration beneath her feet as the bass thumped through the speakers, the collective hush of thousands of fans waiting, the way her own heart pounded in her chest.

Ari, on the other hand—

“OH MY GOD, IT’S STARTING!!”

Sua barely had time to register the sudden assault on her eardrums before Ari was grabbing her arm, shaking her violently as the lights dimmed.

“Ari, please,” she wheezed, prying her fingers off.

But Ari wasn’t even listening. She was too busy clutching her Hoshi fan like a lifeline, practically bouncing on her feet as the intro VCR played on the massive screens.

And then—

The music HIT.

The first beat of “Fearless” BOOMED through the stadium, and the entire venue exploded.

Screams, flashing lights, the sheer force of thousands of fans jumping in sync—it was overwhelming in the best way possible.

Sua felt the rush of it, the kind of thrill she hadn’t experienced in years. The kind that only came from being one of them.

Not Seungcheol’s girlfriend. Not an outsider.

Just a fan.

And then the members emerged on stage.

Ari LOST IT.

“OH MY GOD, HOSHI—”

Sua, meanwhile, had her eyes locked on one person.

Seungcheol.

He was at the center, stepping forward like he owned the entire stage. Dressed in all black, his gaze sharp, his stance powerful, his movements precise.

He looked so different from the man who had clung to her in bed, whining about missing her just a night ago.

No—this wasn’t her Cheol.

This was S.COUPS, the leader, the performer, the man the entire world was watching.

And yet—

When the lights flashed across the stage, and their eyes met for the briefest second—

Sua saw it.

The slight quirk of his lips. The way his brows lifted just a little in amusement.

He knew she was watching.

And then, just like that—

He was gone, swept into the performance.

Sua swallowed hard.

And then, because she was still a fan first, she reached into her bag and pulled out her own Seungcheol fan.

Yes.

A massive impict of her own boyfriend.

Ari, who was too busy screaming over Hoshi, didn’t notice at first.

But when Sua hesitantly lifted the fan in front of her face, half-hiding behind it—

Ari froze.

And then she let out a choked sound.

“OH. MY. GOD.”

Sua winced. “Ari—”

“ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!”

Sua turned red.

Ari pointed at her in disbelief. “YOU’RE FANGIRLING OVER S.COUPS???”

Sua hissed. “SHUT UP.”

But Ari was howling. “YOU’RE SO EMBARRASSING.”

Sua ignored her.

Because on stage, Seungcheol had noticed.

For just a split second, his eyes flickered to the fan she was holding up—

And then—

He grinned.

Before Sua could even process that—

The music transitioned.

Straight into “Ash.”

Sua froze.

Oh, no.

Because that meant—

That meant this was one of Seungcheol’s most intense performances.

And sure enough—

The moment the beat dropped, Seungcheol’s entire expression changed.

Gone was the amused boyfriend.

Now, he was serious. Focused. Dangerous.

With the way he moved, the way his jaw clenched, the way sweat dripped down his temple—

He looked GOOD.

Sua gulped.

And then—

Seungcheol did something evil.

He glanced toward her section—right at her—and ran a hand through his damp hair.

And smirked.

Sua. DIED.

Ari screamed. “OH MY GOD, HE DID THAT ON PURPOSE.”

“I HATE HIM,” Sua wheezed, clutching her fan.

Ari cackled. “YOU LOOK LIKE YOU’RE ABOUT TO PASS OUT.”

“I AM.”

Meanwhile, Seungcheol just went back to rapping, like he didn’t just end her entire bloodline.

And worst of all—

The whispers had started.

Right around them.

Sua didn’t notice at first, still reeling from the fact that her ultimate bias was TOO powerful for her heart to handle.

But then she saw it—

A few heads turning toward her section.

Some fans in the VIP barricade were typing rapidly on their phones, whispering to each other.

A girl a few rows back was pointing.

Another had her camera trained on Sua.

And when Sua turned slightly—

She froze.

Because a few rows away, staring straight at her—

Was the same girl who cornered  her at  the gallery.

—

The concert was supposed to be at its peak—laughter, euphoria, and the exhilarating chaos that came with Aju Nice’s never-ending encore.

But for Sua, it felt like she was being swallowed whole.

The air around her was stifling.

It wasn’t just the whispers anymore. Eyes were on her. Sharp, prying, accusatory.

And it wasn’t just the people near her.

From the corner of her eye, she caught movement from other sections—some hardcore fans were shifting closer. Some were moving from the upper VIP rows, weaving their way down toward her.

Ari saw it too.

A lot of them were foreign fans, decked out in merch, their phones already raised. Some had their cameras recording, whispering rapidly in another language, pointing—at Sua.

Ari’s stomach twisted.

She was no idiot. She had seen how things worked in fandom spaces. The way certain types of fans reacted when they thought their idols were getting "too close" to someone.

And Seungcheol had been coming to their section too many times tonight.

The energy was turning.

From the moment Seungcheol had looked their way during soundcheck, the whispers had started. But now, the intensity was different. More dangerous.

And then—

A sharp shove.

Sua stumbled forward.

It wasn’t an accident.

Someone had pushed her.

Ari snapped around.

But before she could catch the culprit, another girl—a different one this time—brushed against Sua, her elbow digging into her side a little too forcefully.

Sua went rigid.

It kept happening. Small, subtle touches—but each one held weight.

An arm pressing against hers. A lightstick knocking into her shoulder. A step just a little too close, forcing her backward.

It was like they were closing in.

And then—

One of them grabbed her wrist.

Sua jerked back, heart hammering.

Ari snapped.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” she barked, shoving the girl's hand away.

The girl barely even reacted—she just smirked and turned away, disappearing back into the jumping crowd.

Sua’s breathing was shaky.

Ari grabbed her immediately.

“Sua—”

And then—movement on stage.

Seungcheol.

He had been laughing, caught in the chaos of the never-ending encore—but then his gaze landed on their section.

He froze.

His expression darkened.

And then, he started moving.

Ari cursed. No, no, no—

Seungcheol walked straight to the front of the stage, stopping directly in front of them.

Sua felt everything crash at once.

The fans noticed immediately.

“What the hell?”

“Why is he looking over here?”

“That’s the girl from—”

“Holy shit, it’s her. It’s really her.”

Ari felt her entire body go cold.

And then—another shove.

This time, it was harder. Sua barely managed to keep her balance.

Ari saw red.

But before she could do anything—

Another movement—not on the main stage,

Minghao.

His expression was thunderous.

He had seen everything.

And before Ari could even process it, he had already moved.

He wasn’t even on their side of the stage, but he was calling for security.

Within seconds, staff members began moving toward them.

Ari yanked Sua toward the aisle.

“We’re getting out of here. Now.”

“But—”

“Sua.” Ari’s voice was firm, almost frantic. “Come on. Now.”

Before Sua could say another word, Ari was already pulling her toward the exit.

—

Getting out of the concert hall should have felt like a relief.

It wasn’t.

The second Sua and Ari stepped into the open corridor leading to the exit, the whispers followed.

No—not whispers.

Sneers.

Muttered insults.

The low hum of resentment bubbling just beneath the surface.

And then—

A deliberate bump against Sua’s shoulder.

Ari reacted immediately.

“Watch it!” she snapped, her voice sharp as she turned.

The girl—a petite thing in a crop top and a Seventeen jacket—didn’t even look guilty.

If anything, she looked satisfied.

And she wasn’t alone.

Just a few steps ahead, another group of girls had stopped walking altogether, blocking the hallway.

Ari’s stomach dropped.

This wasn’t random.

This wasn’t an accident.

They were waiting for them.

Sua must have realized it too, because she subtly grabbed onto Ari’s wrist. Her fingers were ice cold.

Ari exhaled sharply.

Fine. If they wanted a fight—

“You should be ashamed.”

The words came from the girl who had bumped into Sua. Her voice was calm, almost bored.

But her eyes—sharp, cruel—told a different story.

Another girl, standing next to her, tilted her head mockingly.

“Seriously. How much did you pay?”

Ari’s blood boiled.

“What the hell are you talking about?” she snapped.

A quiet laugh.

“You think we don’t know?” Another girl crossed her arms. “We’ve known about her for weeks.”

Sua’s grip on Ari’s wrist tightened.

Ari’s pulse spiked.

This wasn’t just random hate.

They knew.

They knew.

The private forums. The underground sasaeng sites. That’s where this was coming from.

And that meant—

They had been watching. Waiting.

The girl at the front smirked. “You must be so proud of yourself. Playing innocent when you’re just another—”

Ari snapped.

“Say another word and see what happens.”

The group of girls laughed.

It was so casual, so mocking, it made Ari’s vision blur with rage.

But then—

Another voice.

A male voice.

“Excuse me. You need to keep moving.”

The security staff.

Minghao’s men.

The girls’ expressions twisted. They weren’t stupid—they wouldn’t risk getting kicked out.

For a moment, Ari thought they might push back.

But after a tense few seconds, they scoffed and walked away.

Ari didn’t move until they disappeared completely.

Only then did she turn back to Sua—

—only to find her shaking.

Not crying.

Not reacting.

Just—standing there, frozen.

Ari’s stomach clenched.

She gently grabbed Sua’s wrist. “Come on.”

Sua didn’t say anything.

Didn’t protest.

She just let Ari pull her away.

—

The van felt too quiet.

Sua hadn’t said a word since they got in.

Not when the doors shut.

Not when the driver asked if they were okay.

Not even when Ari ranted the entire ride back about those psychotic sasaengs.

She just sat there, hands clenched in her lap, eyes blankly staring at nothing.

Ari was worried.

Like, really worried.

Because Sua wasn’t just shaken.

She looked like she was somewhere else entirely.

Ari had seen her upset before—angry, frustrated, annoyed—but this?

This was different.

“Hey,” Ari finally said, nudging her lightly. “Say something. You’re freaking me out.”

Sua blinked.

Slowly.

Like she’d just remembered where she was.

“…Sorry.”

Ari frowned. “You don’t have to apologize. That was insane. Are you okay?”

Another pause.

Then—

A small, forced smile.

“I’m fine.”

Liar.

Ari narrowed her eyes. “No, you’re not.”

Sua exhaled, tucking her hands between her knees.

“I should’ve known,” she murmured.

Ari froze.

“What?”

Sua didn’t look up. “I should’ve known this would happen.”

Ari stared at her.

For a moment, she didn’t know what to say.

And then—

Her stomach dropped.

Because she realized what Sua meant.

She thought this was her fault.

“Okay, absolutely not,” Ari said firmly. “That’s not on you. Those girls were insane.”

Sua shook her head, still staring at her lap.

“They weren’t wrong.”

Ari’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

Sua finally looked up.

And that’s when Ari saw it.

The guilt.

The deep, suffocating guilt in her eyes.

“They knew about me before today,” Sua said quietly. “Which means people have been talking about me for weeks.”

Ari didn’t respond.

Because she knew where this was going.

“And now, because of tonight…” Sua inhaled sharply. “It’s going to get worse.”

Ari felt sick.

Not just because Sua was blaming herself.

But because she wasn’t wrong.

Minghao had called security for her. Seungcheol had stood there on stage, staring directly at her.

Even if people hadn’t been sure before…

Now they would be.

The rumors weren’t just whispers in sasaeng circles anymore.

By tomorrow, they would be everywhere.

Ari clenched her fists. “Listen to me.”

Sua didn’t.

She just kept going.

“I’m putting him at risk.”

Ari froze.

“That’s not true,” she said immediately.

But Sua laughed softly.

Not because it was funny.

Because it was helpless.

“It is, though.” She leaned back against the seat, pressing her fingertips against her temples. “He’s about to go on tour, and now I’m a liability.”

Ari hated that she couldn’t argue.

Because as much as she wanted to say Sua was wrong…

The truth was, she wasn’t.

The sasaengs weren’t going to let this go.

Neither would the hardcore fans.

And Seungcheol?

His entire career depended on his public image.

If things spiraled…

Ari swallowed hard. “Seungcheol doesn’t care about that.”

“I do.” Sua’s voice was quiet.

And that’s when Ari realized.

This wasn’t just about what happened tonight.

[neitherabaron]

My honest opinion: the Switch 2 Direct had several “Yay!” moments, but a LOT of “meh” ones too.

Despite having lots of cool things to announce, and very little bad, it ultimately felt poorly structured and in my opinion emphasised many of the wrong things.

My favourites (and my criticisms) under the cut. Spoilers from here on out so be careful:

Favourites:

- Mario Kart World. I desperately want to see more of this because it looks ridiculously fully featured. Open world racers haven’t always landed with me, but the idea of exploring a massive game world full of Mario Kart’s design and sensibilities? Exquisite.

- Donkey Kong Bonanza. Redesign aside, this is gonna be fantastic. I love the idea of a more chaotic 3D platformer than we’d normally expect to see from Nintendo, plus after 25 years, it’s high time DK got another crack at 3D.

- The Duskbloods. Holy shit, I was not expecting this. Mind blown. Can’t wait to get my hands on this. Miyazaki saw Sony dragging their feet and finally took matters into his own hands, huh!

- Kirby’s Air Riders. I imagine a few people might have preferred it if the game Sakurai’s been alluding to had turned out to be Smash 6, but I’m mostly just glad that he’s had a chance to do what he wants and develop a different passion project, rather than getting fed straight back into the Smash Bros grinder.

- Deltarune. I’ve actually been putting off playing Deltarune for a good long while, because I didn’t like the idea of starting a massive story and then having to wait so long for a conclusion (not a shot at the release model, just my own inability to hold characters and scenarios in my head). But now I’m finally gonna be able to play the whole thing, and I am Hype.

Least favourite game announcement:

The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker (specifically the GameCube version, via emulation, on the NSO subscription): Just let me pay for the HD remaster with all the improvements they made for Wii U, rather than paying monthly to have access to the inferior version of the game, through the lens of Nintendo’s questionable emulation, thanks.

My general criticisms of the Direct:

Oh boy. This is gonna read as very negative, which kind of sucks because on the basis of what was shown, there is a LOT to be excited about. But I think taken as a whole, the presentation left a lot to be desired and didn’t add up to a great first impression. It was less than the sum of its parts, and really shouldn’t have been. Let me explain.

They spent a good deal of time showcasing hardware feature, particularly the camera and mouse mode. This was a great idea in theory, they failed to reveal much in the way compelling gameplay that integrates them - particularly the mouse. DragXDrive is a start, but it looked to be the barest of bones on this first showing.

A lot of time in the early to mid presentation was spent re-announcing games that are already confirmed for Switch 1 and explaining how some of them will be very slightly better on Switch 2. While, again there’s nothing wrong with this idea, leading with, and placing major emphasis on minor performance upgrades and expansions to Switch 1 games, some of which have been available for many years, does not create a compelling case for sinking hundreds into a new console. This is something you factor in at the end of the presentation, not as one of the first concrete details you cover.

(Side note - I actually think this is cause for concern. While the reasons for the Wii U’s failure were many and complex, very few people at this point would claim a lack of quality games - in fact the later success of much of the Wii U’s library on the Switch indicates the opposite! However, one factor I do often see cited is that the Wii U’s marketing failed to set it apart as something fresh and vital. Seeing Nintendo pitch, at great length, their brand new console’s ability to run a Zelda game from 2017 at a higher frame rate, and/or an expensive way to play games already announced for Switch 1, before they so much as pulled out a second exclusive Switch 2 title, did not fill me with confidence that the right lessons were learned.)

To be more positive for a moment, the major exclusive announcements all looked fab to me, especially DK Bonanza and The Duskbloods (!!). I think it’s fair to say I was expecting more exclusives, and that I’m surprised that the whole thing went by with no mention of a 3D Mario. It’s also worth noting that, of the major, not-on-Switch-1 exclusives (Mario Kart, DK, Hyrule Warriors 3, Duskbloods, Kirby Air Riders), only Mario Kart will be available at launch, which is a bit of a blow if like me, you were hoping for a big, single player experience at launch. Breath of the Wild sold Switch to me, not Mario Kart 8, and I know I’m not alone there.

My bigger problem with how they handled the exclusives within the presentation is that none of them received anything like a proper deep dive, even though these should be the system sellers were all getting hyped for.

I understand Mario Kart will be getting one in a couple of weeks, which is something, but considering how short the exclusives list was, it was a shame not to see a little more of each. Speaking subjectively, it felt to me like these big, important exclusives ended up getting less overall coverage in the presentation than the third-party lineup, all of which is or will be freely available (and likely much cheaper) elsewhere.

Overall, the problem is not one of content, but of emphasis. After all, third-party support and backwards compatibility is vital to the success of a modern console! But the decision to frontload the presentation with lukewarm demonstrations of the hardware, games which are also playable on Switch 1, and non-exclusives, while first-party and third-party exclusives received comparatively little emphasis and were often relegated to the tail end of the show, was baffling. It killed the momentum of the presentation, diluted the message that this is a must-have product, and dampened my enthusiasm quite a bit.

And yeah, I’m also sad that we only got 3 seconds of Silksong to confirm it still exists, but let’s face it, we did that to ourselves, didn’t we?

[scoutofmymind]

The Body Politic — { Hasan x Luigi }

Content: m/m, student / professor dynamic, skaterboy!Lu, rough sex, some fluff, aftercare

Wc: 7,310 (oops)

Notes: When Luigi confronts Professor Piker over a B-minus, their collision of bourgeois inheritance and radical pedagogy transcends into carnal praxis — the body politic rendered flesh.

Luigi shifts restlessly from his left foot to his right, his reflection fractured across the massive freestanding mirror that dominates his bedroom — a mirror his father insisted on shipping from their summer home in Sicily.

American mirrors lie to American men, tesoro

His dark eyes cast merciless judgment upon himself, noting the contrast between his deliberately casual Champion hoodie and the Italian marble floors beneath his scuffed Vans.

His long fingers stretch outward with a practiced motion, each knuckle cracking with satisfying little pops that echo against the high ceilings as he wracks his brain over every possible scenario.

Despite the rehearsal, and despite the practiced arguments forming and reforming on his lips, he knows full fucking well that all this preparation for confronting his impossibly intimidating professor over a goddamn B-minus will crumble into awkward stammering the moment those eyes lock with his.

Was he being dramatic?

Well, it's hard to say when you've grown up with a father who once flew a specialized negotiator from Naples to Manhattan just to dispute a single-point deduction on Luigi's eighth-grade science project.

And he had no desire to fish for advice from his friends — most of whom would have shamed him for getting anything below an A to begin with, their voices laden with that uniquely American competitive edge that made education feel like a fucking blood sport.

The other half would advise accepting the grade he was given, offering platitudes about learning experiences, or looking the gift horse in the mouth.

But this grade counts for a significant chunk of his semester's end, a percentage that looms like a storm cloud over the careful academic narrative he's constructed to justify his presence at NYU instead of the family business— one his father tolerates with thinning patience that manifests in increasingly frequent calls that begin with "When you finish this... education... phase" and end with heavy silences.

This isn't something he can roll over and take, not when Professor Piker's casual red pen strokes feel like they're dismantling more than just his argument on progressive economic theory — they're chipping away at the fragile foundation of his self-constructed identity, the version of Luigi who earns respect through intellectual merit rather than his last name.

He pulls his faded t-shirt up, locking the soft cotton between his teeth, he rolls the graded papers into a tight cylinder, and shoves them into his back pocket with perhaps more force than necessary, stretching to accommodate his academic grievance.

The weight of his skateboard is a sense of familiarity against his palm as he snatches it from beside his door, and within moments, he's navigating the chaotic symphony of New York traffic with the confidence of someone who's never had to worry about hospital bills, weaving between honking yellow cabs and delivery trucks, occasionally flipping the board beneath his feet when stretches of sidewalk permit.

And now he stands, heart hammering against his ribs, before Piker's front door — a weathered brownstone entrance that seems impossibly ordinary for someone so magnetic, someone whose Rate My Professor page is filled with heart emojis.

His skateboard is propped against his thigh, the grip tape rough against his jeans, his fist lowering to his side after a few knocks while his dark eyes bore into the peephole with the unflinching focus inherited from generations of men who've stared down more dangerous adversaries than political science professors.

The tiny fish-eye lens he knows Hasan is peeking through distorts him, but Luigi holds his ground, chin slightly raised, a challenge in his posture that says more clearly than words —

I'm not leaving until we settle this.

The door swings open with sudden force, revealing Hasan standing in the threshold, his thick brows furrowed in a mixture of confusion and mild irritation, casting shadows over eyes that seem to pierce through Luigi's rehearsed arguments before he can even voice them.

Hasan's clearly been working out — his broad chest bare and glistening with a sheen of sweat that catches the hallway light, muscles defined in ways that academic robes and button-downs had only hinted at during lectures.

A simple black t-shirt is clutched in his large hands as he works to turn it right side out, the casual domesticity of the gesture somehow making Luigi's mouth go dry.

"Mangione?" Hasan's voice carries that distinctive timbre that somehow cuts through lecture halls without ever seeming to raise in volume, the slight inflection at the end turning Luigi's family name into both recognition and question, his head cocking slightly to the right, dark hair falling across his forehead.

But Luigi — who had spent the better part of an hour rehearsing this very moment, who comes from a long line of men renowned for their ability to speak forcefully in any situation, whose father once stared down three business rivals for seventeen silent minutes until they all agreed to his terms — finds himself utterly, catastrophically quiet.

The prepared speech about economic determinism and the unfairness of the B-minus evaporates from his mind.

His skateboard slides an inch down his thigh, nearly toppling before his hand instinctively steadies it, and the paper in his back pocket suddenly feels like it's burning against his skin through the denim.

All he can process is the absurd reality that Professor Piker — the man whose political theory lectures he's transcribed verbatim in his leather-bound notebooks, whose book recommendations have formed a separate stack beside his bed — has biceps that could probably crush those very books without effort.

The silence stretches between them, growing more awkward with each passing second, the only sound the distant wail of a siren somewhere in the city and Luigi's own heartbeat thundering in his ears.

Hasan's expression shifts from curiosity to something harder, more professorial. "The answer is no," he crosses his muscled arms over his chest. "Your critique of neoliberalism was surface-level at best."

The words hit like a physical blow to the teeth, igniting something primal in Luigi's chest, and the fog of distraction evaporates instantly, “Surface-level?" He finally finds his voice, the words exploding from him, "With all due respect, Professor, I traced the economic policies from Reagan through Clinton to their modern implementations. I cited fourteen separate sources.”

He reaches back and yanks the rolled paper from his pocket with such force that it makes a slight ripping sound at the corner, unfurling it with a snap of his wrist, pointing at a paragraph circled in Piker's red pen.

"You wrote here that my analysis 'fails to connect the theoretical framework to real-world consequences.' But on page eight-“ Luigi flips to the page, his my-professor-is-shirtless-in-front-of-me awkwardness replaced by academic fury, "I explicitly outlined how these policies created the housing crisis.”

Luigi steps forward, closing the gap between them without even realizing it, his voice rising with conviction, the paper trembling slightly in his hand — not from nervousness now but from the intensity of this one-sided argument.

"And furthermore, your comment about my 'reliance on conventional wisdom rather than critical analysis'-“ he practically spits the words back at Hasan, "completely disregards my deconstruction of the myth of trickle-down economics using data that I personally compiled from three different economic journals.”

He's fully animated now, the Sicilian blood running hot in his veins, the careful facade of casual college student completely shed and gone with the polluted city wind.

This is the Luigi who dominated debate tournaments in prep school, who argued economic theory with his father's associates around dinner tables since he was fifteen, who stays up until three in the morning highlighting texts not because he has to but because he genuinely cares.

"B-minus suggests mediocrity," his eyes are locked on Hasan's, big, dark brows furrowed to the point of practically touching. "And whatever flaws my paper might have, Professor, mediocre it was not."

Hasan doesn't immediately respond.

Instead, his expression shifts subtly — the stern professorial mask giving way to something more complex. His eyes narrow slightly, dark and evaluating as they travel from Luigi's flushed face down to his gesticulating hands and back up again, and the corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile but something in its neighborhood.

The silence stretches between them, charged with a new tension that wasn't there before.

A car horn blares distantly in the Manhattan night, and a drop of sweat traces its way down Hasan's temple, catching on his jaw before he absently swipes it away with his thumb.

"Come in," his voice is lower than before, almost gravelly. He steps aside with deliberate slowness, his broad shoulder brushing against the doorframe as he creates space in the entrance.

The invitation sit between them for a moment, transforming what should have been a simple academic confrontation into something that suddenly feels far more loaded.

Behind Hasan, Luigi catches glimpses of a space that looks nothing like what he'd imagined; bookshelves overflowing to the point of structural concern, a half-empty glass of something amber on a coffee table stacked with journals, a pull-up bar mounted in one doorway.

The apartment smells of sandalwood and coffee and something else distinctly male that makes Luigi's next breath slightly deeper than necessary. "I-" he begins, then stops, rolling the paper in his hand that reminds him why he came, tucking his skateboard under his arm. "Yeah. Okay."

He steps over the threshold, acutely aware of Hasan's presence as he moves past him into the apartment, the proximity making the height difference between them more apparent than it ever was in lecture halls.

For a fleeting moment, their eyes meet again, and Luigi could swear there's an approving gleam in his gaze that has nothing to do with academic performance.

"I've had students cry, I've had students bribe, but I've never had one track me down at home to argue theory," He sets down two tumblers on the counter in the kitchen with a soft clink. "I'm not sure if I should be impressed or concerned." His eyes meet Luigi's with heated directness. "Does your father know you're this passionate about dismantling the economic system that built his empire?"

The casual mention of his father — and the implications about their family wealth — lands like a precise strike, testing for weakness.

Luigi doesn't flinch at the direct hit, though something flickers in his dark eyes; a brief calculation before he decides on honesty.

He sets his skateboard against the wall, buying himself a moment before meeting Hasan's gaze again. "My father thinks I'm studying business administration," His fingers unconsciously smooth the crumpled edges of his paper. "So no, he doesn't know."

He moves further into the apartment, taking in the scattered books and papers with an appreciative glance before refocusing on Hasan.

"My critique of predatory capitalism doesn't mean I'm naive about where my rent money comes from, Professor," Luigi gestures vaguely toward the window at the Manhattan skyline beyond it — a view his family's name is attached to in ways most NYU students would never realize. "Unlike some trust fund babies, I actually recognize the system that benefits me is fundamentally unjust."

Hasan studies Luigi for a long moment, his expression unreadable, but eventually his features soften slightly as he reaches for a bottle of expensive bourbon on the counter — the same brand Luigi's father keeps in his study — and pours two fingers into each glass.

"That's the most honest thing I've heard from you all semester," Hasan slides one glass across the counter toward Luigi without asking if he wants it. "Your paper wasn't bad, Lu. It was safe."

He takes a sip of his bourbon, his eyes never leaving Luigi's. "You sit in my class three times a week with insights you never share. You write papers that check all the technical boxes while avoiding anything truly challenging or original." The criticism is blunt, but there's no cruelty in it — Luigi thinks it sounds more like disappointment.

"Then you show up at my door," he continues, gesturing with his glass, "finally showing the fire I've been trying to draw out of you since September." He leans his hip against the counter, the movement casual but somehow commanding the space, making Luigi feel smaller. Silly. Silly, silly little boy. "So which is the real you? The kid who skates through my class with politically correct answers, or the one standing in my apartment right now, ready to fight for what he believes in?”

Luigi reaches for the bourbon, a humorless smile touching his lips before he takes a sip. "Does it matter?" he finally responds, "The B-minus is still fucking bullshit." He sets the glass down with more force than necessary, creating a sharp clink against the countertop.

But something in Hasan's eyes — the lack of reaction to his deflection — makes Luigi continue despite himself, and his shoulders drop slightly, some invisible armor shedding as he looks away toward the bookshelves lined with texts he's studied in secret, the same ones Hasan has recommended during lectures.

"I've spent my life in rooms where speaking honestly gets you excused from the table," his voice is quieter now, rougher around the edges. "My father's business dinners, board meetings I was allowed to observe but not contribute to, family gatherings where questioning the status quo is treated like fucking treason."

The bourbon seems to loosen something in him, or perhaps it's just the strange intimacy of standing in his professor's kitchen, being seen in a way he typically avoids. "So yeah, maybe I don't fucking raise my hand to challenge neoliberal assumptions in a lecture hall full of students recording everything on their phones. But self-preservation isn't the same as lacking conviction."

Hasan takes a long swallow of his bourbon, pushing himself away from the counter and moving into the living room area, expecting Luigi to follow — and of course he does.

"You're not in your father's boardroom now," Hasan’s voice takes on a harder edge, “This is my space, where we speak honestly or not at all." He gestures to the cluttered but comfortable living room with books stacked on nearly every surface, and photocopied articles with aggressive highlighting spread across the coffee table.

Before Luigi can respond, Hasan continues, "So what's your plan? Graduate with honors, take a symbolic job at some shitty non-profit to ease your conscience, then eventually return to the family business with your 'radical phase' behind you?"

"That's not fair," Luigi follows Hasan, but the protest sounds hollow even to his own ears. He takes another drink, "You don't know what it's like."

"Don't I?" Hasan settles onto his couch, "I've taught dozens of students exactly like you. Different names, same rich kid sob story."

Something about being categorized, dismissed so easily, ignites that same fire in Luigi's chest from earlier — so he remains standing, unwilling to be physically lower than Hasan during this conversation.

"So that's it? You've got me all figured out? The rich kid playing at revolutionary politics?" Luigi's voice rises slightly, his jaw clenched. "If you already decided who I am, why even bother grading my papers? Why not just give all us trust fund students our inevitable B-minuses and save yourself the trouble?"

There’s a drawn out silence between them again, the corner of Hasan’s lips ticking up once more.

"What do you really think of me?" Luigi finally asks, the question emerging before he can reconsider it. He sets his glass down hard enough that bourbon sloshes over the rim. "Not as a student. Not as a Mangione. Just me. Because I get the feeling you've disliked me from day one, and I want to know why."

Hasan doesn't answer immediately.

Instead, he takes another slow sip of bourbon, his eyes never leaving Luigi's face, and the silence stretches uncomfortably — a tactic Luigi recognizes from class discussions when Hasan wants to force students to sit with their discomfort.

Finally, he leans forward, elbows on his knees, the movement causing the muscles in his shoulders to flex and shift in the dim light.

"You want honesty?" Hasan’s voice is low, controlled. "I find you frustrating. You could be brilliant if you weren't so damn concerned with maintaining your safety net." The words land just how he wants them to, neither gentle nor cruel — just ruthlessly accurate. "Your papers show these teeny tiny glimpses of original thought before you inevitably retreat to safe territory."

He tilts his head slightly, studying Luigi's reaction before continuing, "But my opinion doesn't matter. The real question is why you care so much about it." He gestures between them with his glass. "Why track me down at my apartment? Why risk this conversation? You have enough connections to transfer to any professor's class with a single phone call."

Hasan stands suddenly, closing some of the distance between them. Even in casual clothes, there's something imposing about him — a physical confidence that matches his intellect, even Luigi in the moment couldn’t deny it.

"You mistake high standards for dislike," he adds, his voice dropping even lower. "If I didn't think you were capable of more, I wouldn't bother pushing you at all. The students I actually fucking dislike get easy A’s and forgettable recommendations."

Luigi doesn't dare back away from Hasan.

"My father would love you," he grumbles instead, a bitter vibration cutting through every syllable. "Another man telling me I'm not living up to my potential." There's history in that statement, years of similar conversations echoing behind it.

His jaw tightens momentarily before he goes on.

"If you wanted my best work, you should have asked for it directly instead of playing mind games with my grade," there’s a tinge of color rising to his cheeks now, the bourbon loosening something in him — not just his words now but his entire demeanor. "You talk about me retreating to safety, but you're the one hiding behind academic critique instead of saying what you really fucking mean."

Luigi steps even closer, a move that would be inappropriate in any normal student-professor interaction, but nothing about this night has remained within those boundaries.

"So stop with the cryptic comments and mixed signals," there’s an unmistakable challenge hiding there, right between the cracks of every word. "If you think I'm capable of more, tell me exactly what you want from me."

Hasan's expression shifts, something dangerous flickering across his features as his eyes darken; for a moment, the apartment is utterly silent except for their breathing — and there’s a calculation happening behind those eyes, a momentary weighing of consequences that dissolves into something much more focused.

"What I want," Hasan says, voice dropping to a rough whisper, "is for you to stop talking."

He turns abruptly, moving to the overflowing bookshelf behind him, fingers skimming along spines until they stop on a worn volume with a cracked binding.

He pulls it free from its tight spot between larger texts, holding it like something precious.

"Labor and Liberation," Hasan announces, turning back to Luigi with the book extended between them, "third edition, with margin notes from when I was even younger than you are now."

Luigi's expression flickers with confusion, lips parting slightly but words escaping him.

"Take it," Hasan commands, still holding the book out, "and read."

When Luigi hesitantly accepts the volume, their fingers brush momentarily, Hasan's warm against his cooler skin. “Page 43," Hasan directs, moving toward the couch and gesturing for Luigi to follow, "start at the paragraph about collective resistance."

Luigi trails behind, book in hand, the couch shifting under Hasan's weight as he settles at one end, leaving space that clearly indicates where Luigi should sit.

"I don't understand," Luigi begins, remaining standing.

"You claim to want intellectual challenge," Hasan interrupts, gesturing to the space beside him on the couch, "so fucking prove it."

Something about the tone of Hasan's voice makes Luigi comply, sinking onto the couch beside him, the book balanced on his knees as he finds the requested page.

The handwritten notes in the margins catch his attention immediately — passionate, occasionally profane observations in a younger version of his professor's handwriting.

"Out loud," Hasan prompts when Luigi remains silent, studying the page.

Immediately, he clears his throat and begins, "The fundamental contradiction of late capitalism lies not merely in resource distribution but in the alienation of the worker from their essential humanity-“

"No," Hasan cuts him off, shifting closer on the couch, "don't read it like you're giving a presentation, read it like you actually believe it."

The criticism stings, bringing color to Luigi's cheeks as he starts again, this time with more animation in his voice, less like recitation and more like conviction, to which Hasan nods approvingly, watching Luigi's profile as he reads.

Eventually, Hasan rises abruptly, moving behind the couch where Luigi sits, causing him to stop mid-sentence, “Keep reading," he instructs, his voice closer to Luigi's ear than expected, "and pay attention to what you're saying, not where I am."

Luigi struggles to concentrate as Hasan begins to pace slowly behind the couch, occasionally stopping to lean over Luigi's shoulder, pointing to a particular line or margin note.

Each time he leans in, his proximity proves increasingly distracting, his body heat palpable in the small space between them. "Stand up," Hasan commands after Luigi navigates several pages, voice growing increasingly confident with each paragraph despite the distractions.

Luigi rises, turning to face his professor with questioning eyes, book still open in his hands.

"No," Hasan corrects, taking the book from him and placing it open-faced on the coffee table, "turn back around, face the couch."

The instruction carries an authority that Luigi responds to instinctively, turning to face the couch as directed, Hasan moving to stand directly behind him, close enough that Luigi can feel his presence without them actually touching. “Now continue," Hasan instructs, "from where you left off."

Luigi has to lean forward slightly to see the book on the coffee table, placing one hand on the back of the couch for balance, and as he begins reading again, Hasan places a steadying hand on his shoulder, the touch seemingly innocent but laden with a tension Luigi can’t be certain yet to place.

Is this happening?

"When workers recognize their collective power," Luigi reads, voice growing slightly unsteady as Hasan's hand remains on his shoulder, "they fundamentally alter the relationship between labor and capital-“

His voice catches as Hasan's hand applies gentle pressure, guiding him to lean further forward over the back of the couch; the position feels vulnerable, exposed, but Luigi doesn't resist, continuing to read as Hasan's other hand joins the first, both now resting on his shoulders.

"The redistribution of power," Luigi continues, voice dropping lower as he realizes the deliberate nature of his positioning, bent forward over the couch back, Hasan standing close behind him, "requires not just economic restructuring but psychological liberation from-“

"From internalized hierarchies," Hasan completes the sentence, his voice a murmur close to Luigi's ear, hands sliding from shoulders to upper arms while still maintaining their guiding pressure, "what you’re reading says one thing, but your body is saying something entirely different, hmm?"

Luigi's breath catches, the theoretical discussion of power and submission on the page suddenly feeling far less academic and far more immediate as Hasan maintains him in this position, bent forward over the couch back.

How did he end up here?

Truly, he can hardly recall.

What’s that they say about boiling frogs?

Low and slow — they won’t even notice until it’s too late.

"I'm not sure what you mean," Luigi attempts, the words unconvincing even to his own ears, his body remaining in the submissive position despite no physical force compelling him to stay there.

"Keep reading," Hasan commands, one hand moving to the small of Luigi's back, applying gentle but firm pressure that guides him further forward until his chest rests against the couch back, the position unmistakably vulnerable, "but this time, pay attention to the parallel between it and what's happening right now."

Luigi swallows hard, focusing on the page though the words swim slightly before his eyes, "The illusion of choice within predetermined parameters represents capitalism's most elegant control mechanism-“ he reads, voice growing huskier as Hasan's hand remains pressed against his lower back, the other now moving to rest lightly on his hip.

"Your choice to come here tonight," Hasan murmurs, interrupting the reading, fingers tightening slightly on Luigi's hip, "your choice to stay, to follow directions, to position yourself exactly as I want you — predetermined parameters or authentic desire?"

The question floats along in the air between them, rhetorical, yet demanding an answer.

"Continue," Hasan prompts when Luigi remains silent too long, his hand sliding from Luigi's hip to his outer thigh in a slow, possessive movement that leaves no doubt about where this is heading.

"Liberation requires recognition of unseen constraints-“ Luigi manages, the words from the text suddenly feeling intensely personal as Hasan's body heat radiates against his back, not quite touching except for those controlling hands, "and willingness to dismantle internalized authority structures that-“ he gasps as Hasan's hand moves from his thigh to grip his waist more firmly.

"That what?" Hasan practically coos, voice deep with intention, using his hold to adjust Luigi's position slightly, angling his hips more prominently upward.

"That maintain existing power relationships.”

"Look at the margin notes there," Hasan directs, leaning forward so his chest nearly touches Luigi's back, pointing over his shoulder at scribbled writing, "what did I write?"

Luigi squints at the hurried handwriting, "Power isn't taken, it's surrendered first.” he reads, the words sending a visible shiver through him.

"Are you surrendering?" Hasan’s voice practically slithers with its own life now, his lips close enough to Luigi's ear that he can feel warm breath against his skin, "Or should I send you home with your B-minus and pretend this never happened?"

The ultimatum lands with perfect clarity — continue or stop — giving Luigi responsibility for the next step despite his physically submissive position.

"I'm not going anywhere," Luigi finally murmurs, voice dropping to a register Hasan hasn't heard from him before, deliberately pressing back slightly against Hasan's hovering form behind him, making his choice unmistakably clear.

This response triggers something primal in Hasan, his controlled demeanor cracking as both hands now grip Luigi's hips firmly, pulling him back from the couch just enough to position him perfectly, bent over the couch arm instead of the back, creating a more accessible angle.

"The book stays open," Hasan commands, voice rougher now as one hand moves to press between Luigi's shoulder blades, keeping his upper body down while the other works at his belt, "you're going to keep reading.”

Luigi gasps as cool air hits newly exposed skin, Hasan making quick work of his jeans, tugging them down along with expensive underwear to pool around his thighs, leaving him exposed and vulnerable over the arm of the couch.

"Page 45," Hasan directs, his own breathing heavier as he takes in the sight before him, one hand caressing Luigi's exposed flesh possessively, "start at 'The body politic requires submission to collective will.'"

Luigi struggles to focus on the words, reaching forward to turn the page with trembling fingers, hyperaware of his exposed position and Hasan's appraising gaze behind him.

"I'm waiting," Hasan reminds him, one hand continuing to explore Luigi's exposed skin while the other retrieves something from a nearby drawer, the distinctive snap of a cap opening making Luigi's purpose for the rest of the evening perfectly clear.

"The body politic requires submission to collective will-“ Luigi begins, voice breaking slightly as something cool and slick makes contact between his cheeks, Hasan's fingers exploring with unexpected tenderness despite the commanding tone, "suggesting that individual liberation paradoxically demands — nnnn— ahh,” he gasps at the pressure, the gentle insertion careful but insistent, one finger down to the knuckle.

"Demands what, Luigi?” Hasan’s lip is caught between his teeth, working him open with a patience and gentleness that is honestly unexpected, but strong in its own right.

"Demands recognition of interdependence,” Luigi manages, hips instinctively pushing back against Hasan's fingers despite his attempt to maintain focus, "and acceptance of vulnerability as — fuck,” he breaks off as Hasan finds a particularly sensitive spot, his fingers hooking into Luigi as his thighs begin to tremble slightly over the leather pressed against them.

"Language, Mangione," Hasan chides with mock professorial disapproval, though his actions become more intense, more obscene in their nature, "Continue reading or I stop."

The threat of abandonment at this point proves effective motivation, Luigi struggling to focus on the increasingly blurry text while Hasan's fingers work him open, "V- uhhhnn-Vulnerability as prerequisite for authentic connection-“ his voice catches again as his fingers withdraw, replaced by something significantly more substantial teasing at his entrance.

"Look at you," Hasan murmurs with what sounds like admiration now, one hand gripping Luigi's hip while the other guides himself into position, "the privileged Mangione, bent over my couch, reading political theory while I-“ he pushes forward slowly, drawing a long, shuddering gasp from both of them. “Fuck,”

The book slips forgotten from Luigi's fingers as Hasan establishes a rhythm, academic pretense finally abandoned as theory gives way to primal practice — Luigi should know better, though.

He came looking for a fight, and Hasan isn’t one to back down so easily.

Hasan's fingers thread through Luigi's hair, gripping firmly at the nape to regain his attention. "I didn't say you could stop reading," he growls, his rhythm slowing to an agonizing pace that makes Luigi whimper with red hot frustration. "Pick up the book."

Luigi fumbles for the fallen text, hands shaking as he tries to locate their place while maintaining his position. The multitasking proves nearly impossible, his concentration fragmenting between the intellectual and physical demands being placed on him simultaneously.

"Page 46," Hasan directs, his free hand maintaining its grip on Luigi's hip, holding him in place while barely moving now, using stillness as another form of control — and honestly, torture. "The passage about resistance as performance."

Luigi's fingers tremble as he turns to the correct page, struggling to focus his vision on the swimming text.

"The performance of resistance," he begins, voice breaking as Hasan rewards the compliance with a sudden, decisive movement that makes Luigi grip the book tighter, "often serves as— ah — as merely symbolic gesture rather than material threat to-to existing power structures-“

"Louder," Hasan commands, establishing a rhythm that perfectly disrupts Luigi's reading cadence, making him struggle for coherence. "I want to hear every word clearly, Mr. Mangione.”

Luigi attempts to project his voice, the academic language creating an obscene contrast to their current activity — he doesn’t know what he’s reading now, his body focusing on how full he feels. "True disruption requires-requires commitment beyond symbolic-“ he gasps as Hasan shifts angles slightly, his lip bitten between his teeth to stifle the pathetic little sound that almost escapes him.

"Beyond symbolic what?" Hasan prompts, slowing again, denying Luigi the satisfaction of continued movement until he complies, yet his hands are gentle, his touch reverent; he’s rough when he barks, but his bite is so gentle.

"Beyond symbolic action," Luigi manages, the words coming out between panted breaths, "to material intervention in-in systems of con-con-“ he draws in a shuddered breath, “Control.”

Hasan makes an appreciative sound, his grip tightening as he resumes his earlier pace, quick and steady. "You see the irony here, don't you?" He leans down to nip at Luigi’s shoulder, “Reading about dismantling power structures while you're at my mercy?"

Luigi can only respond with incoherent sounds of agreement, still trying desperately to maintain his focus on the text though the words blur increasingly before his eyes — he tries to get ahead, memorize the words in front of him so he can recite them without having to truly read them, but it’s hardly any use.

"Keep going," Hasan insists, one hand moving from Luigi's hip to press firmly between his shoulder blades, changing the angle in a way that draws a strangled moan from his throat, Hasan’s cock disappearing into Luigi who looks so small beneath him. "Next paragraph."

"The bourgeois intellectual-“ Luigi begins, then breaks off with a sharp gasp as Hasan's movements become more forceful, the couch shifting slightly beneath them with each impact while his muddied sight blinks away the mist in them to gaze up at a poster hung proudly in Hasan’s kitchen.

Eat the rich!

"The bourgeois intellectual what, Luigi?" Hasan demands, not slowing his pace, clearly enjoying the struggle between mind and body he's forcing Luigi to navigate, though he doesn’t quite sense just yet the strain it’s putting on him.

"The bourgeois intellectual often- often romanticizes revolution while- while maintaining personal distance from its- its- its consequences,” Luigi manages, each phrase punctuated by increasingly desperate sounds, his throat seeming to tighten, every word now followed by a moan or a whimper that he can no longer pretend to hold back.

"Just one more paragraph," Hasan insists, even as he hears the telltale hitch in Luigi's breath that he mistakes for his impending orgasm.

"I can't-“ Luigi's voice cracks, higher than usual, the controlled facade completely shattered, his chin quivering as he stares at the words before him that make absolutely no sense anymore, muddied together by tears that he doesn’t even know the meaning of.

"You can," Hasan counters, relentless in his demand for complete surrender, although it’s clear he’s gotten it, but without looking at Luigi, it was truly hard to tell how much he’d made the poor boy crumble. “Final paragraph on the page."

Luigi's next attempt comes out wavering, the words barely coherent. "Liberation requires- requires recognition of one's own — mmmm- uh- complicity in-“ His voice breaks completely on the last word, a trembling sound somewhere between pleasure and frustration that holds an unmistakable edge of impending tears, a sob that finally rattles his core straight down the middle.

Something in that sound breaks Hasan's dominant focus, triggering an immediate protective instinct, realization dawning upon him as he stills, one hand moving to stroke soothingly down Luigi's side once he realizes the line in which he had pushed Luigi over.

"Shh, that's enough," he coos, voice suddenly gentle as he carefully withdraws. "Alright, Lu. You’vd done enough reading."

Before Luigi can process the change, Hasan turns him around in one fluid movement, repositioning him on his back against the couch cushions, the new position bringing them face to face for the first time since they began, allowing Hasan to see the complete vulnerability written across Luigi's features — eyes over-bright and flooded with sweet, fat tears, cheeks flushed, lips parted and trembling.

"Look at you," Hasan whispers, the words carrying none of their earlier mockery, replaced instead with something like wonder as he carefully repositions himself between Luigi's thighs. "Finally showing me who you really are, hmm?”

He enters Luigi again with a new gentleness, maintaining eye contact as Luigi's legs wrap instinctively around him.

The power dynamic hasn't disappeared, but it's transformed — the physical dominance now balanced by a new emotional intimacy as Hasan watches every flicker of genuine response cross Luigi's unguarded features.

Those thick black eyebrows, those lashes that every girl on campus has mentioned their jealousy of at least once, pink lips that stay parted, almost as if they have something to say yet they’ve been rendered completely silent besides the little sounds allowed to escape them.

"I've got you," Hasan assures him, sensing the emotional intensity threatening to overwhelm Luigi as his defenses crumble completely — it’s a welcomed vulnerably. The smart-mouthed Mangione kid rendered to tears on his Professors cock. “S’okay to let go."

The permission breaks something open in Luigi — not just physical, but emotional surrender.

His several identities — the wealthy heir, the smart-mouthed student, the perpetual performer — all dissolve completely as a broken sound escapes him, somewhere between a gasp and sob.

"That's it, baby," Hasan murmurs, the endearment slipping out unconsciously as he watches Luigi come undone beneath him. "Let me hear you, let me see you."

Luigi's eyes flutter closed then open again, unfocused and vulnerable as Hasan cock moves within him with something far more tender. Each thrust draws new sounds from him — whimpers that rise in pitch, low moans that seem pulled from somewhere deep inside him.

"Fuck— please,” Luigi gasps, hands clutching desperately at Hasan's shoulders, nails leaving crescent marks in his tanned skin — his composure has completely shattered, leaving only raw need in its place, in his eyes there’s hardly any version of himself anymore.

"Please what, baby?" Hasan prompts, voice rough with his own mounting pleasure but unwavering in its control as he slows his movements, drawing a frustrated whine from the boy who’d that morning been only his student, who now has become his lover. "Tell me what you need."

Luigi's head thrashes against the cushions, pride completely abandoned as he arches up desperately. "Don’t- don’t stop — please don't fucking stop-“ The words tumble out between gasping breaths, almost delirious in their intensity but completely vulnerable in their own right.

Hasan groans in response, a deep, primal sound that reverberates through both their bodies. "Look at me," he commands, one hand cupping Luigi's face, thumb brushing away moisture from the corner of his eye — whether from overwhelming sensation or emotional release, it's impossible to tell.

When Luigi complies, their gazes lock, "That's it," Hasan encourages, his own breathing growing ragged as he increases his pace again. "Stay with me, baby — right here with me.”

Luigi's legs tighten around Hasan's waist, drawing him deeper with each movement, and the sounds he makes grow less coherent — broken ah-ah-ahs punctuating each thrust, occasional whimpers when Hasan hits exactly the right spot, his eyes no longer able to focus on any one thing.

His usual eloquence has abandoned him completely.

"You're so fucking beautiful like this," Hasan grits out, his own control slipping as Luigi tightens around him. A bead of sweat traces down his temple, his muscles tensing visibly with the effort to maintain rhythm as he moans against Luigi’s mouth. “So perfect for me, so — fuck,”

Luigi responds with a sound that's almost another sob, his fingers tangling in Hasan's hair to pull him down into a desperate, messy kiss that muffles his increasingly frantic noises.

When they break apart, both gasping for air, Hasan presses his forehead against Luigi's, "I've got you," he repeats breathlessly, one hand sliding between their bodies to wrap around Luigi’s cock, leaking pretty little beads of precome already down his knuckles. "Come for me."

Luigi's back arches sharply, a keening sound escaping him as his body tenses on the edge of release. "I can't — it's too much," he gasps, voice breaking, sounding younger and more vulnerable than Hasan has ever heard him.

His heart aches in his chest.

"You can," Hasan counters, his own voice dropping to a rough whisper, yet something so gentle. “I'm right here," His movements grow more erratic as his own control frays, deep grunts punctuating each thrust, the sound of skin against skin creating a rhythm beneath their mingled vocalizations.

When Luigi finally breaks, it's with a hoarse cry that seems torn from somewhere deep inside him — raw and unfiltered in a way that suggests he's never allowed himself this kind of abandon before; his body shudders, tears spilling from the corners of his eyes as pleasure overwhelms him completely, his hands reaching to hold any part of Hasan he can.

The sight and sound of Luigi's triggers Hasan's own orgasm, a series of deep groans building to a guttural "Fuck, Lu.” as he drives himself deep one final time, body tensing and then shuddering against Luigi's.

For several moments, there's nothing but their intermingled harsh breathing and occasional aftershocks that draw residual whimpers from Luigi and answering murmurs from Hasan. The intellectual power structure that defined their relationship has dissolved completely, replaced by this raw, physical reality of tangled limbs and racing heartbeats.

Hasan holds him through it, murmuring quiet reassurances against his skin, his earlier dominance transformed into something protective and steadying. "So good," he whispers, pressing gentle kisses against Luigi's temple, tasting salt from exertion and emotion. "I've got you, just breathe through it."

Luigi makes an incoherent sound in response, body still trembling with aftershocks, eyes unfocused and glazed. Hasan carefully brushes sweat-dampened hair from his forehead, studying his expression with surprising tenderness.

"That's it," he soothes, "just feel it, don't try to think yet."

Luigi floats in a hazy space between thought and feeling, his usual sharp awareness softened to something dreamlike and distant.

His eyes remain half-lidded and unfocused, a glossy sheen making the hazel irises appear almost liquid in the apartment's subdued lighting whilst his left hand wanders across Hasan's body with reverent, exploratory touches — fingertips tracing the definition of muscles, sliding along collarbones, mapping terrain he knows he might never touch again after tonight.

The contrast between how the evening began and where they've ended strikes him with a sudden clarity— from academic confrontation to this surrender, from performance to raw authenticity.

He knows with a certainty that feels both painful and necessary that they will likely never speak of this again — for tomorrow will bring the return of professional boundaries.

The professor and the privileged student resuming their assigned roles.

Luigi shifts slightly, pressing his chest more firmly against Hasan's, feeling the steady thud of the older man's heart against his own, their rhythms gradually synchronizing as they lie tangled together, his legs remaining intertwined with Hasan's, unwilling to create even an inch of unnecessary space between them.

"Mmm," he murmurs incoherently, lifting his head with effort to seek out Hasan's mouth, and the kiss he initiates is soft, almost drowsy, lacking the earlier desperate urgency but carrying a different kind of intensity — a wordless communication.

I know you’ll try to forget me, but please think of this.

Luigi sighs against his lips, stealing another kiss immediately after the first ends, and then another.

Each small sound that escapes him reveals his continued sensitivity, his body still processing it all, occasional tremors running through him, making him cling tighter to Hasan's solid presence.

"Stay still," Hasan murmurs when Luigi tries to reposition himself, clearly recognizing the limbo Luigi is suspended in, his body still warm and soft against him, "You're still floating. Give yourself time."

Luigi makes a sound of vague acknowledgment, nuzzling against Hasan's neck, breathing in the scent of him, as to not forget it — clean sweat, faded cologne, something uniquely masculine that his brain files away to remember later, when this moment exists only in memory.

"Your book," Luigi eventually whispers, the first coherent words he's managed since making the mess that slowly dries between their bodies, though they make little contextual sense; his mind is making connections that his mouth can't fully articulate yet, jumping between thoughts without the usual filters.

"What about it?" Hasan’s fingers continue their soothing path through Luigi's hair, seemingly content to let him process at his own pace.

"Never thought-“ Luigi tries again, pressing another kiss to the underside of Hasan's jaw, "theory could be so practical." The attempt at his usual wit falls somewhat flat, undermined by the dreamy tone of his voice and the way he continues to tremble occasionally in Hasan's arms.

"You weren't always Professor Piker," he continues, the observation carrying layers of meaning beyond the obvious statement, his hips shifting restlessly against Hasan's, not with reawakened desire but with residual sensitivity that makes him gasp softly.

"And you don't always have to be what they expect of a Mangione," Hasan whispers quietly, adjusting his hold to keep Luigi steady against him, pressing a kiss to his temple.

Luigi responds by seeking Hasan's mouth again, kissing him with slow deliberation, the sheen of tears returning to his eyes; not from sadness but from the overwhelming vulnerability of being seen — truly seen— for perhaps the first time. He makes no effort to hide them, beyond the capacity for embarrassment between who he was when he arrived and who he might become after he leaves.

[thefandomenchantress]

Chapter 2 Episode 15 Spoilers below!

Since Ace being the culprit has brought about so much pain to ace lovers, including me, I figured I'd make a list of all the good things that him being the culprit brings to us. Even though Ace will (probably) be executed next episode, that doesn't mean that nothing good came out of this, right?

-Ace's backstory may be revealed much sooner than expected! Before we would've had to wait for chapter 3 or chapter 4 and so on, but since Ace will be gone soon, almost everything not revealed next episode will get told to us in a bonus episode! (I think every dead person gets one of those? Idk if that's officially confirmed). I doubt Teruko's gonna find, like, Ace's diary in chapter three detailing his life story, so if we're ever getting the Taylor Lore™, it'll be in a bonus episode! Plus, a bonus episode would come out a lot faster than the whole of chapter three, so more Ace content sooner no matter what happens in it! And there's always the chance he gets picked for an FTE, since dead people are on the list of options.

-Ace canonically has neat, fancy handwriting. Begone rumors of Ace having illegible, traditionally boy-ish handwriting, he actually writes like a 19th century scholar and I find this very funny. More evidence for my 'Ace likes reading and writing and wanted to become a romance author' crack theory, since he also reenforced his particularness about vocabulary in chapter 2 part 2. (Our only remaining question: Does Ace actually have terrible spelling ('responsibel'), or did he just think Eden would?)

-Ace is very good at being sneaky and often overhears things he shouldn't. I can't wait for this to be used as a plot device in numerous fics ("XANDER YOU'LL NEVER GUESS THE SHIT I JUST HEARD DAVID SAY ABOUT YOU WHEN HE THOUGHT HE WAS ALONE").

-Ace will have to be included in the dead (formerly a) trio posts forevermore. Get ready for Xander-Min-Arei-Ace shenanigans.

-Now that the cast has been forced to acknowledge that being dumb and angry aren't Ace's only traits and that he's just as human as the rest of them, Ace is much less likely to be seen as just those two things by the average viewer. Ace's popularity, or at least the amount of dislike towards him, seems to have shifted since the last episode, and I'm happy more people are able to enjoy what his character has to offer now. He's a cool little guy. I've literally NEVER seen the Ace Markey tag this busy before.

-We got so many cool Ace CGs guys. SO MANY. Including one where he's hanging upside down on the swing set and looks weirdly cute for someone in the middle of a murder plan.

-Also new sprites! The DRDTdev gave Ace a redesign knowing full-well that it would only get a singular chapter of use, and I massively respect that. We already got some new sprites in part 2 of chapter 2 so far, and I'm guessing next episode he'll probably have at least one more breakdown sprite before he dies.

-For someone who no one in the cast liked, he's definitely going to leave an impact. He's finally made at least some of the cast realize what happens when they ignore the issues right in front of them. Ace shouts about how everyone hates him and sees him as an insufferable idiot? Eh, probably nothing, we don't have to worry about that. Sure, multiple people told him he's gonna die next in here, and he almost got murdered, but that won't amount to anything. What's he gonna do, murder someone--WAIT SHIT Ace step away from the Arei I repeat step away from the Arei-- (plus Teruko parallels). I'll probably go more in-depth about this sort of thing in a different post.

-WE NEVER GOT TO SEE WHAT'S UNDER HIS GLOVES. Kyoko and Mukuro both had hand-related secrets that connected them to the plot later on, does that mean Ace will have some sort of relevance to the mastermind or overall lore later on? Like a Mai tattoo situation? (Or maybe it's another thing that may be alluded to or discussed in the bonus episode)(Or left to interpretation but I hope not because I have so many theories).

If you have any more suggestions for other good Ace-related things the culprit reveal brought us, let me know and I can add them to the list! We need as many good things as we can think of right now...