#and by the end i was completely on board with everything

[yeokii]

desire : unleash ♱ / 엔𝗂하이픈 . ⠀BAD DESIRE ❨ WITH OR WITHOUT YOU ❩

𝐘𝐊 / 지키고 싶어 투명한 널 제발 그만 멈춰 서 ' 𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑡𝑢𝑎𝑟𝑦 ' 𓈀 you're their baddest desire, but they find their way back to you 𝒇. ͏ ── ❨ 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 ❩ 𝑚. 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 . 𝖸𝖤𝖮𝖪𝖨𝖨 𝖯𝖱𝖣

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀' 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗋, ──𝗍'𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗋𝖾 ''

【 𝐈𝐍𝐋𝓲𝐍𝐄 】 ⠀𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐𝘩 ! enha & fmr ﹒𓏶﹒ 15OO wrds / angst fs Ꜣ 善禹 ── skinship, kissing heh, enha are yearners, suggestive + CREATOR'S BOARD

🐰 : literally wrote this the moment i finished listening to the album. so the layout may seem a bit rushed ( I was literally giggling writing this someone stop me )

⠀⠀' HEESEUNG

you pulled him closer, his mouth tasted like regret.

you could feel it burning through your veins — a warning screaming at you to run away. but you couldn’t. you stayed still the moment he touched you. all you could think about was how you didn't pull away. heeseung cherished you like you meant the world to him and then ruined you completely.

he always got his way with you. and you always let him.

heeseung was never soft; it felt raw and real. never once has he sugarcoated anything to you; he spoke whatever was on his mind. he was the boy you swore you would never fall for.

but that look in his eyes — the kind that made your knees buckle under his gaze — was something you could never pull away from.

he wanted you.

he wanted to devour you whole.

no matter how many times you told him it wasn’t right, that you both weren’t right together, you would end up in his arms at the end of the day, his face nuzzled in your neck like it was his second home.

“this isn’t right.” he kissed your collarbone.

“then why do you keep coming back, doll?” your breath hitches.

because you couldn’t stay away. you couldn’t spend another night in a cold bed, awake and thinking about the boy who wrecked you. you wanted to spend eternity with his lips on yours, with his arms around you.

maybe it was wrong.

but it was the only thing that felt right.

⠀⠀⠀⠀read more ── open for the others !

⠀⠀' JONGSEONG

it’s silent. you can hear the soft patter of rain outside. the atmosphere feels heavy—the tension between you and jay is thick and suffocating.

you knew it was wrong. to be this close with the best friend of your brother.

jay presses his forehead against yours. "princess, i won’t be able to stop if you keep…"he says, meeting your gaze.

“do you just want to go back and pretend like nothing ever happened? like this doesn’t exist?” you asked.

“what about sunghoon?”

“i don’t care about him. not now.”

jay’s breath is hot against your skin. “say no,” he murmurs, his voice cracking just like his fleeting grip on self-control.

you don’t.

instead, you pull him closer, closing the gap between you.

he doesn’t ask again, crashing his lips against yours. all of sunghoon’s warnings fly out the window as he squeezes your waist, gripping onto you like you'd slip away from his fingers.

it’s just you and him now.

no one else.

and you both burn from the fire you created.

⠀⠀' JAEYUN

your world was built by rules and guarded by walls. it was clear you were brought up in a prestigious household, every movement precise, every word measured. from shoes that never touched the mud to your neatly ironed skirt resting at your thighs, everything felt calculated.

you were the epitome of elegance.

so it was obvious you weren't allowed to speak to boys like jake. his shirt was always a little wrinkled and his hair messy. never in a million could you imagine both your worlds colliding.

but it did.

from a glance to a kiss, he found his way through the cracks you didn’t even know you had.

it was pouring rain when jake showed up at your doorstep, his sneakers leaving muddy prints across the porch. he was drenched, his hair a mess.

but he didn’t care about that.

he cared about you.

it was the restless desire coursing through his veins that made him show up at your doorstep at 2 in the morning.

“what are you doing? my parents are asleep!” you whispered, heart pounding.

jake looked at you, his eyes speaking a million words. “i wanted to see you.”

you saw his desperate eyes.

he was begging.

“yn, i don’t think i can pull away from you. i need you.”

before you could respond, he pulled you in by the waist.

you didn’t resist.

instead, you wrapped your arms around his neck, crashing your lips against his.

because you needed him as much as he needed you.

⠀⠀' SUNGHOON

you thought sunghoon was the coldest boy you'd ever meet. and you were right. he was as sharp as a blade and always kept his walls up.

he didn’t feel or cry, distant from most people, always keeping them at arm’s length. but why did his heart pound whenever he came near you?

his usually steady hand trembled at your touch. he held you like you were made of glass.

he feared losing control, because he knew the moment he let go of every restraint, he’d ruin you completely.

you got him in places where no one else dared to. he pleaded, he was desperate. park sunghoon was wrapped around your fucking finger.

and you played with him like fire.

every second with you made him lose his mind. “if you knew what i’d do to you...” he whispered in your ear, his grip on your waist tightening.

you looked up at him, desperate to see what was hidden behind those eyes — "show me," you whispered, barely even hearing your voice.

but that was enough for sunghoon to lose it completely. his brain shut down; he was running purely by his heart. he was on fucking fire.

and before he could think, he kissed you like a man possessed. park sunghoon—the man who was always composed—finally broke under your touch.

⠀⠀' SUNOO

the golden prince. sunoo was flawless, soft-spoken, and untouchable. everyone loved him—in their eyes, he could never do anything wrong.

most people called him perfect—some envied him. but no one ever looked past the perfect facade he wore so carefully. no one had ever looked through the cracks he desperately tried to patch up.

until you met him. you saw right through him instantly. the shift in his eyes. the shift in his eyes, even when he was smiling, the way his hand shook in a crowd despite his talkative character.

you understood him.

and that terrified him.

because if you asked him, sunoo would let go of everything in a heartbeat. everything he worked so hard for. his image, his reputation—he’d tear it all down for you.

all he wanted right now was you.

sunoo yearned for you.

he desired you.

he pressed you to the nearest wall, his breath hot against your skin. “tell me you’re mine.”

his words felt more like a plea than a command. they came from a heart set on fire.

“always.”

and that’s when sunoo knew—you were his to begin with, his to end with.

he kissed you like nothing else mattered. not his perfect image, not the eyes that watched him, nothing.

sunoo was the golden prince—flawless, adored. but with you, he was just a sinner on his knees begging for a taste of your touch.

⠀⠀' JUNGWON

jungwon always had a plan. for almost everything, he was ready. calm and collected through any situation—almost as if he was waiting for it to happen. he never let anything shake him.

but what happens when he falls hard for you the moment you walked into his life? he wasn’t ready for this. he never expected it.

jungwon’s feelings were out of control, with nothing to contain them. he hated the way he felt lost. he hated how your name tasted on his lips—bitter yet sweet, a curse he could never resist.

“i shouldn’t feel this. i can’t.”

“but you do. i can tell.” you guide his hand over to his chest. you both can feel his heart pounding. “you’re burning.”

he looks at you, flames in his eyes. he knew it from the kisses you shared and the touches that made him weak in the knees. with or without you, he was ruined anyways.

he holds you tighter now. “please, don’t let go.” it wasn’t a surrender—it was the only way he knew to keep holding on.

and you don’t. you’d never let go.

you only bring yourself closer, his lips instantly finding yours.

plans, rules, everything he lived by—shattered in that moment. nothing in his mind could stop his heart from wanting you.

⠀⠀' RIKI

riki was impossible to hold back. no one could keep him from crossing boundaries. he was reckless, chaotic, and out of control.

call him crazy and look at him like he just lost his mind, he wouldn't bat an eye at the comments. honestly, he never cared. being himself and speaking his mind was all he knew how to do, rather than creating chaos wherever he went—it was the only language he knew.

but it never felt like enough.

nothing satisfied him. with each reckless stunt, he only grew hungrier — searching for something raw, something real.

and then there was you, your eyes dared to slow him down, your touch made him crazy.

"fuck, admit it. you want this too. you want me too," riki said, out of breath from the kiss you both shared. his hands gripped your waist, a silent claim that you were his.

it wasn't a want anymore, it was a need.

it was desire that you both felt. the one that could have cities in flames, the one that never dies.

the desire that was bad for your heart, but was all you could think of.

you could only nod, already aching to feel his lips back on yours. you helped him. you made him full. you filled in that empty void he had. you were what he needed when his mind spoke chaos.

and then he realized— the hunger he’d been chasing all along was you.

tags. @zuyairus @bubblytaetae @yenqa @voikiraz @miumura @haechansbbg @taejaysreads @shinunoga-iie-wa @teddywonss @naespas @isoobie @dimplewonie @jennaissantes @aishigrey @firstclassjaylee @rikislove @hynjinnnnnnnn

⠀⠀𝖺 𝗒𝖾𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗂 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽. do not copy, repost or translate my works

[23xfgg]

YANDERE! BATFAM x DRUG USER/SOBER! READER

(Ch. 1)

(Ch. 2)

(Ch. 3)

Ch. 3.o5 <-

Alpha // this chapter is going to take a more of a sadder route because I need to lay some bricks down for the framing of chapter 4.

Tag list is till open but will close by chapter 5 (if we ever get there) so just comment if you still want to be apart of the taglist or nah

Also here is some tissues if needed [insert box of tissues emoji because apple doesn’t have one] !!!

ENJOY THE CHAPTER 🐺🐺🐺‼️‼️‼️‼️

Edit: I forgot the TW// mentions of death, drug use, alcohol consumption, more mentions of death and gore, mentions of body/ corpse mutilation, and borderline suicidal thoughts.

It’s been a very off week.

Nothing especially bad has happen but the week just felt bad. Well, a couple of your stashes across Gotham got raided but that not something you are really hung up on.

But the week was just bad.

Every day through out the week just felt draining. It was the same routine over and over again. Wake up -> avoid the family and skip breakfast -> go to school (avoid Tim, Damian and Duke) -> walk home once school ends -> get ready (again) -> do drugs at some underground pit -> sneak back in so Alfred or any other member of the bat family doen’t catch you or raise suspicions -> sleep -> repeat. Even though the highs are worth it, dome days you just feel like an empty husk doing whatever you normally do to get by. And these days you don’t even have the energy to even properly get the sort of comfort that the drugs bring you or even go to see your only friend. So you just spend the night in your room surrounded by yourself and your thoughts. You are not completely sober when its just you in your room, you still have the alcohol stash hidden underneath the loose floor boards under your bed. But even so, when its just you alone in your room with a bottle of alcohol your thoughts get pretty dark. Thoughts about your mother’s death, thoughts about how you would die, gore and who would you piss off enough to get your organs removed and have your corpse mutilated and/or violated and left in a random ditch in crime ally. Overall just dark thoughts that you just lay there spiralling in those thoughts until the morning. Sometimes you wish that you take a swig of alcohol its goes down the wrong pipe and it kills you leaving your body to rot one top of the overpriced mattress in your room.

Your routine is the same, your habits are the same and it just gets boring. You just want to switch it up.

That’s what lead you to some abandoned building in Gotham shearing a blunt and some whisky with Adam. Sure its the same routine but its a different location so its with someone so its wayyy better than before.

You meet Adam when you first stumbled on that drug pit. He has been there for years and it was your first time. He offered you a puff on his blunt while you looked so nervous other people there thought you were undercover for cops. Over a time you have gotten close to the young adult and see him as some sort of a brother figure while he sees you as a little sister. The relationship dynamic between both of you being clear as day towards the other drug users. All to the point that if one of you turns up at the pit and cannot find the other right away someone else who is there might be kind enough to point out where you were or if you have arrived yet. Maybe if you both meet at a different time instead of that night you probably won’t have been friends or maybe you would…you don’t know and you don’t want to ponder on it for too long…it’s killing your buzz.

You pass the blunt off to Adam and watched as he takes a longer drag than he normally does, holding it for longer and then finally exhaling. You thought maybe your perspective of time is messed up and everything was in more of a slow motion in your perspective compared to reality. But that doesn’t change you noticing how his eyes appear more sunken, his hands more fidgety and that conflicting look he has in his eyes like he wants to say something but he doesn’t want to or he can’t. You open your mouth to ask him what’s wrong only to be passed the blunt again. Well if he wanted to tell you anything he would, so clearly what ever is on his mind is not for you to hear. So in turn you dismissed the thought and the both of you continued the simple rotation of drinking and smoking, smoking and drinking in the silence you have grown to appreciate with him.

20 minutes go buy and you crack open a new bottle that you may or may not have stolen from Bruce’s liquor cabinet (he won’t notice he doesn’t drink), and just as the liquor was about to go down your throat that’s when he said it.

“I’m going sober.”

In the sudden shock the whisky goes down the wrong pipe and giving you a coughing fit that could have killed you. Once you were done with an inch of your life left you turned to the 20 sumthing year old male next to you with eyes so wide it looks like you had your eyes hallowed out. (🐺: 😨).

“W-what?” You stuttered out still feeling the effect of that 1875 whisky entering your lungs instead of your stomach.

“I’m going sober.” Adam repeated matter of factly like it was a normal conversation topic to bring up. “And before you ask if it’s a sudden decision the answers answer is no. I have been thinking about it for almost a month now…” he says grabbing the bottle from you and taking a swig from it wincing at how strong the liquor was.

“May I ask why…I mean you showed no indication that this was a decision that would come up.” You asked back trying to find a reason on why he would want to do this and why are you losing the only genuine friend you have.

“My brother died last month. Mugging at night.” Adam responds. “He has a wife and a two month old that he left behind and our parents are assholes would won’t help their own daughter-in-law because of some fucked up reason I don’t know of.” The reason shocks you. You have heard of his brother but that was only in passing when the two of you walk the streets of Gotham and Adam sees something that reminds him of his childhood. You don’t respond because in reality you don’t know how.

You knew he had a good relationship with his brother despite those arguments they have about Adam needing to become sober. Those arguments leaving to two brothers to not talk for months until one breaks the silence and reaches out. And in all honesty you knew what’s it’s like to loose someone but you can barely remember what your mom looked, sounds or acted like and you burry everything with drugs, alcohol and more drugs unable or not wanting to grieve.

Adam takes note of your silence and understands why you are not responding he is not looking for pity or anything he just doesn’t need that.

“I have to step up for my nice and my sister-in-law. She has no one else to turn to and she can’t take care of a two month old and go to work at the same time…” He continues. Taking in your silence as the green light to continue speaking. “Even though I’m only a high school graduate and have a pretty bad track record with substance abuse…I want to try. For my brother, my niece and my sister-in-law Nimura. Because I want her to know she at least has someone supporting her.”

It was unintentional but the stung. For multiple reasons: the fact that you are loosing a friend, someone you cared for and who supported you despite your addiction, and jealousy / envy you ere envious of the fact that some people actually have people that can support them during hard times. You wanted that for yourself. You wanted some to rely on. You wanted someone to notice, help and make time for you like Adam is planning to do with his niece and his sister-in-law. You live in a whole manor full of people and the only thing a child who lost their mother wants did not happen with you. You just wanted her back…you wanted your mum back but you can’t.

Maybe because your high your emotions are heightened but the realisation hits you like a truck… knowing you can’t see your mom again and that for “family” can’t or won’t help you through it. Pools start to form around you eyes threatening to spill when a hand start to caress your cheek.

“Aww are you going to miss me?” Adam pulls you out of your mind zone with that joking tone that would normally be used between siblings. Rapidly blinks away your tears you push away his hand from your face and scoffed out a no in the same joking tone he used towards you while repositioning yourself to be lying down on the floor staring and the popcorn ceiling above you. Adam lets out a chuckle as he lies down next to you staring at the same ceiling.

You both returned to that comfortable silence before it was broken by a simple question. “Are you going to try be anything once you become sober?” You questioned the man next to you as you turn you head to face his side profile, he continues to look onwards.

“Maybe…I never really had an interest in anything before all of the so I will probably try out college and see how things go on from there…what about you?” Adam responded. It’s clear that he had never gave the thought of amounting to anything much…thought but to have the question then pointed at you sent you thinking as you looked back at the ceiling.

“I don’t know…never gave it much thought. I’m probably going to die from overdosing. Dying Yong and pretty sounds like a dream.” You responded back brushing the topic off like it’s already written in stone that you will die with a liquor bottle in your hand.

“No. Seriously what do you want to be. Before all of this…what would you tell your mom you wanted to be when you were younger?” Adam responded in a more serious tone than before. Like he was trying to get you to actually think and give him a good response.

“Umm…wow! Okay-“ You spluttered out in shock with his tone. “Umm probably something to do with chemistry because that’s what she worked in. So either a cosmetic chemist or a pharmacist given my wide arrange of drug knowledge.” You responded hearing the rustling of this clothes and a simple hum like he is satisfied with your answer.

After what felt like hours of you expecting a response from him, Adam finally responded with “You can still be that you know…You still have a chance to be something…someone and move on.”

“I don’t think I can…being left with my own thoughts is too much.” And to be fair you have considered it once… getting clean and actually progressing with your like but you would always fall back on those plans for whatever excuse you can make up because your own thoughts are too much.

“Sure you can…you just don’t have a reasonable drive to do so. If you can’t do it for yourself do it for your mom. Sure she would be proud about the fact that you are at least trying to be better.” And those words made you think. Thinking about how would your mom react to you doing drugs? How would she help? Would she send you to those camps or would she put you in therapy? Would you even be on drugs if she was around? Questions that made you think for what only felt like a short while but in reality it was over ten minutes. You only seem to slightly register that when Adam pored out the half drunk bottle of whiskey in one of the dingy corners of the room and said his goodbyes asking you to keep in touch no matter what your decision is because you both need friends and to message him when you get home safely.

After he left you thought about everything you used to do with your mom: the baking, the park trips, the girls night, tea parties and even just watching her get dolled up just because it was a Sunday and she had nothing better to do. And even her death. All those memories, slowly fading with time made you realise how much you missed your mom. You knew that she would never be mad at you but that does stop you from thinking about how disappointed she is looking down on you right now.

And as all this was clouding your mind tears slipped past your eyes and rand down your face. Small whimpers left your mouth as the blunt slipped from your hands and onto the ground next to you and more and more tears rolled down your face. And with all those tears you only managed one complete sentence…

“I miss you mama…”

Alpha: RAH I ACTUALLY COMPLETED THIS ‼️‼️‼️ I WAS THIS CLOSE ON JUST NOT CONTINUING THE THIS IF I DIDNT WRITE THIS CHAPTER

Hopefully that made you guys cry a little (it did me) because I used up all my brain power on this so now I need to think about chapter 4 😭😭😭

Taglist (status: open) - if your tag is not working or I forgot you please tell me in the comments and I will have it updated if I can😔

@welpthisisboring @vanessa-boo @shycreatorreview @jsprien213 @1abi @cxcilla @moon0goddess @sadeem575 @galaxypurplerose @zeros-rot @visualchu @lostsomewhereinthegarden @waterberryss @burningkittenprince @91-kya @scoutyyy @haileybugulug @devotedlyshamelessdetective @dakotali @tcddszn @ninabinna @irenehart02

Now see you my beautiful omegas on the next chapter

ALPHA OUT BWE BWE NEWO🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺‼️

[amaryllis-sagitta]

All of this makes great sense if you consider Solas on the personal level, as an empathetic individual among other individuals. However, if you place Solas within the broader metaphysical framework of the Grand Spirit Theory and the world's own unfolding history, then that story carries a bias towards the lost Golden Ages all across the board, and Solas is complicit in the world's "descent" to a significant degree.

The thing about Dragon Age's world-telling is that it glorifies a mythological beginning that got spoiled by a series of betrayals, and what is framed as the first betrayal is the act of spirits' existence itself. They betrayed the perfect state of what should have been. The way it's been framed in the Canticle of Threnodies is, ironically, only validated by DATV's completion of the long-speculated spirit origin theory. If you want more than self-contained perfection within the Maker/ your spirit definition (btw, I think that on the metaphysical level of reading, they're the same), then you must be full of sick envy, and your actions will only cause trouble because once the consequences strike, there is no way back.

Now, I think the same attitude is often read into Solas: the world is not the one he identifies with, so on some level he must be envious that others are trying to have what he, an ancient elvhen, had lost. The world must be what he identifies with, or it can be nothing at all. "Restoring the past" is just a covert device of destruction, as shown time and time again by endeavors of Tevinter reactionaries. (There is a matter of a sidelined plot of the Witches of the Wilds, who seemed to be restoring something related to ancient dragons just for itself, but we won't get a conclusion to that either.) Once you have betrayed history, your role is to sit down in the corner and endure the weight of unfolding consequences, for generations after generations. Others have explained it better than me, but Dragon Age has this mean punitive streak in its judgment of weighty mistakes.

When you look at the big picture of the lore, it's important to see this tendency: I view this as a post-Platonic way of thinking about the world as having some conceptual state of purity, an eternal "should". As history unfolds and shows its inertia, instead of slowly reaching that point, the world only gets further away -- the way Hesiod's myth was pessimistic about the progression of time. It's only logical, since change can only happen from p to ~p -- if the start is absolute perfection, then the finish line must be absolute disarray. In practice, change that favors physical existence is always a downgrade if not outright betrayal. DATV's completion of Spirit Origin Theory is abundantly clear about its bias towards that line of thinking about time flow and material existence as inevitable corruption of perfection. This is a very important, somewhat overlooked context to how Veilguard, despite its cheerful facade, staples years of unfolding lore together with the course still being set on some "End of Days" that was foreshadowed by the framing of Dragon Age since the very beginning. It was always a story where things were meant to go progressively worse until they crash and burn.

Solas's big deal when explaining spirits in DAI is the theme of a corrupted good purpose. Then, we learn he is marked with regrets about existing in the world of living in the first place. His very consent to exist made him an actor deeply complicit in the world's corruption - the Blights, the Great Betrayal, the prospective Great Betrayal 2.0. It really doesn't make things better in terms of him being accused of hating existence, hating the world, and potentially wanting to return everything to some imaginary perfect stasis where he could get a break. Because otherwise, in that world, the Good is associated with an ideal of the Maker who came to regret every forward change because of unforeseen consequences and grew to spite their own creations who just... kinda need to exist now that they're there. So, in their graciousness, the good Maker just turns away and becomes disinterested (and it's hard not to draw analogies between The Veil's Maker and the Chantry Maker in that context). Solas can't become disinterested in the rotting world, therefore he is once again accused of the sin of Doing Too Much When He's Already Messed Up Enough.

I know op was directing their criticism at haters who politicize Solas's manifesto when it's overtly more about giving the world a chance against that looming threat we didn't get to see (tho after some speculation I'm 99% sure it's about the Devouring Storm, the Executors/ the Void). But with that broader picture in mind, I think it's easier to understand why Solas's attitude is so easy to frame as being stuck in reactionary sentiments or a desire to control, if not a "if I can't be happy anymore, no-one deserves to" kind of envious destructivity. His portrayal as the Healer of the world was merely hinted and obscured by the broader theme of envy and betrayal.

I think one thing that a lot of people fundamentally get wrong about Solas is that his plans were never about bringing back the past, it was about securing the future.

He didn’t want to recreate Elvhenan. He said as much in DAI when he explicitly discouraged Dorian from glorifying Arlathan or putting it on a pedestal. Instead, he urged Dorian to ‘free the people of all races enslaved in Thedas’. Not just Elves, not just Spirits, all of them.

Solas’ story was never about a fixation on the past, at least not in the sense that people like to accuse him of. He did not view the past with some rose-colored nostalgia. It was not the empire he missed, but the world itself—Thedas as it was meant to be.

Imagine if you were suddenly flung into the future and found that Climate Change had finally rendered Earth to be the nightmare world we fear. The planet is sick and dying. Nature itself has been twisted, perverted, rendered dangerous and made into something that most people fear, and no one believes you when you try to tell them that nature is, well, natural. In fact, they call you insane, a heretic, someone to be shunned. They say your ideas are dangerous lies, even when you know them to be the truth.

And in this sick, dying world, where people suffer and live in fear, you see no future worth living in. You see that the damage is too much. The world won’t survive much longer unless something is done. Against all odds you’ve found the solution, a way to restore the Earth, revitalize the natural world, and make the planet healthy and stable for all time. It’ll come at a cost, people will suffer, but isn’t it worth it to stop the end of all things? Isn’t it worth it to ensure that life can still sustain itself in a century? A millennia? An eternity?

That’s what was on the line for Solas, that was what motivated him. DATV unfortunately dropped this ticking clock (despite alluding to it in both the podcast and Tevinter Nights) in favor of flattening a fascinating dilemma into something boring and digestible, which is just such an incredible waste.

[ronearoundblindly]

happy sleepover lexi!! 🥰✨️🌼 may i ask for 3 times he didnt cry + 1 time he did for steve?

(if you have too many steve asks, it could be ransom instead 😶‍🌫️)

So--you asked for it, remember that!--this is angsty and a smidge dark. Warnings for canon-level trauma, mentions of gun-violence, (unintentional) animal neglect, and mental health struggles, but we end on a happy note, actually, a very happy note! There is no pairing or Reader mentioned, btw, it's only Steve and his experiences. (In my opinion, this work is not suitable for all ages, so I'm putting the banner on.)

Not after the Battle of New York

The young waitress Steve personally saved from (watch again), the one who gave TV interviews about how grateful she was to Captain America and the Avengers, died in a traffic accident only a few weeks after. No drivers were drunk, the city was had barely started to recover a normal feel and schedule, but bad weather left small-debris-filled roads flooded and slippery. The waitress was one of four pedestrians and five cars involved in the pile-up yet the only casualty.

He read about her death in the newspaper, and that disconnect, the slow dawning of "what's it all for," kept him silent and contemplative for hours. He shed no tears over her. He felt worse because of it and sent a wreath to her funeral.

She was 24 years old, and that was the 67th flower arrangement he'd ordered...so far.

2. Not during the trial

Wherever they go, death follows...and follows...and follows.

A man's wife died in an attack on them--which is an unfortunately common story--but when there are no repercussions, the man gets angry and shoots up his local courthouse. He's tried, publicly and passionately, in front of dozens of cameras broadcasting to millions of people.

Steve sat in the gallery, listening to the man, the defendant, the murderer's testimony. He listens to the story of their lives, their love, his loss of her, and the fury that took this man over, the vice of hopelessness that dragged him into a dark place with two guns and six magazines of ammo.

Steve was reminded of wars that never end and ripples on a pond. There's waves and waves of death, then the waves start somewhere else of the surface.

He can't cry about it, though, because of the cameras, because Steve knows he did nothing wrong that caused this, but he makes himself sit and listen and share some burden of pain.

3. Not for the clean-up

After the Snap, there were half of everything, but somehow not an even half. Some communities lost three-quarters of their doctors or cops. Whole households disappeared; some parents dusted while their children did not. In an attempt to help supplement places with diminished emergency services, Steve volunteers to do 'home visits' to find any kids who cannot fend for themselves.

He's fast--fast enough to cover lots of homes with registered children,--but Steve wasn't prepared for the pets.

Dogs and cats, bird, guinea pigs, rabbits, rats, fish...each one hits him like raindrops until it's just pouring death on top of dust.

Humans are depressed, understandably, but many stop going to work for a time, long enough and in enough places that it keeps happening. Steve goes by shelters, boarding facilities, and vets when he sees completely empty parking lots.

He breaks windows, smashes through doors, rips apart cages, but Steve doesn't cry.

The burden is too heavy. There's too many cars piling up. The war has ended and death still keeps following. He can't feel the rain or the waves anymore.

Weeks after the Snap, he buries that last pet in a field of wind flowers and doesn't cry.

4. For a wedding

He thinks it's one more bit of bad luck: Maria Hill's father has a stroke a week before her wedding. The world had been down a long road with a lot of loss, and this small but happy event is meant to keep him afloat--or, at least, Steve is using it that way.

So when Hill asks Steve to fill in, he jumps at the chance, anything she needs to go forward.

Miraculously (by his own stubborn disposition), her dad recovers in time, and Steve watched them walk down the aisle, tears freely streaking his face. The floodgates opened when a balance was reached. The scales weren't even, there was no rhyme or reason, but drop by happy drop, Steve saw what it was all for: a beginning. He embraced this.

He didn't have to save everyone. He didn't have to shoulder the whole burden. He didn't need to fill in every empty space.

He could just begin. He could just try. Being ready and willing to step up, step in, step forward...that's plenty.

Steve takes one step, and the next step follows and follows and follows.

[Main Masterlist; Sleepover Masterlist; Steve Rogers One-Shots]

[tenwhiteandalusians]

and then no one said anything about the fact that if i watched ONE MORE episode tenax pulls a "i'm not angry i'm just disappointed i'm hurt" about scorpus signing with the white faction.

[dflogerzi]

I agree with Skippy. I have for a long time been willing to say she used surrogacy. But I am fully on board that there are no children living with them. I am also completely in agreement that blackmail is involved. And I am expecting that Meghan has lost it so badly at this point that we will shortly find out just what that may have fully entailed.

Skippy is also right, the BRF has allowed this to carry on. Not even Edward VIII got so much time and concessions. I also am of the opinion that Meghan is just being what Meghan is... a vile, low class, grifting, untalented, wannabe... who even after marrying into one of the most premier families on this planet could not perform or succeed to any level. But Harry is another story. it may just become of legend how vile a traitor he is to everything that he should have held dear and made vows to uphold.

I suppose today was very hard for me. For I now see the ending right there in front of us. Nope, I have not let it go. I cannot. I am still the little me playing dress ups and reading my books on the legends of the Kings and Queens of England. I am the teenager whose favorite books all came from the same place, a magical land far away. I am the young adult who could never get enough of Regency Romances and read so many I would be almost embarrassed to admit to it. I am the person who quit her job, put her life on hold, packed a backpack, and set off on the summer of the Charles and Diana royal wedding to see all the places I knew and loved from my studies. And also... to fall completely in love with a lady named Diana that I celebrated in the streets of London along with the masses as she became a princess.

I am the person who then read the awful books in the early 1990's about how badly her life was going. Followed it all through the separation and divorce, as I had as well with her two boys growing up. And I am a person who was there the very last summer that went totally off the rails. And I mourned when she was lost to our world and taken all too soon.

No. I am sticking this out. I am not going to wander off. I am so over it just like this dear friend whom I actually came to Tumblr to find. I do not blame anyone. It is SO OLD.

Okay. I guess I will just post this as i wrote it. Love you always dearest @skippyv20 You are a precious friend. I have talked enough for the day. 🙄

Onward.

Okay, just forget about it. This is RIDICULOUS.

No going back. We are going forward and this is fraud.

@labwuh @grits-galraisedinthesouth

Let me give credit to the originator...

[gibbearish]

btw similar to the whole "if you try adderall at a party and it calms you down, get an adhd test" thing, if at some point in your life you try microdosing shrooms with a friend and end up feeling like a functional person for the first time in your life, get tested for depression. like yeah hallucinogens come with elation so youre probably gonna have some "this is the best ive ever felt in my life" vibes regardless, but like. if that in and of itself feels like finally breathing in for the first time in years, thats for sure a sign that something is up with your ability to process serotonin most of the time. feeling better than ever before should be a nice bonus, not a crushing weight off your chest

[itsclydebitches]

Something I don't think we talk enough about in discussions surrounding AI is the loss of perseverance.

I have a friend who works in education and he told me about how he was working with a small group of HS students to develop a new school sports chant. This was a very daunting task for the group, in large part because many had learning disabilities related to reading and writing, so coming up with a catchy, hard-hitting, probably rhyming, poetry-esque piece of collaborative writing felt like something outside of their skill range. But it wasn't! I knew that, he knew that, and he worked damn hard to convince the kids of that too. Even if the end result was terrible (by someone else's standards), we knew they had it in them to complete the piece and feel super proud of their creation.

Fast-forward a few days and he reports back that yes they have a chant now... but it's 99% AI. It was made by Chat-GPT. Once the kids realized they could just ask the bot to do the hard thing for them - and do it "better" than they (supposedly) ever could - that's the only route they were willing to take. It was either use Chat-GPT or don't do it at all. And I was just so devastated to hear this because Jesus Christ, struggling is important. Of course most 14-18 year olds aren't going to see the merit of that, let alone understand why that process (attempting something new and challenging) is more valuable than the end result (a "good" chant), but as adults we all have a responsibility to coach them through that messy process. Except that's become damn near impossible with an Instantly Do The Thing app in everyone's pocket. Yes, AI is fucking awful because of plagiarism and misinformation and the environmental impact, but it's also keeping people - particularly young people - from developing perseverance. It's not just important that you learn to write your own stuff because of intellectual agency, but because writing is hard and it's crucial that you learn how to persevere through doing hard things.

Write a shitty poem. Write an essay where half the textual 'evidence' doesn't track. Write an awkward as fuck email with an equally embarrassing typo. Every time you do you're not just developing that particular skill, you're also learning that you did something badly and the world didn't end. You can get through things! You can get through challenging things! Not everything in life has to be perfect but you know what? You'll only improve at the challenging stuff if you do a whole lot of it badly first. The ability to say, "I didn't think I could do that but I did it anyway. It's not great, but I did it," is SO IMPORTANT for developing confidence across the board, not just in these specific tasks.

Idk I'm just really worried about kids having to grow up in a world where (for a variety of reasons beyond just AI) they're not given the chance to struggle through new and challenging things like we used to.

[spilling-blood]

Despite last playing Olympia Soiree years ago, and Himuka & Yosuga being my best boys, I have been reading Tsukuyomi/Olympia fic for the past day now. I'm 3 fics in at this point and on the 20k stockholm syndrome angst fest one now.

[merakidoll]

the first time choso saw you bent over in the tiny white skirt, he knew you would be taking such a prized possession from him - his virginity!

choso dwelled in being a hot man who had a big dick that hadn’t been touched. but one look at your ass, then in your eyes, he was a gonner like everyone else who crossed paths with you. “f-fuck” he mumbled when you removed his cock from your mouth with a wet pop. a saliva string from your lips to his tip connected you two and it was so hot. “gonna be super duper gentle chocho!” his large bed covered in silk black sheets brought comfort. choso wasn’t scared, but nervous. what if he wasn’t as good as you think he would be? digging your duck nails into his board shoulders you used your free hand to aline him to your fat cunt rubbing his tip up between your pussy lips and circling his head with your clit. you gentle tapped him against your pink puffy clit making pre cum ooze.

“stop teasing” he gritted out, his nails dug into the sheets so tight that some of his red gel polished chipped. his balls were heavy, never feeling this feeling of pain from needing pleasure so bad. with a small wiggle the fat head of choso dick popped into your cunt. a shocked gasped came from your mouth, while choso adam’s apple bobbed. his face becoming red from how hot tight and wet you are. what a welcoming. “oh goddd” you cried out slowly sliding down him, his grith was unexplainable. so fat and long, the best you ever had. once your ass touched his thighs and you sat on him completely you let out a shaky breath.

your big eyes looked at how choso’s eyes were closed as if he was restraining himself. that’s what choso was used to, restraining, but you had his brain so gone. he couldn’t think any thoughts that would usually calm his crazy instincts when he was with you. as if he was blinded by pleasure, choso moved quick flipping you two over and pounding your cunt for all the years worth of pent up agression. “love this pussy, shit” he growled. balls slapping your ass, he enjoyed watching you try to grab anything to run for him. the pleasure knocking the wind out of you. his cock so far deep inside of you that it was hard to breath. “don’t run bunny. take it. you begged for this dick.”

slowing down he leaned down and kissed your wet lips. he pulled back bitting your bottom lip drawing blood that he licked up. your body shook against him, hands shanking as your nails clawed at his back, bow charm popping off. your eyes rolled to the back of your head, squirt shooting out of you and getting all over choso. “thata girl. give everything to your chocho” kissing your neck he stilled inside of you and moaned into your neck, his cum filling you to the brim. when his balls felt empty choso slid out of you, you finally felt as if you could breath. but too soon, as soon as you felt it, the wind was knocked out of you again. choso man handling you on your stomach, and into an arch where he slid back inside of you, smaking your ass. “c-chochoooo i-i can’t!”

tears poured down your cheeks, hands holding the headboard while you moaned, a scream coming from you when his fat thumb massaged your puckered hole slowly pushing in as he fucked you deep and hard. “you can bunny. giving m-my baby everything she wants” throwing his head back choso licked his lip tasting the metal of his lip ring. opening his eyes he was mesmerized by your ass clapping against his cock. he watched more and more cream get on his cock with each thrust. “m’there. fuck bunny!” his body fell on you as his cum came out unexpectedly.

a feeling as if his body was levitating came over him. your pussy clenched and unclenched. the mix of you both coming out of you as you came with him again, then fell into a deep cum driving slumber. with a limp dick and empty balls choso pulled out of you and layed you comfortably in the bed. he stood at the end and chuckled to himself, you could never leave him.

[txttletale]

i think artists not wanting our work to be fed to ai without our permission is intrinsic reason enough why it shouldn't happen

my political perspective: what artists "want" is completely immaterial to IP legislation, which is & always has been founded on the 'wants' of corporate rightsholders who exploit barriers to entry and monopolistic distribution practices to demand ownership of artist's works upon which they can establish new and ever more garish practices of rentseeking

my personal perspective: to hell with what artists give permisison to be done with their work. you are free to criticize, to rail against, to disparage uses of your work you think are wrong, or facile -- just as cervantes excoriated shoddy third-party sequels in the second part of don quixote -- but if you wish to take preventative measures, to enforce your disapproval upon potential remixers and reusers, i think your sophomoric preciousness about your work makes you an enemy of everything i value about art and culture. you are fighting for a world without cross, without the low end theory, without garfield minus garfield or lasagna cat, without centos or cutups or blackout poetry, without video game modding, without plunderphonics or youtube poop or collage. anne rice's world, a world immeasurably poorer with a dead culture pinned to a board and preserved by immersion in the logics of capital

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hi!!!! I'm currently indulging in your adorable fluff fics about our beloved COD men!! They are FREAKING ADORABLE.

Could you write one imagine with just pure cute, domesticated fluff? Like married life/life w kids or smth with TF141. I'm up for anything haha. It's okay if u don't want to ! 😄<33

I did have someone request domestic fluff not too long ago, but I couldn't help myself. I had to jump on your ask, anon, and write some more domestic fluff!! You can read that other domestic fluff imagines fic here. I incorporated some dad!141 here with Ghost and Price. The whole thing is just softness and sweetness. Enjoy!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: domestic fluff, dad!Price, dad!Simon

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

This isn’t John’s thing, but he’ll do it for his daughters.

John sits at one end of the table while you sit on the other, your two daughters seated on either side. His three favorite girls are all dressed up. You’re decked out in a witch’s outfit, something you found stowed away in a storage bin. His two daughters with you are dressed up like their Dungeons & Dragons characters. One, a wood elf ranger. The other, a half-elf cleric.

John isn’t dressed up, but from the character sheet you’ve put in front of him, his name is Gurlak, a half-orc barbarian. Rip and tear. Punch and smash. Easy. He can do that.

Family board game night has become Dungeons & Dragons night. The girls’ school started a club, and now they’ve brought it home, completely obsessed with it.

“From the dark,” you begin, lowering your voice. The girls lean in, eyes wide. “Yellow eyes peer back at you.”

The girls giggle, the youngest bouncing in her chair.

John smiles, and sighs with contentment. He wishes every night could be like this.

Your hands raise high above you, and then smack against the table. The girls jump, startled.

“Roll initiative!”

John "Soap" MacTavish

It’s early, and Johnny is determined. Upstairs, your alarm is off, silenced on purpose.

Before him on the kitchen counter is everything he needs to prepare breakfast. Eggs, bacon, batter for pancake and waffles, fresh fruit, shredded potatoes—an endless list of items that covers the granite countertop in a sea of colorful boxes and containers.

With the tip of his tongue peeking out between his lips, Johnny begins warming pans and popping slices of bread into the toaster. He melts into the work, slicing fruit, placing bacon in the pan to sizzle. Johnny’s minds drifts, and with his back turned to the stove, he doesn’t notice the bacon fat as it urges toward flame.

It’s the whiff of something burning that distracts him from turning a strawberry into a flower. Then the shriek of the smoke detector.

“Hells,” he mutters, snagging the smoking pan and dumping it into the sink. He opens the window.

“What’s happening?” You rub at your eyes, sleep lacing your tone.

Johnny shrugs sheepishly. “Making you breakfast? Burning the house down?”

You blink, and then laugh, rushing to turn the vent fan on, the two of you laughing as you clear the house of smoke.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle awakens in the dark. Immediately, without even having to turn over, he knows you’re not in bed. That familiar weight is missing.

With a slight twist, Kyle reaches out, finding only coldness. Stretching, Kyle sits up, glancing around the silent bedroom. All is still and dark. The bathroom door is cracked, but the light isn’t on. Slowly, with sleep still clinging to his muscles, Kyle guides himself from bed, heading for the door. Out in the hall, he walks toward the living room, knowing that you might be curled up on the sofa, completely absorbed in a book.

But you are not on the sofa with your book and blanket.

Kyle finds you in the kitchen, the double doors of the refrigerator standing open, the harsh light bathing you in its glow.

“Midnight snack?” asks Kyle.

You pop your head out from around the door, chewing on something. Kyle snorts and saunters over, coming up behind you. Wrapping his arms around your waist, he places his chin on your shoulder.

“Willing to share?” he murmurs.

“Not if it’s ice cream,” you reply.

Kyle smiles, and places a kiss your neck. You lean into him, and Kyle pulls you closer.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Dinner is always chaotic, but everyone sits at the table.

Simon forks up some of his lasagna, popping it into his mouth as he grabs the plate of his youngest. Using the child-size plastic knife and fork, he starts hacking away at her portion of lasagna, cutting it into smaller pieces. She watches, pointing and directing while chewing on her garlic bread when she thinks Simon isn’t cutting the pieces small enough for her liking.

The two middle children fuss and argue at each other from across the table. They both want the bottle of salad dressing, but only one manages to snag it before the other. She shakes the bottle, pops the tab, and a massive wad of ranch splatters across her plate. Her sister laughs in her face, and then complains loudly when half of the smeared ranch ends up on her plate.

Simon glances up, finds you in conversation with the oldest as she shows off her report card. His heart flips, surges, becomes so full that it’s prone to bursting. Most of his life, a family seemed a distant, unobtainable dream. But surrounding him is all he cares about in this world.

He couldn’t be happier.

[nadvs]

the power play (part seven)

pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader

rating mature 18+

summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.

< prev

“When’s that part supposed to be done again?” the voice buzzes from your laptop.

You glance up at Rafe when he steps into the study room, locking eyes as he shuts the door behind him.

“By Wednesday night,” you answer, looking at your screen again. The other students in your group project stare back at you, three guys who haven’t even tried to pull their weight.

“And we have to do the peer evaluation, too,” you add. “She expects us to be transparent about how everyone contributed. And I’m planning to be totally honest.”

Rafe settles in his seat, diagonal to you at the corner of the desk like always. A smile pulls at his lips. He hates when that serious, disappointed tone of voice is directed at him, but watching you give that attitude to another guy is something else entirely.

He places his laptop on the desk and crosses his arms as he watches you in amusement.

“Is that review thing online?” one of the guys asks. You tap your foot against the floor in frustration. You’ve mentioned where to find it at least five times.

“I have an appointment now,” you say, “but everything you need to know is in the rubric. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

You exit the call, looking over at Rafe with wordless exhaustion. He doesn’t need you to tell him; that was about the group project you were venting to him about last week.

He digs his teeth into his bottom lip. It was hot to see you assert yourself like that. And he knows you’re just doing your job as his tutor, respecting the time you set aside for him, but it still makes his ego grow a little that you ended the call so quickly after he arrived.

And now he’s convinced you can’t do a single thing without it sending him into a mental spiral.

“Someone’s mad,” he murmurs.

“They’re killing me,” you say with a defeated chuckle. “I don’t know how many times I’ve had to repeat myself about things they can figure out on their own. Why do I have to hold grown men’s hands?”

“Damn,” he jokes, looking down and nodding, feigning offense.

“Well, I signed up to hold yours,” you laugh. “And you kind of hold mine with all the free therapy, so win-win.”

Rafe smirks. He’s not sure if he’s helped you nearly as much as you’ve helped him, if his version of therapy even comes close to how you’ve talked him down.

You need a physical reset after that frustrating call, a way to release the tension sitting in your body. You arch your back as you extend your arms above your head, stretching your muscles with a deep exhale.

Rafe’s mouth goes dry watching you dip your head back, your arms pulled high.

His thoughts are self-willed, running off with no warning, compelling him to imagine putting his lips along the column of your exposed neck, kissing you open-mouthed, cradling your head, hearing your sighs.

And because you have a special talent for driving him crazy, your shirt falls over your shoulder when you lower your arms. And you don’t fix it.

His eyebrows inch upward, left in stunned silence, fantasizing about planting his lips down your neck, over your collarbone, along your shoulder. Over and over again.

“Okay, I’m in tutor mode now,” you say, pulling his laptop towards you and opening it, oblivious to what you do to him. “Midterm on Monday. How are you feeling?”

How is he feeling? Like infatuation and lust are burning through him. Like he might lose whatever sanity he has left.

He clears his throat.

“Where is it again?”

“Should be in the same lecture hall the class is in,” you say, dragging your fingers over the trackpad. “But we can check the message board to be sure.”

You feel his stare on you, then look up to see humor twinkling in his eyes.

The realization hits you. He’s messing with you, acting like the guys you were just on a call with.

“Notice how I don’t get annoyed when you do it?” you chuckle. “I told you that you were my favorite student.”

Rafe’s smile slightly fades as you turn your attention back to his laptop.

He doesn’t like the reminder of the birthday party, of the bitterness that made itself a home in his chest that night when you made it clear what he is to you. Just the guy you tutor. Just a friend.

And he swallows his pain down, because he’s not going to unleash his silent grudges on you. Not anymore.

════════

There’s only four games left of the tournament. A loss means the season is over. And Rafe can’t lose.

He’s in the middle of a scoring drill, preparing for a nerve-wracking match against the visiting team. The rolling of skates cutting over ice, the smacks of sticks hitting pucks, the din from the filling stands, all fill his ears.

As always, not giving this his all is not an option. No matter how much the dread of his shoulder acting up again hangs over him.

Hockey gives him an outlet, a purpose. When he sets out to block a shot or hit the puck into the net, when he throws himself into a game with nothing but aggression guiding him, the fervor that courses through him is unlike anything else.

He can’t lose that.

You settle into your seat at the side of the rink, many rows up, chatting with Lyla. Your eyes have been almost exclusively on Rafe since you came in and you can’t believe you used to attend games without paying him any mind before.

Then again, you didn’t know who he really was. You didn’t know that under the hard exterior was such a complex man that would unexpectedly start turning anything and everything in your world inside out.

“There’s no way,” Lyla mumbles to you, shoulders shaking with laughter. “Look.”

She points forward and you lean closer to her to see a couple of girls a few rows ahead looking at a phone. They’re on the college’s athletic department’s website, on the men’s ice hockey team roster page.

Rafe’s headshot and name is at the center of the screen as they whisper and giggle.

“There are eyes on your man,” she laughs. “Watch out.”

The jealousy that swirls through you is hot and unwelcome. You don’t bother trying to hide it. It’s what his real girlfriend would do anyway.

You meet Lyla’s eyes, flashing her an exasperated frown.

“I guess it comes with the territory?” you say, tense.

“Oh, my God, they’re trying to find him on Instagram,” she chuckles, then looks at you again. “You obviously have nothing to worry about. He only has eyes for you. Everyone can see it.”

The same frustrating, overwhelming discomfort you felt the night of the last game fills your senses.

You meant it when you told Rafe that you need to take some time for yourself, to not date until Beck is no longer on your mind.

But you can’t deny that since then, it’s like Rafe is claiming the space in your heart that Beck once owned. Except Rafe is taking it over with a thousand times more force.

While you thought Beck was what you needed – friendly and level-headed and calm – you’ve seen him for who he really is after putting distance between you.

Whether he meant to do it or not, he strung you along. With a clearer head, you can see his flaws. And you’re pretty sure he’s a people pleaser.

And it kind of feels manipulative. You don’t doubt he’s a mostly genuine person; it’s just that he chooses the comfort of being liked over the discomfort of honesty. You used to love it about him, seeing it as kindness, letting it cloud your vision, letting it lull you into infatuation.

Rafe gives you an entirely new thrill. He’s not concerned with people liking him. He says what he thinks, and even though he can be harsh, you appreciate being around a man like that. He may be moody, with little control over his temper, but at least he’s direct.

And it’s because of that that you know you can’t take Lyla’s words that everyone can see it to heart. What everyone’s seeing is fake.

He’s playing it up, pretending to like you because that’s what you agreed to do. If someone like him felt something real, they’d cut the bullshit and tell you.

You think of the fleeting moments you’ve had with Rafe, the soft, gentle vulnerability and the heart-racing affection brimming with what you wish was chemistry.

Maybe he feels something, too. But probably not. Your mind is heavy with fog after years of pining for someone and being sure they felt the same, only for it to crash and burn in heartbreak.

This is why you’re trusting your instinct to stay away from romance for the time being.

The familiar pain of a confusing crush pinches in your heart. You can’t believe you’re back here, back to sitting in the stands, a spectator to your heart’s choices, dwelling over a man you can’t take your eyes off of.

You didn’t break the cycle.

You just started a new one.

════════

At the end of the second period, you head to the bathroom with Lyla. You’re washing your hands in the middle of the long row of sinks and instinctually glance up when someone appears next to you.

Tension crushes your chest when you realize it’s Emma. You make brief eye contact, then abruptly end it. You step away to dry your hands when, to your surprise, she speaks as she walks by.

“Do you not have any of your own shirts?” she murmurs.

You have to take a second to absorb her words as she storms out.

You look at your reflection, Rafe’s jersey draped over your body. You wish she wouldn’t have caught you off guard, so you could at least laugh off her dig.

Even though you’re annoyed, you’re not offended. Because if you lost Rafe after having him for real, you’d be bitter, too.

You leave the crowded bathroom and wait in the hall for Lyla, deep in thought.

You agreed to this whole thing to make two people jealous. Beck stares at you like you’ve broken his heart. Emma’s pissed that her ex has a new girlfriend. You’ve achieved your goal. You can end this now.

For your own good, you think it’s finally time to do just that.

════════

Rafe is coming down from a high. It was a tight game, but they took the win. Three games left and they could be the champions.

He’s down to his boxers in the locker room when he checks his phone before heading to the shower. A smile perks on his lips when he sees you texted him.

Congratulations! You were amazing. I won’t be able to come out to celebrate because I’m drowning in school work :( Try to have fun without me (even though you can’t)

You’re kidding, but you’re right. He can’t imagine having nearly as good of a time if you’re not there.

He slams his locker shut, donning a scowl.

════════

The next night, you step into the humid house, your arm linked with Lyla’s, the memories of the last time you were in a frat house fresh in your mind.

Rafe had you propped up on the counter, his steely blue eyes fixed on you, his large hands on your thighs. It was weeks ago at this point, but the thrill it gave you still lives in your mind. So does the sight of him shirtless the morning after.

Rafe’s eyes land on you as you pace into the living room through the pockets of crowds. He texted you about this party, offering to pick you up, and you told him you’d meet him here. He’s been practically staring at the front door since.

He’s never felt like this before. Like he’s constantly holding his breath and he can’t breathe easy until he sees the girl who possesses his every thought.

You’re saying something to Lyla, your smile bright and your eyes dazzling and God, of course you’re wearing a dress that shows more of your body than he’s ever seen before.

If he didn’t know how sweet you are, he’d think you were purposely torturing him. And he knows other guys are looking at you. It makes his blood boil.

“I just shouldn’t talk when she’s around,” Isaac murmurs.

“Huh?” Rafe looks to his friend, who’s standing beside him, taking another drag of his beer.

“Huh?” Isaac mocks with a grin. “I was in the middle of saying something.”

Rafe can’t even pretend to be annoyed. Not when you’re in the same room.

“My bad,” he says, looking forward again. When you find his eyes, you flash him that smile that both breaks and mends his heart, pressing through the crowds to close the distance.

Rafe’s palm is flat against your back when he hugs you, stroking his thumb between your shoulder blades, your skin warm and soft. His body buzzes from the relief of reuniting, even though it’s only been two days since he saw you at the library.

“I have to thank you,” Lyla says to Rafe, half-shouting over the noisy chatter and music. “She never came to this many parties before she dated you.”

“You’re welcome,” Rafe replies, his eyes on you even though his words are directed to your best friend.

“Funny,” Isaac says to you. “He used to go to everything, but he wouldn't come out last night because you weren’t there.”

Your brows knit, pleasantly surprised, hesitatingly touched as you look up at Rafe.

“Really?” you say.

Rafe needs to play it off. He’d thoughtlessly admitted it to Isaac yesterday after leaving the locker room, saying you weren’t coming out anyway, so why would he?

“Can’t have fun without you,” he replies, repeating your text back to you. You’re unsure if he’s just saying that as your fake boyfriend, or if he really feels that way.

“That’s cold,” Isaac mutters in his usual joking way. “I’m right here.”

Lyla laughs, then squeezes your forearm.

“I saw some girls from my film class,” she tells you. “Do you want to go say hi with me or stay here?”

“I’ll stay here,” you reply.

“Thought so,” she says with a knowing grin. “I’ll be right back.”

“What’s the deal with your friend?” Isaac asks the moment Lyla scurries away.

“The deal?” you say.

“What’s her type?” he asks. “If I ask her out, would I get laughed at?”

“Ohhh,” you say with a conspiratorial smile. “Are you trying to get a date?”

“I’ll owe you big, okay?” he replies, putting his hand to his heart. “For that and for my essay. What do you think of it, by the way?

“I’m halfway through,” you reply, having taken a look at it that morning between your classes. “I think you need more annotations, but I’ll get it back to you by tomorrow night with my notes.”

“Awesome, thanks,” Isaac says. “Be honest. Who’s the better writer? Me or Rafe?”

“Rafe,” you reply immediately, gazing up at him. He’s pretty sure that the sound of you saying his name is better than anything he’s ever heard.

“Well… obviously you’re going to pick your boyfriend,” Isaac mumbles, then gazes past your shoulder. “So? Do I stand a chance?”

You follow his eyeline to see he’s staring at Lyla. You can imagine her liking Isaac.

“You might,” you say, then turn back around. “She likes when guys are direct, but don’t be presumptuous.”

“Whatever that means,” Isaac says, then looks at Rafe. “Is she always using big words?”

You chuckle, “Be yourself. And don’t be too forward. Be a gentleman.”

Right now, Rafe would be wondering what your type is, what you like guys to do. But he knows. It’s Beck, who’s different from him in every way.

“So, don’t be yourself,” Rafe chides.

Isaac flashes him a humored, but sarcastic smile, flipping his friend off before downing his drink.

“See you guys,” he says, stepping past you.

You let out an amused exhale, resting into the first private moment you’re having with Rafe tonight.

“Hi,” you say, taking his strong features in as he towers over you.

“Hey.” His eyes drift over your face. The bass of the music filling the thick air is no match to how loud his heart is thumping in his ears. “I know you can hold your own, but you don’t have to help him.”

“Back up,” you say, your smile widening. “Hold my own? Did you just give me a compliment?”

“That call I walked in on was intense,” he says with a half-chuckle. “It’s obvious you don’t take any shit.”

It’s meaningful praise, not only because it’s coming from him, someone who’s usually so aloof, but also because of how many times people have mistakenly seen your kindness as a sign that you let others get away with mistreating you.

And it’s unexpected. You never imagined feeling like Rafe sees a part of you that so many don’t.

Your crush on him was supposed to stay noncommittal. Meaningless. Shallow.

The squeezing sensation in your heart is telling you that might not be a possibility, because seeing this kind, tender side of him is proof that maybe he could be the type of boyfriend you’d want.

“I would’ve told Isaac no if I couldn’t do it,” you reply, “but I’m happy to do a favor if I can manage it.”

He still looks worried. A warm, comforting sense of endearment zips through you. You weren’t lying to Lyla when you’d told her that you liked Rafe’s protectiveness.

“I appreciate you looking out for me,” you add, trying to ignore the fluttering in your chest.

Silence sinks between you, your gazes locked, your smiles slowly fading as tension replaces every remaining sense of amusement.

Rafe breaks the stare. He looks down, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow. He can’t have these types of moments with you. He’s fighting everything in him not to kiss you.

“You want a drink?” he asks, looking towards the dining room. “If you can pace yourself.”

You glance at the beer bottle he’s holding.

“Is that all they have?” you ask.

“I grabbed the first thing I saw,” he replies.

“I never tried that kind before.”

Rafe doesn’t think. He just holds it out, perching the neck of the bottle towards you.

Your fingers brush over his as you accept the offer, taking the cold bottle and lifting the smooth cusp against your mouth, your knees weak as you think about how he just had his lips right where yours are.

You take a small sip, promptly cringe at the sourness, and hand it back to him with a look of disgust. He laughs that sweet, innocent, boyish laugh you’ve only heard a few times before.

“No?” he murmurs, his smile bright.

“You really enjoy drinking that?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says with a shrug.

“Awful,” you mumble.

You shuffle in place, remembering what you’ve been eager to tell him.

“Oh, I have two things to tell you,” you say. “First, these girls sitting in front of me yesterday were looking at you on the school website. You know how they say a determined girl investigates better than the FBI? Just a warning, they’ll find you. If they haven’t already.”

Rafe smirks, unable to believe he ever found your rambling anything but entertaining. And cute as hell.

He should probably be taking your words to heart and thinking about dating for real, going out with girls who actually like him, but it’s unimaginable when he’s certain that he couldn’t find the feeling he gets when he looks at you in anyone else’s eyes.

“And you got jealous and lost your shit?” he quips.

“Yeah, they had to kick me out,” you play along. “How has your shoulder been, by the way?”

The sudden question is an intrusion, an assault on the happiness he’s been feeling since you walked in. He’s still getting used to it, to how you prod, to how you try to saunter past the wall he has up as if you don’t even see it.

You gaze up at him as he looks away, raking back his hair and offering a tense, “Good. I’ve just… been in my head about it. It’s messing with my game.”

A crease forms between your brows as you gaze at him in confusion, hoping he’ll say more. But he doesn’t.

“Are you worried you’ll hurt it again?” you ask.

You step just an inch closer, craning your head to look up at him, wishing he’d just lean down instead of being so unnecessarily impenetrable. He’s quiet and cold, drawn into himself like he was the day you met him.

“Yeah,” he says. “One wrong move and…”

Rafe’s convinced you’re about to judge him, to look at him like he’s a wuss. But the confusion on your face fades and is replaced with sympathy.

“That makes sense,” you say. “You want to give it your all like you always do. I bet playing it safe just feels wrong.”

He’s in awe. How do you take the tiny pieces he gives you and still get him? You’ve teased him for being perceptive, for reading people so easily, but it’s nothing compared to you.

“Yeah, I – I don’t know how to just half-ass it,” he says with a sarcastic chuckle. “I’ve never done it that way.”

You study him, curiosity stirring in you, along with a certainty that there’s nothing but beauty behind the front he puts up.

“You said you were better after you started playing in high school, right?” you press. “It must mean a lot to you.”

He scratches the back of his neck. It’s a tell. You know he does it when he’s nervous.

“Yeah,” he admits. “Hockey did so much for me and it – it makes me me, you know? I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“Bad word,” you remind him with a soft smile. “It’s not stupid. Tell me more.”

Rafe bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t want to go back there, to when he was a kid, needing a place to let everything festering in him out. Not here, with other people around. Not now, when he’s unsure if you feel something, too.

“What was the other thing?” he says.

“What?”

“You said you had two things to tell me.”

You flatten your lips. It hurts how he’ll begrudgingly give you some vulnerability when you’re insistent, but most of the time, remind you that he keeps you at a distance.

“The other thing,” you eventually say with a nod, willing yourself to go back to how you used to be when Rafe’s mood drops didn’t affect you as much. “Your ex made a little dig at me.”

His face hardens, wearing that look you know well by now. The one that silently, impatiently tells you to explain.

“Something about how I’m always wearing your jersey,” you say. “Like I don’t have any shirts of my own.”

“When?”

“Yesterday at the game,” you chuckle. “She left before I could even react. But she obviously noticed me wearing it before. That girl is jealous. And very, very mad.”

He wants to ask if you’re okay, but he can tell by the amused smile on your face that you are. It takes a lot to shake you. Still, he hates that his ex tried to embarrass you. That you were in that position because of him.

“Is this the point where we call it?” you ask.

“What?”

“Do you want to still keep this up?” you clarify, motioning between you.

This is how his last breakup happened. In the throws of a party. Unexpectedly. But even though this one isn’t real, it hurts a thousand times more than the last one.

“You’re… done?” Rafe asks, embarrassed at how thin his voice sounds.

“I don’t want to care about what Beck thinks anymore,” you say. You swallow down that Rafe’s the reason why. “And we got what we wanted, right?”

You both agreed to an easy-out clause. He owes you to follow through on that. If you want to cut and run, you should be able to.

The thought of not getting to touch you, to hold you, even though it is just to make another person in the room jealous, makes his blood run cold.

But you deserve to get what you want.

“Yeah, we did,” he says. “Good luck getting over me.”

“Thanks,” you laugh. “We don’t have to announce it or anything. We just have no reason to lay it on thick anymore. Friends?”

You hold out your hand, and he gently squeezes it, shaking on it just like you did when you started all this.

“Friends.”

════════

The next night, you and Lyla and a couple of your mutual friends go out to dinner to unwind from studying. The off-campus restaurant is elegant, the entrance decorated beautifully. Lyla asks the hostess to take a photo of you all before you sit.

When you settle at the table, you look at the photo and post it to your story. You put your phone down, just to pick it up again a minute later, the impulse to see who’s looked at it too strong to ignore.

You got so used to doing it with Beck, eager to pick up on the breadcrumbs he’d leave for you. Now, you’re doing it to see if Rafe looked at it.

You tap to see who’s viewed the story and see two familiar icons. Beck’s. And Rafe’s.

It’s almost taunting to stare at, one man who led you on and another who helped you get back at him for it.

You can hardly stomach how desperately you crave indifference. How badly you wish Beck had never taken so many years from you. And for the first time, how deeply you regret putting on this ploy with Rafe.

Because all it led to was allowing another man into your heart and having to tell yourself not to let him steal it.

You lock your screen and put away your phone, determined to be present with your friends.

════════

As you finish up dinner, Lyla suggests going to a bar.

“It is a school night,” she says, mainly looking at you, “but we don’t have to stay out late. We could invite some boys if anyone feels inclined.”

“Do you have a boy in mind?” one of your friends asks her.

“Isaac’s cute,” she says, pointing to you. “He told me he asked you about me.”

“He better be following my advice to be a gentleman,” you reply.

“Do you want to invite Rafe?” she asks. The mention of his name makes your heart drop.

“No,” you say, sure you didn’t do a good job masking your sadness. “He has a midterm tomorrow.”

“Are you guys doing okay?” Lyla mumbles, surprised by how quickly you declined. This isn’t the time to drop the bomb that you’re technically broken up.

“Yeah, we’re good.”

“Good,” she says, taking her last bite. “I really don’t want Beck to be right.”

You tense up.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“He told me not to say anything,” she explains, the way her face is twisted in confusion making it clear that she has no idea why her brother wanted to keep this from you. “He’s worried about you. He thinks Rafe isn’t the best guy and you jumped into this with him too fast and that you’ll get hurt. I told him you wouldn’t be with someone who treats you badly, but you know Beck.”

You’ve managed to stay composed up to this point. You’ve held yourself together, even in private.

But this might be the thing to finally break you. The cold, hard confirmation that Beck isn’t jealous, was never jealous. He was just concerned.

Because he’s a friend and nothing more. And you were delusional to think otherwise.

“He shouldn’t be worried,” you say, forcing a smile. “Anyways, you guys go without me. I’m pretty tired.”

════════

Rafe watches you walk to his car through the dark, rainy night air as he idles in front of the restaurant’s front doors. You’d texted him ten minutes ago, asking if he could give you a ride home.

You’d said goodbye to your friends and waited for Rafe behind the front doors, fighting the urge to cry.

You open the passenger door, the interior light fades on, and his stomach drops when he sees that the girl who’s always smiling has tears in her eyes.

You settle in the car, putting your seatbelt on, staring at the dashboard. Rafe stills.

He’s witnessed you disappointed, happy, sad, annoyed, but he’s never seen you like this. Like all the joy has been drained from you, not a single trace of optimism or humor or anything left.

“You okay?” he rasps. The car light fades off, blanketing both of you in darkness.

He stares at you, moonlight just barely pricking the edges of your profile, your eyes gleaming with tears.

“No,” you utter, your voice fragile over the sound of the rain pattering on the roof.

Rafe leans in just a little closer to get a better look at you, but you’re only gazing ahead, stuck in place. He wishes he didn’t have to ask. It’s like he’s losing you, like you don’t want to tell him what you’re thinking anymore.

“What happened?” he rasps.

You don’t know how to say it. He surely already knows that he has a bad reputation, but you care too much about him to repeat any gossip. There’s so much more to him that people don’t see and you don’t want him to not believe that.

“I need a moment,” you say. “Can we go?”

He grimaces, his brows furrowing, shaking his head slightly.

“We’re not rushing anywhere,” he says quietly. You haven’t heard his voice like this before. It’s soft. Soothing.

You can’t think of what to say.

This doesn’t feel fair to Rafe. You pick at him and expect him to open up to you, but now, you’re shutting him out.

He grew to love how you share what you’re thinking, rambling so he’s completely clear on what’s running through your mind. Now, he’s on the outside, behind a wall you never had up before.

It feels like rejection.

“Can we go?” you repeat. “Please?”

He scoffs in disbelief and hurt. And then, he switches gears and steps on the gas pedal.

════════

Rafe pulls up to your dorm. You haven’t said anything to each other the whole ride.

You’ve caught discreet glances at him. His jaw is tense, a grimace on his face. He’s mad. Of course he’s mad. He’s always mad.

You’ve been silent, sniffling and wiping away tears with your sleeve.

He’s losing his mind. You’re just sitting there, your breaths shaky, like you’re breaking right in front of him and he can’t do anything about it.

“I’ve never cried over him,” you finally snap the silence.

He’s caught off guard. The sympathy you’ve been needing is etched into his face, the scowl replaced with tenderness.

“Even when I felt the worst over it, I… managed to keep myself together. But tonight, Lyla told me that he doesn’t like me and it just made it all crash down on me. I wasted so much time.”

He puts the car in park. Kills the engine. Looks at you.

“What the hell did she say?” he says sharply, his anger directed at your best friend now.

You’ve been thinking about how to tell him without causing any collateral damage. You don’t want to hurt him or risk the dynamic between him and his teammate.

“You know that I never dated anyone before,” you tell him. “To jump into something so intense with you is unlike me. Beck thinks I’m being impulsive. He’s just worried I’ll get hurt. That’s all. It was never jealousy.”

Rafe scratches his jaw. He thinks back to how every time you’re in a room with Beck, his eyes are on you.

“I thought you said you saw it for yourself,” he says after a moment. “He’s into you.”

“He was just looking at me like a concerned friend,” you mumble, your throat feeling raw again. “You’ve fed my delusion enough.”

He sighs. It’s impossible. There’s no world where a guy gets to know you and doesn’t feel something.

There are too many possibilities. Beck could simply not be into you. Or he is and he hasn’t told his sister. Or he is and he has and she’s been sworn to secrecy. Or a thousand other things that you can’t know for sure.

It’s all a confusing disarray of what you know and what you don’t, so uncertain about where you stand with Beck that it’s forcing your heart into a knot.

“I need to talk to him and get everything out into the open,” you conclude. “I don’t care if it makes things weird. I can’t keep overthinking.”

When your eyes meet Rafe’s again, an uncontrollable shudder escapes your lips, a result of how hard you’ve been crying.

And he can’t stand it. He puts his palm on the back of your hand, the words sitting in his throat, awkward but necessary to say.

“He’s not good enough for you, you know that, right?” he murmurs.

“Rafe,” you laugh sadly, his words wringing your heart. “You’re just making me cry harder. Stop being nice. It’s unlike you.”

A smile pulls on the corner of his lips. There’s the glimpse of you that he’s been craving. It’s like the sun is finally rising after a long, cold night.

“What do you want, then?” he says.

“Tough love,” you joke. “Call me annoying or something.”

“No,” he says with a shake of his head.

He can’t even do it as a joke. He’s told himself he feels too much his whole life. He’s not going to do it to you, too.

You sigh, looking down at his hand on yours. There’s nobody around to fool. He’s doing this because he wants to.

“I’m… so mad I still care,” you say. “I don’t even like him anymore, but I need to tell him that he was cruel to string me along. And then I’ll finally be done with it.”

You look out the window, seeing your reflection in the side mirror.

“And I need to be on my own and live my life without worrying what a guy thinks,” you continue. “I don’t think you see how much you’ve helped me through all this.”

Rafe is sure that he hates Beck. He fucked with you for years, stringing you along, making you question everything. You shouldn’t have to cry all because that idiot refuses to be upfront with you.

He wouldn’t treat you like that. But he’ll never get the chance to prove it. You’re blind to how fast his thoughts are racing, how hard his heart is pounding. To what he’d give to you if you felt what he does.

“You helped me, too,” he says. He wishes he was better at this, that he could say more, but there’s no way he can utter what he’s really thinking without opening up a wound that you can’t patch up.

That’s the last thing you both need right now. Especially after you told him you’re not looking to tie yourself to a relationship anytime soon.

“I’m glad,” you say. You shift your hand to unbuckle your seatbelt, leaving him to pull away. “Thank you for the ride. You should get back to studying now.”

“Who said I was studying?”

“Pretending I didn’t hear that,” you quip with a small smile, meeting his eyes one last time before you push the door open and step out of the car.

════════

It’s Wednesday night and Rafe’s sitting in an unfamiliar locker room, two periods into a vicious game.

They’re down by two goals. He’s exhausted, his shoulder is aching, yet all he can think about is you, in your dorm room four hours away.

You’d texted him twice since the night he picked you up at the restaurant. The first was on Monday, a good luck message for his midterm. The next was last night, letting him know that you can’t make tonight’s away game due to the long distance and the fact that you have a huge paper due.

If they win this game, they’re in the semi-finals. The hunger he’s feeling for a victory is the one thing driving him right now.

He’d love it if you were in the stands, behind the penalty box again, holding your phone up against the screen, lightheartedly counting his indiscretions, giving him brightness in his otherwise bleak life.

Rafe stares down at the scuffed floor, chest rising and falling rapidly, the tension thick in the room as he holds his helmet in his hands. Coach enters the room, jumping right into his pep-talk.

“We’re missing scoring opportunities,” he eventually says, his voice booming through the room.

“That’s on me, Coach,” Beck pipes up from the other side of the room.

“Then step up,” Rafe mutters with vitriol, meeting his eyes. “Instead of being such a kiss-ass, try playing better.”

“Whoa,” Isaac mumbles beside him. “Chill, man.”

“I’ll do the coaching here, got it, Cameron?” Coach says sharply.

Rafe stares down at the floor again, rage flooding him. He’d swing at Beck right now if he could, if there was nothing on the line.

Not because of the game. Because of you.

════════

When the team is back in the locker room, all the stress that was previously cutting through the air has dissipated, replaced with pride. They managed to secure the win. They made it to the semi-finals.

Rafe gets to his locker and tries to take off his equipment. But the pain in his shoulder is so blinding, so hot, that he can’t ignore the agony.

It was a hard body check, minutes left in the game. The sharp stab he felt was undeniable.

He knows that this is it.

════════

“Thank you,” you say to the security guard who walked you over to the athlete’s dorm.

It’s nearing midnight and, as promised, Isaac texted you that they’re back on campus. He’d sent you a message that Rafe got injured near the end of the game.

You called him then, learning that Rafe could barely move his arm, that he was taken to urgent care, that he was muttering about being sure his season is over.

You texted Rafe right away, concern burning through you: Isaac told me what happened. Can I come by when you get home?

He replied: yes. And then hours later, the text came in a minute after Isaac’s.

Home. Don’t walk by yourself.

You’d planned to text Isaac to open the front door for you, but you’re lucky to sneak into the building as a resident leaves. You rush in, take the elevator, and scurry down the hallway.

Your heart is pounding when you knock on Rafe’s door.

“It’s open,” you hear grumbled from the other side.

Rafe is in the dark, a pinch of moonlight gleaming into the room through a crack in the blinds as the door shuts behind you.

He’s sitting up in his bed, resting against the headboard, and when you see the sling on the same arm that he’d injured before, your heart cracks down the middle.

You don’t bother turning on the light. You have a feeling he doesn’t want to be seen right now. You settle on the edge of his bed, the side of his thigh against your lower back.

Rafe stares at your profile in the dark, his breath evening out, the dread he’s been battling losing some of its power now that he’s with you.

When Isaac said he let you know what happened, Rafe was glad he hadn’t told him about your breakup. And he was relieved that Isaac shared the news, because Rafe’s not sure he would’ve been able to tell you himself.

“Hey,” you say. “How bad does it hurt?”

“You got security to walk you here, right?”

“Yeah,” you reply. The fact that he’s thinking about your safety right now is unbelievable. “What happened?”

“I tore my rotator cuff,” he says into the dark.

“Your season’s done?” you ask, although you know it is. That’s too serious of an injury to play with.

There’s a beat of silence.

“Yeah.”

Your throat tightens. His fear came true and now he’s like this, in pain, miserable. And surely blaming himself.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice trembling.

His heart shifts when he catches the fragility in your tone.

“Don’t cry,” he says.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

He can’t help but huff a quiet chuckle. Leave it to you to make him smile at a time like this.

“Can I get you anything?” you ask.

“No.”

“I’m going to hug you because I need to do something,” you decide, giving into the impulse to get closer to him.

He shifts lower, resting his head on his pillow, and you turn to your side, leaning on his good shoulder, making sure to stay as far away from his injury as possible.

Your arm is draped over his torso, your cheek at his upper chest, feeling the faint thumps of his heart. The soft, rhythmic beating is what beckons the tears threatening to fall finally come out.

“How bad does it hurt?” you ask again, your voice thick with sadness.

He doesn’t see a reason to lie.

“Like hell,” he admits, the painkillers barely numbing the pain.

Rafe shuts his eyes, grimacing, angry at his body for betraying him.

Your arm around him brings him a sense of peace. And the fullness warming his heart doesn’t come from simply liking someone.

This is love.

But you’ve told him so many times that you need to be on your own. He can’t mess that up for you just because he wants you for himself.

He’s never been this worried about his selfishness. He’s never really liked himself and he’s always wanted to be a better man and being with you is the first time it feels achievable.

“Why’d you come here?” he asks, desperate for you to tell him you feel it, too. That he’s worth breaking your rules.

“Because I care about you,” you say with an offended laugh. “Should I leave?”

“No,” he says quickly.

“Then try being a little more welcoming,” you joke.

If you want to feel welcome here, in his room, in his bed, in his heart, in his life, he’ll make it happen.

And he’s always been the type to show, rather than tell.

He still feels a pinch up his neck, but he fights through the ache to sit up half an inch. He brushes his lips against your forehead to leave a chaste, featherlight kiss on your skin.

“How’s that?” he rasps, settling back on his pillow.

Your body numbs, the air heavy with pressure. It’s an avalanche coming down on you, the excitement of his touch, the confusion of his intentions, the fear of giving another person all the power to break your heart.

And it’s like you’re buried under your overwhelming emotions, barely able to move.

You don’t know what to say.

So, you nuzzle closer, squeeze him tighter, and close your eyes, hoping that whatever happens next doesn’t hurt you anymore than you’ve already been hurt.

next >

author’s note um so i think we’re at 50k words and all we have is a forehead kiss... next part will be the last and the slowburn will be OVER. i promise. don’t hate me <3

if you want notifications on when i post my fics, follow @xorafe-library and turn on notifications 💘

[solxamber]

Oh Hero, My Hero || Riddle Rosehearts

You’re a villain. Riddle’s your destined hero. He wants to arrest you—you want to hold his hand. It’s love, it’s war, and honestly? You think you’re winning.

You are a villain. A rather good one, if you do say so yourself.

And you do. Often. With flair.

Not because you're arrogant—heavens, no—but because it’s important to maintain workplace morale. Your minions, bless their easily influenced hearts, thrive under positive reinforcement.

They chant your name with gusto during heists, schedule evil meetings with color-coded agendas, and once threw you a surprise “Congratulations on Burning Down That Insurance Building (For Tax Reasons)” party. You cried. It was beautiful.

Your lair is everything a villain could want: spiky towers, ominous mood lighting, and traps that range from “mild inconvenience” to “psychological evaluation required.” You’ve even installed a mechanism that drops glitter every time someone steps on the wrong tile. It’s technically not dangerous, but it is infuriating, which is honestly better.

Yes, life is good. But... something’s been missing.

You know how these stories go. For every great villain, there is a great hero. A dramatic, infuriating, righteous counterpart with impeccable hair and a moral compass that spins violently in your presence. You’ve read the lore. Studied the tropes. Ripped out pages from “The Villain’s Guide to Theatrical Longing” and taped them to your dream board.

One day, your hero will be chosen, and when they are, oh, what a pair you’ll make. You’ll clash! You’ll banter! You’ll bring balance to the world through mutually assured flirtation and destruction!

After all, that’s how it’s supposed to go, isn’t it?

It’s a slow day, which is the perfect time for a little recreational crime.

Nothing major, of course—you’re not cruel, you just think the local artifact museum has gotten far too cocky with its security system. Besides, the cursed amulet you’re currently attempting to swipe really ties together the “apocalyptic-chic” shelf in your lair.

You’re halfway through disarming the exhibit’s alarm—a very fiddly one, with far too many wires and a voice that keeps saying “You are not authorized to touch that” in an increasingly judgmental tone—when you hear it.

“Stop right there, villain!”

You pause.

Slowly, theatrically, you turn.

There, bathed in a ray of dramatic light that absolutely wasn’t there a second ago, stands a guy. No. A hero. Red hair, grey eyes, and an expression so stern it could cut glass. His hand is clenched around the hilt of his sword like he knows how to use it, and his entire posture screams “I memorized the moral code and I will recite it to you.”

You blink. Then beam. “Oh, you’re adorable. What’s your name?”

He blinks back, completely derailed. “...What?”

“Your name,” you say, stepping away from the pedestal like you’re not currently committing a felony. “I feel like we’re about to start a very meaningful rivalry and I’d rather not label you ‘that handsome one with the righteous fury.’ Although it does have a ring to it.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “Riddle,” he says eventually, in the tone of someone who isn’t sure how they ended up in this conversation and regrets all their choices. “My name is Riddle. Riddle Rosehearts.”

“Riddle,” you echo, tasting the name like fine wine. “Delightful. Very ‘divine mission meets repressed rage.’ I love it.”

He takes a step forward, clearly gearing up for a speech. You cut him off by snatching the amulet with a flourish and tucking it into your coat. “Well, Riddle, I’m afraid I have to run. Villainy doesn’t wait for anyone, you know. But don’t worry—we’ll see each other very soon.”

And then you skip away.

Like, full bounce-in-your-step, cartoon-character skipping. It’s important to commit to a bit.

Behind you, there’s a moment of silence. Then, from the museum steps, a cry of pure indignation:

“YOU CAN’T JUST LEAVE AFTER—WHAT WAS THAT?!”

You grin as the scream echoes after you.

Oh yes. He’s perfect.

It’s well past midnight when your latest act of moderately tasteful villainy concludes.

Tonight’s caper had a theme—“Revenge, but Make It Fashion”—and you’ve just successfully replaced the mayor’s wig collection with sentient moss creatures. It’s your finest work yet. You even left a calling card. It was scented.

You’re about to vanish into the night, cackling quietly to yourself and dodging a very judgmental pigeon, when a voice rings out.

“There you are!”

You freeze. Not out of fear, of course—you’re wearing your lucky boots, and they’ve never failed you. No, you freeze because you know that voice now. You like that voice. It’s the sound of divine justice and emotional constipation.

You turn around slowly, dramatically, your coat billowing like you practiced in front of a fan for hours. And there he is.

Riddle Rosehearts.

Sword drawn. Eyes ablaze. Face scrunched into that exact same scowl he always wears when you do something heinous like wink at him or breathe near museum exhibits.

“You can’t keep running away after committing these crimes!” he says, striding toward you. “I will stop you. I don’t care how clever or deranged you are—this ends now!”

You stare at him for a moment.

Then you beam. “Oh, Riddle. I knew you’d ask me out eventually.”

He halts so fast he nearly trips over a rogue bit of moss.

“What?!”

“I mean, it’s a little sudden,” you say, brushing ash off your sleeve from where something behind you may or may not still be on fire. “But if you wanted dinner, you could’ve just said so without the threats. I get it—you like a little spice in your courtship.”

“I was not—this isn’t—You replaced the city council’s water bottles with electric eels!”

“Which we can talk about over appetizers, obviously,” you say. “I’m in a bit of a rush right now—horribly mysterious deadline, secret villain society, you know the drill—but let’s make it happen tomorrow. Same restaurant I robbed last week. I’ll even pay this time, for the experience.”

“You held the maître d’ hostage with a baguette!”

“And yet the ambiance was divine, wasn’t it?” You’re already walking backward, saluting him with two fingers and an over-the-top wink. “See you at seven, Riddle! Wear something red! It brings out the fury in your eyes!”

You disappear around the corner with a twirl of your cloak.

Behind you, Riddle stands in the wreckage of your crime scene, gripping his sword in white-knuckled hands, yelling to no one:

“THAT WASN’T AN INVITATION! THIS ISN’T—YOU CAN’T JUST SCHEDULE—STOP MISINTERPRETING MY JUSTICE!!”

But you’ve already mentally penciled in the date.

You’re bringing flowers.

Riddle has made many mistakes in his life.

Eating that one suspicious tea cake in the third grade. Agreeing to babysit Ace and Deuce in his spare time. Wearing white in a rainstorm because he “checked the forecast and it said clear skies.” But nothing—nothing—compares to the existential mistake of actually showing up to the dinner you invited him to after literally committing a crime in front of him.

He sits at the candlelit table of the very restaurant you robbed last week—still functioning, somehow—and wonders what exactly is wrong with him.

Maybe the goddess is testing him. Maybe this is a deeply specific curse. Maybe he’s sleep-deprived and hallucinating a date with a criminal.

And then you walk in.

You walk in, with all the confidence of a person who thinks “arrest warrant” is a love language. You're wearing something entirely too dramatic for the venue, looking like you just strolled out of a villain-themed opera. And in your hands—dear, blessed heavens—are flowers.

You walk right up to him and smile like this is the most natural thing in the world. “For you,” you say, handing over the bouquet.

He stares.

Then, slowly, like someone defusing a bomb, he takes the flowers.

“What…” he begins, clearly unsure what part of this situation he wants to question first. “What is this?”

“A date!” you say cheerfully, sitting across from him. “You asked so sweetly last night. Shouting. Sword waving. Very romantic.”

“I was threatening to arrest you.”

“Yes, yes, and now we’re here.” You unfold your napkin. “Funny how life works.”

He sits there, holding the flowers like they might explode, lips slightly parted in sheer bafflement. And yet—yet—he doesn’t leave.

Dinner is, despite his eternal internal screaming, pleasant. The food is good, you don’t commit any crimes at the table (an honest effort on your part), and Riddle slowly transitions from vibrating with rage to… a sort of confused civility. He even joins in when you mock the restaurant’s ridiculous chandelier that looks like someone turned a jellyfish into a war crime.

At the end of the night, you walk out together. You stop just outside the restaurant, turn to him, and lean in without a word to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

He freezes.

“See you next crime night,” you whisper, grinning, before vanishing into the shadows with the speed and flair of someone who definitely practices this.

Riddle remains there, completely still, blushing down to his collarbones and clutching the flowers like they hold answers.

“…Why,” he whispers to the empty street. “Why was that… actually nice?”

The flowers don’t respond.

They do smell great, though.

The next time Riddle corners you, it’s on a rooftop because of course it is. Villainy is fifty percent dramatic elevation, thirty percent elaborate monologuing, ten percent jazz hands, and the rest is tasteful crime, of course. You’re perched on the ledge like a gargoyle with better cheekbones, admiring the mess below.

Tonight’s crime was “turn the city’s water supply into champagne” and honestly? You think the bubbles give the infrastructure a certain je ne sais quoi.

Then, behind you, boots clack ominously.

“Villain!”

You turn and there he is. Riddle. Divine wrath incarnate. Red cloak billowing, sword strapped to his back, expression locked in that righteous fury that just screams “I rehearsed this in the mirror and accidentally made eye contact with myself too long.”

He’s prepared this time. You can see it in his eyes.

He’s convinced he's not going to fall for your charms again.

He takes a step forward, inhales, and begins reciting something clearly not written by him.

“By decree of the Goddess, I will bring your reign to an end. I will dismantle your corruption, tear your empire apart piece by piece until—”

You gasp. Loudly. Dramatically. Theatrically.

“First dinner,” you say, hand to chest, “and now you want to tear me apart? Hero, you’re bold.”

He physically chokes.

“What—NO—THAT ISN’T—”

“I mean, I like to take things slow, personally,” you continue, swanning over like you’re not actively the reason five neighborhoods are flooded with sparkling rosé. “I’m a little old-fashioned. Maybe court me a bit before the dismemberment, hmm?”

He makes a sound like a kettle reaching a full boil.

“I am not trying to court you! I’m trying to arrest you!”

You lean in just slightly, grin widening. “Sure. Arrest my heart, maybe.”

His eye twitches. He opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then opens it again. Then makes a weird little squeak and visibly blue-screens.

And just to finish him off, you pluck a rose—where did it come from??—out of literally nowhere, and step close enough to tuck it behind his ear like you're in a telenovela and this is your third scandal of the episode.

“There,” you murmur. “You get prettier every time we meet.”

You hop onto the edge of the building, cape fluttering. “See you next crime night, sweetheart!”

And you leap.

Not fall.

Leap. Like an Olympic gymnast with zero regard for city ordinances.

Riddle stands there for a solid thirty seconds, completely motionless, as his brain tries to recalibrate from “heroic justice” to “accidentally seduced again by a chaotic menace with an infuriatingly cute smile.”

The rose is still in his hair.

He stares into the night.

Somewhere far away, the Goddess laughs into her wine.

It’s been a long week. You deserve a break.

You’ve committed three heists, sabotaged a bridge (a small one, you’re not a monster), and orchestrated a flash mob in the bank lobby purely for dramatic effect. The mayor’s still recovering. Your minions are thrilled. You’ve earned this.

So tonight, you do what any self-respecting supervillain does on their off-night: wear your pajamas backwards and binge the local news while eating cake with a fork in each hand.

And then—there he is.

Hero of the People. Bringer of Justice. Riddle Freaking Rosehearts.

You squeal, legs kicking in the air like you’re fifteen and he’s the lead singer of a boy band.

The news anchor looks mildly afraid as they gesture at Riddle, who is standing in front of a smoking crater you may or may not have caused because someone at City Hall called you a rascal.

“Hero Rosehearts,” the anchor says, “any words for the villains of the city?”

Riddle takes a breath. Looks directly into the camera like he’s about to propose to a jar of moral purity. He radiates the energy of a substitute teacher on the verge of snapping.

“I will find them,” he says, calm but filled with unholy fury. “And I will bring them to justice. They can’t hide behind glitter bombs and confusing innuendos forever.”

You gasp, hand to chest, cake forgotten.

“He remembers my glitter bombs,” you whisper, soft and touched.

Twenty minutes later, at Hero HQ:

Trey opens the door expecting takeout.

Instead, he’s greeted by a florist holding the largest bouquet of roses, peacock feathers, and hand-folded origami doves anyone’s ever seen. The card dangles off it like it’s trying to escape.

“Uh… Riddle?” he calls, carefully dragging it inside.

Riddle appears in the hallway, looking like he hasn’t slept since your last rooftop encounter. “What now—”

He sees the bouquet.

He sees the card.

He reads the card.

"Can’t wait! You always know how to make a villain feel so special. ~Yours in mild but persistent crime"

There’s a doodle of him in the corner. Blushing. In your handwriting. With little sparkles. And dramatic shading. His cape is glorious.

Cater walks in, sees the scene, and drops his phone from laughing so hard.

“They SENT YOU FAN ART. You’ve got a criminal parasocial relationship.”

“This is not a relationship,” Riddle hisses, clutching the card like it personally offended his lineage. “This is TERRORISM. Emotional terrorism.”

“Aw,” Trey says, examining the bouquet. “They even matched your color palette. That’s considerate.”

“I’m filing a formal divine complaint,” Riddle mutters, turning on his heel. “The goddess lied to me. She said I was chosen for righteousness, not romantic sabotage.”

Cater wheezes. “Bet you five madols they send you a mixtape next.”

Meanwhile, back in your lair, you’re gluing rhinestones to a brick with “To: My favorite nemesis” scrawled on it in glitter glue.

You hum a little tune and smile to yourself.

Love is war.

And you’re winning.

There was a time—not long ago—when Supervillain Group Night™ filled you with a certain kind of existential emptiness.

Everyone else would be lounging around in their aesthetic-themed lairs, attending the secret network meeting (there’s a schedule, a calendar, a monthly tea sampler, and a surprisingly active Discord), trading stories about their latest dramatic rooftop clashes and high-stakes battles with their assigned heroic rivals.

And then there was you.

“Oh, no hero for me yet,” you’d say, sipping your drink with forced casualness. “Still waiting on fate. The divine matchmaker’s probably just backlogged, y’know?”

“Backlogged for three years?” muttered Villain A whose hero punched him into a canal weekly.

But now?

Now the universe has finally answered your prayers.

Riddle Rosehearts: Chosen by the Goddess. The embodiment of law, order, and unyielding justice. Blushes like a strawberry when you wink at him. You love him. (Professionally.)

You beam as you drop into your villain lounge chair, already mid-rant during today’s check-in.

“—and then he said I’d be brought to justice, again, like it wasn’t the most romantic thing ever. And when I said, ‘careful, darling, you’re gonna make a villain swoon,’ he made this noise like a kettle about to explode. Isn’t he the cutest?!”

The others stare.

Villain B sips her wine. “Did you just say darling?”

“Several times. Also ‘beloved symbol of righteousness.’ I was feeling poetic.”

Someone coughs.

And then, as if summoned by the sheer force of your yearning, he appears.

The wall to your hideout blasts open (you just had it repainted), and there he is—Riddle, in full dramatic hero mode, hair windswept, cape fluttering, eyes narrowed like he’s about to smite you for jaywalking.

“You’re under arrest,” he snaps, stepping inside like a one-man apocalypse.

You stand immediately. “My hero!”

Riddle visibly stutters. “Th-that is—you can’t just—” He yanks out the handcuffs like they insulted his ancestors. “You’re under arrest!”

You practically glow. “Oh, you brought cuffs? You always know just what I like.”

There is a horrified choking noise from him. A villain drops her wine in disbelief.

“I came here to detain you, not—!”

“Flatter me in front of my colleagues?” You shoot the others a smug grin. “Isn’t he great? He always shows up right when I’m talking about him. It’s, like, our thing.”

“You’re being arrested,” he says, and it sounds like he’s begging the gods to smite him then and there. He slaps the cuffs on, ears glowing red. “Stop making this sound like a date!”

You gasp as he starts dragging you toward the exit. “You admit it’s not just in my head?”

He trips.

The council of villains erupts into chaos. Someone’s filming.

“You’re so shy,” you coo, utterly delighted. “Save that for the interrogation room, sweetheart.”

He lets out a noise of pure pain and kicks the broken wall on his way out.

By the time you arrive at the holding cell, you're still in full chatter mode.

“—so anyway, I know you usually interrogate me in the serious room with the chair and the threatening spotlight, but I brought snacks this time. I thought we could do something a little more casual? Maybe get to know each other. Or maybe you could, I don’t know…” You lean in. “Search me for more secrets.”

Riddle looks like he’s five seconds away from yelling objection in a court that does not exist.

“I SWEAR, THIS ISN’T—THIS IS NOT—”

You smile as he slams the door of the room shut behind him.

You know what this is?

Bonding.

The interrogation room is silent.

Riddle sits across from you, arms crossed, face neutral, expression studiously blank—the expression of a man who has taken a fifteen-minute breathing break in a broom closet just to convince himself that you are not, in fact, flirting with him on purpose.

That this is a job. That he is a hero. That he is not involved in the slowest and most emotionally confusing courtship ever orchestrated by a criminal lunatic with glitter glue and a god complex.

You are currently lounging in your chair like it’s a chaise at a five-star spa. Legs crossed. Elbows on the armrest. Not a care in the world.

“Do you understand,” he begins, calm and practiced, “that breaking into the mayor’s garden, kidnapping his prize-winning koi, and replacing them with rubber ducks is an act of terrorism?”

You nod solemnly. “Some crimes are worth committing for justice.”

He stares.

You blink innocently.

There’s a pause where he very obviously chooses not to ask what you did with the koi.

Instead, he sits forward slightly. “This isn’t a game, you know. This is an official interrogation.”

“Oh, I know.” You look around, squinting slightly at the cheap fluorescents above you. “But I have to say, this is… the most intimate lighting you’ve ever used. Are you trying to seduce me?”

Riddle blinks.

Hard.

“These are standard government-issued bulbs.”

“Exactly,” you say softly. “You remembered I like minimalism.”

He opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then opens it again like his internal OS just crashed and is trying to reboot from safe mode.

There’s a solid ten seconds of silence where the entire city’s justice system hinges on whether he can form a sentence.

And then—

BOOM.

The side wall explodes. A cloud of smoke and glitter (your signature mix) floods the room as three of your minions rappel in through the hole like synchronized ballerinas with grappling hooks and vibes.

“Boss!” one of them shouts. “We got your emergency sparkle-signal!”

You beam. “Aw, you noticed! I made it red this time.”

“Very flattering!”

Riddle—coughing through the smoke—lunges out of his chair, but one of the minions is already rolling a smoke bomb under the table. Chaos erupts.

In the middle of it all, you stroll up to him, utterly unbothered, and gently kiss him on the cheek.

He freezes.

Like a startled cat.

“I had a lovely time,” you whisper. “You should come by again. Next time I’ll make tea.”

And with that, you're hoisted into the air by glitter-stained ropes, cackling into the night like a Disney villain.

Riddle stays there, motionless, as confetti slowly drifts down around him. One of the doves from your last bouquet flies through the hole and lands on his shoulder like punctuation.

He stands there.

Still.

Blank.

“…I hate my life,” he mutters.

The dove coos sympathetically.

It’s supposed to be your crime night.

Riddle knows your schedule better than he knows his own. Mondays are for mail fraud (the glitter kind, not the dangerous kind—unless you count eye injuries), Wednesdays are for elaborate museum heists that end in interpretive dance, and Fridays, like tonight, are for whatever ungodly act of chaos your whimsy drags into the world.

Once, it was robbing the city’s largest jewelry store and replacing everything with candy rings. Another time it was just—you, standing on a rooftop at midnight, holding up a sign that read “my hero is cute” while fireworks spelled out his name.

And now? Nothing.

No alarms. No sparkle-smoke clouds. No explosive streamers. Not even a vague threatening note written in calligraphy and sealed with your signature wax stamp of a raccoon in a crown.

The silence is... disturbing.

He lasts three hours. Which is already two hours and fifty-nine minutes longer than he’s proud of.

Finally—against every rule, regulation, and speck of dignity he possesses—Riddle storms over to your lair.

He expects traps. He expects overly enthusiastic minions. He expects you, standing at the top of a dramatic staircase with a glass of something suspicious and a cloak that flows unnaturally in the wind.

What he gets is chaos.

Not the usual kind. This is frantic. Your minions are sprinting through the halls, panicked and yelling over each other, their coordinated outfits undone, glitter smeared across their faces like war paint. One of them is crying into a smoke bomb.

Riddle doesn’t yell at them.

He should.

But something in him twists. Something cold.

And then he sees you.

You’re slumped against a sofa—barely upright, pale, one hand clutched to your stomach where blood is steadily soaking through your otherwise very stylish outfit. Your cape is torn. Your usual cocky smirk is weak and trembling at the corners. And when you see him, your eyes light up.

“Hey, hero,” you mumble, giving a little wave before flinching. “I'm a little late for our date, huh?”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t think. He crosses the room in three strides, falling to his knees beside you and pulling open his bag with shaking hands.

“You’re bleeding,” he snaps, already pressing gauze to your side. “Why in the world didn’t your minions call for help?! Why aren’t you in a hospital?! Why are you always like this?!”

“You came,” you whisper, a little loopy. “Awww. I must’ve made an impression.”

He presses harder than necessary.

“Who did this?” His voice drops an octave—low and dangerous in a way that makes half the room go silent.

You tilt your head lazily. “New hero. Caught me off guard. It’s rude, right? Jumping into someone else's love story…”

His hands pause.

Then tremble.

“You reckless imbecile!” he shouts. “You’re—! You’re a top-tier villain! A menace! A disaster with a good tailor! How could you let some random newbie hurt you?!”

You blink slowly. “...Awwww. You think I’m a good villain?”

“I think you’re my villain!” he snaps, ears red, not even noticing what he’s said until your smile returns in full, dazed brilliance. “I mean—! To vanquish! To arrest! You are mine to defeat, not to be taken down by some amateur with no style and worse morals!”

“Jealousy looks good on you.”

He presses the last of the bandages down with a huff and shoves his supplies back into his bag with unnecessary force. Then he stands. Straightens his coat. Brushes glitter off his sleeve in a futile display of dignity.

“I’ll… return for your proper arrest when you’re not on death’s doorstep,” he mutters, turning away, “and when your entire organization isn’t crying into each other’s capes.”

One of your minions sniffles louder.

You reach out and grab his hand weakly.

“I’ll be good next time,” you say, tone teasing despite the wince. “But don’t wait too long, or someone else might steal me away again.”

He yanks his hand back like it burned him. “Tch. As if.”

And then he leaves, stomping out of your lair with his face red and his heart doing something very not hero-like.

Later that night, he has to explain to Trey and Cater why he’s muttering “mine to arrest” into his tea while clutching a stress ball.

You’re halfway through dramatically pretending to die of soup poisoning just to get Riddle to feed you by hand—when you notice he hasn’t even touched his own bowl.

He’s just watching you.

Not in the normal “I’m here to arrest you when you’re no longer half-stitched up” way, but in the “if I blink, you might vanish and I will spiral emotionally” way.

His spoon sits untouched, his posture rigid, and his pretty grey eyes flicker with something that looks like... worry. The kind of worry that makes your stomach do strange fluttery things unrelated to the stab wound.

“I’m not going to drop dead in front of you, hero,” you say lightly, swiping the last bit of soup from your bowl. “Unless you like the drama. You do keep showing up when I’m bleeding—are you into that?”

He ignores your comment. Tries to.

“I just need to make sure you’ll be fine,” he says stiffly. “So that I can arrest you properly. That’s the only reason I’m here. This is not... a social visit.”

“Of course not.” You grin, tilting your head. “And the soup?”

“For strength.”

“And the way you’re looking at me like I’ll evaporate?”

“For strategy.”

You reach out and take his hand.

He doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he leans in.

And so do you.

And then you kiss him.

It’s soft at first. Shockingly tender. And then—desperation. Like he’s been holding back this whole time. Like he’s trying to memorize the taste of rebellion and regret. Your hand cups his jaw, and his own fists relax against your lap, and you’re about to pull him in for round two—

And then: knock knock.

Riddle practically falls off your couch.

You, still bleeding slightly but never off-brand, stand and open the door like you’ve just invited the Girl Scouts over.

But no. It’s not Girl Scouts.

It’s the Goddess.

She’s glowing, slightly levitating, and wearing the expression of someone who has just crushed a celestial bet and can’t wait to gloat about it for the next few centuries. You can feel the divine smugness radiating off her in waves. Like sunshine. But condescending.

“Hi sweetie,” she says, casually leaning against your doorframe like she owns the multiverse. Which, in fairness, she kind of does. “Riddle. Looking radiant, darling.”

Riddle straightens like a soldier under inspection. “G-Goddess—I—I can explain—!”

“Oh no no, don’t you dare ruin this for me.” She waves her hand. “You’re adorable. That rooftop scene? The rose in the hair? Chef’s kiss.”

Riddle looks like he’s about to either combust or faint.

You lean against the doorframe next to her. “So... how many gods owe you favors now?”

She grins with teeth. “Twelve. And a demi-god promised to name their firstborn after me. Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited to win a Hero/Villain Rom-Com Wager?”

Riddle opens his mouth, probably to say something about sacred duties and moral responsibilities, but she steamrolls right over it.

“Oh, and by the way, keep doing exactly what you’re doing. Follow your heart, chase your destiny, snuggle your villain, whatever. The others bet you'd smite them in the name of justice. Fools.” She turns to you and wiggles her fingers. “You’re my favorite now. Don't tell the others. Or do. Stir the pot.”

Then, with the daintiest wave imaginable, she disappears in a puff of divine light.

Riddle just... stands there.

Staring.

Processing.

Reevaluating his life’s entire moral framework in real time.

You close the door gently and turn back to him.

“So,” you say cheerfully, plopping back on the couch like this is your usual weekday, “I’m thinking spring wedding. Maybe late summer, depending on your heroic arrest schedule. Also—do you mind if our honeymoon includes some light tax fraud?”

He opens and closes his mouth like a goldfish. “W-what—no—this isn’t—this is not how any of this is supposed to go—!”

“But the soup was good, right?” You lean closer. “And the kiss?”

“I—I—yes!” he snaps, blushing furiously. “But that’s not the point! I was supposed to bring you to justice, not fall victim to your—your criminal charisma!”

You boop his nose.

He freezes.

“I don’t see why you can’t do both,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious solution in the world. “Be my spouse and my nemesis. I believe in multitasking.”

“I’m going to lose my knighthood.”

“You’re going to gain a very fashionable set of matching his-and-theirs balaclavas,” you purr, tucking yourself under his arm. “So when do we start planning the cake? Is koi-flavored too on-the-nose?”

Riddle sinks down beside you with the exhausted sigh of a man who knows he's doomed—and is weirdly fine with it.

“I regret everything,” he mumbles.

You kiss his cheek.

“You regret nothing.”

And he really doesn’t.

This is just your life now.

Sometimes you commit crimes.

Sometimes Riddle comes to stop you.

It’s a rhythm, really. A delightful little dance. He shows up, flinging spells and citing laws with the righteous fury of someone who still hasn’t fully accepted that his archnemesis steals art mostly for aesthetic purposes.

You flirt. He gets flustered. You escape. He grumbles. You leave a note on his office windowsill with a pressed flower and a coupon for couple’s therapy “just in case.

And then you both go home.

Because home is shared now. With one (1) moral hero, one (1) incurable criminal, and an alarming number of cat-shaped throw pillows neither of you remembers buying.

Tonight, you’re in the kitchen, valiantly attempting to bake a cake. The counter looks like a flour-based war crime. The batter has suspiciously purple streaks. Riddle stands in the doorway watching you, eyebrows slowly crawling up his forehead as you hum tunelessly and pour the batter into a pan shaped like a skull.

"Is that... supposed to be edible?"

You turn around with the expression of someone who absolutely believes they’re on The Great Baking Showdown of Doom. “It's lavender and love flavored! For you.”

He blinks. "I’m... honored. Deeply concerned. But honored."

And he is concerned. He’s concerned a lot. He still doesn’t understand half of what happens in his own life now. Like why the city keeps thanking him for “finally putting a leash on that criminal menace,” even though he's very clearly the one being led around by the hand.

Or how his arrest quota has somehow increased since dating you. Or why the Goddess keeps sending him anniversary cards. (“Keep being cute, my power couple! XOXO—The Divine Matchmaker.”)

But then he looks at you.

Standing there in an apron that says “Kiss the Villain,” with flour in your hair and cake batter on your cheek and the biggest, most ridiculous grin on your face. Like you just won a gold medal in chaos.

And he realizes—he doesn’t even care anymore.

He’s in love. Horribly, irrevocably in love.

With you.

And that makes all the sense in the world.

“Fine,” he sighs, walking in to wipe a smudge of frosting off your nose. “But if this cake kills me, I’m haunting you.”

“Promise?” you ask, eyes twinkling.

He kisses your cheek. “Unfortunately.”

And honestly?

It’s perfect.

Masterlist

[sheliesshattered]

I can't believe it's somehow Friday already, and I haven't posted yet about Sunday's May the Fourth Star Wars Nite at Disneyland. After my last post about my Batuu Bounding projects a little over a week ago, I finished sewing the clasps onto my vest, gave it one last press, and called it done. I'm so pleased with how the vest turned out, with the improved fit and length over the first version, and I'm glad I didn't have to cut any corners to get it done in time.

With the vest finished on Thursday afternoon, that gave me a little bit of time to work on some of the accessories I wanted to add to the outfit: a remake of my kyber crystal necklace:

And a matched pair of magnetically-attached lapel communicator badge greeblies:

I did a lot of reading up on lapel greeblies and communicator badges that appear in official Star Wars media, as well as looked around a bunch of fan-made ones. Most fan-made ones are 3D printed these days, but I don't have access to a 3D printer, so I rounded up some craft foam and a bit of plastic from an egg carton that had a cool texture, and checked my aging paint supply to see what colors I could make work. Lapel greeblies seen in Star Wars are almost always silver metal colors, with red, yellow, and blue accent colors, so I stuck with those.

I used some of the leatherworking tools I bought when making my belt to punch holes in some thinner craft foam, to make something that looks like a speaker grill. It's not perfect, but I'm really pleased with how these turned out, especially for a first attempt at making a Star Wars greeblie.

Sadly the one thing I did mess up was the polarity of one of the magnets I used (out of the 16 I glued on, four each on the interior and exterior portion of each greeblie), which I didn't discover until we were just about to walk out the door to head to Disneyland. Without enough time to glue it back on the right way, I just peeled the magnet off and left one upper corner without a magnet at all -- and at some point in the night, it snagged on something and fell off without either of us noticing. But the other one did survive the night (and is now being used as a fridge magnet lol), and we did manage to get this one photo of me wearing the greeblie on my vest:

I debated bringing my lightsaber and carrying bag again this year, but in the end I'm glad I did, as I was able to take it out and spin it around a few times throughout the night (including getting to jam out to the Modal Nodes at the end of the night). Besides that, we spent the evening eating yummy themed food, people watching (so many people in costume!) and riding a few rides.

Having now gotten to wear my Samæni Ray outfit to Disney on three very different days -- a random Tuesday in February for my birthday, a weekday Star Wars Nite in April last year, and Sunday May the Fourth Star Wars Nite this year -- Jack and I had some interesting discussions comparing and contrasting each of our Batuu trips.

This year's Star Wars Nite was much busier than last year, and I heard that the May the Fourth night was the only one that sold out. The costuming from other attendees was an order of magnitude better than last year, so we got to do more people watching, but the trade off was that the lines for everything were a lot longer. We did have a few moments of being in Batuu and not having anyone in our direct line of sight that wasn't in costume, which was particularly cool.

But at the same time, there's something really special about going to Galaxy's Edge on a slow day in the park and being the only ones Batuu Bounding. We got a lot more personal attention from Cast Members and were able to take our time since we stayed in that one area of the park all day long. The night we went for my birthday didn't have fireworks or a projection show, but that's the one thing I might want to try to schedule around if we were to do this again in the future.

As for future trips, we don't currently have anything planned, and I think we might be on a cooldown for Disney trips in general for a bit. It looks like the next Star Wars Celebration, in 2027, will be in Los Angeles, and if we were somehow able to go to that, I could see breaking out this outfit again (along with some more traditional cosplay), but other than that I think I may just try to incorporate some of the pieces into my wardrobe when I'm feeling particularly Star Wars-y.

And as for next sewing projects, once I cleaned up the mess I'd left on my craft table with all the last minute greeblie work, I got straight into drafting patterns for the next few things I want to sew. I've got one, maybe two more patterns I want to draft before I shift gears into actually sewing, but I'll make a post about each of those projects as they start to come together.

[retrosabers]

𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐦𝐞, 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

FICMAS DAY 3: GIFT-GIVING

bucky barnes x fem!reader

summary: as bucky’s secret santa, you’re determined to give him the best christmas present he’s ever received.

contains: grumpy buck fluff, some angst, idiots who are crushing hard, swearing

word count: 2.4k

a/n: this is a long one i’m apologizing in advance

i am SO SORRY for crickets in the ficmas department the past week, i hit a big brick wall with this and i’ve been so all over the place with my own holiday planning and such that i ended up having to cut the masterlist in half because i knew i couldn’t get it all done. i’m very sorry to anyone who was looking forward to what got scrapped, but i couldn’t bring myself to rush through writing and put out something i don’t believe it my best work.

also, do people even want avengers fix it fics anymore?? i debated between the “everything is fine the team lives at the compound together” vibe and setting this post tfatws, but ultimately decided the former was easier to write. and i think it worked in my favor because this turned out really cute :)

!! divider by @strangergraphics !!

FICMAS MASTERLIST

your heart feels like it’s going to burst out of your chest.

who’s idea was this again? wanda? tony? steve? it didn’t matter anymore. all that mattered right now was that you didn’t pass out in the elevator. a feat that was becoming more and more difficult the closer you got to your destination.

a secret santa is supposed to bring you joy, not near paralyzing anxiety.

at first, you were 100% on board with participating in a gift exchange. as much as you wanted to shower all of your teammates with presents galore, not everyone shared the same sentiment, and thus the idea of a secret santa was proposed.

excitement courses through your veins as you reach your hand into the cheap santa hat tony grabbed from god knows where in storage, with little pieces of paper containing the names of your fellow avengers. you decided to wait until you were back in the privacy of your room to open it up, afraid of any wandering eyes taking a peak. the last thing you wanted was the element of surprise to be stripped away. it was half the fun after all.

as sam pulls the last name, you quietly excuse yourself and all but rush upstairs, too eager to get in the holiday spirit and brainstorm. as soon as the door shuts behind you, you hurriedly reveal the contents of the paper.

if it’s natasha, i can get her a pair of ballet slippers. she’s been mentioning how she wants to start dancing again.

what about bruce? maybe a journal for all his ideas? he always seems to be losing sticky notes in the lab.

a million different ideas swirl around in your head, reminding you just how much joy this time of year brings. to you, there was nothing better than seeing the gleeful looks on people’s faces when they opened their gifts. the corners of your mouth turn up at the memory of your first christmas with the team. how shy and reluctant you were, afraid of going overboard. now, a few years later, you’re completely unabashed in showing just how much you care about them.

your bright smile morphs into a deep frown as you unfold the paper.

bucky barnes.

quite possibly the most difficult person you could’ve chosen.

to be clear, there’s nothing wrong with bucky. he may be a bit grumpy and standoffish, but it’s with good reason and you know it. that also doesn’t change the fact that he’s going to be impossible to try and shop for.

what do you get for the man who seemingly despises anything the modern world has to offer? the same man who you’re 99% sure hates your guts. come to think of it, how did you even pull him? he most definitely wasn’t downstairs 20 minutes ago when everyone scribbled down their names and tossed them in tony’s direction.

it was irrelevant now. you were stuck being his secret santa, and you’d be damned if you didn’t give james buchanan barnes the best christmas gift he’s ever gotten in his century-long lifetime.

the two weeks it took to come up with an idea sure felt like a century. if it wasn’t for the concerning amount of snooping you did, you’d probably be showing up empty handed. thankfully, at almost 1 in the morning on a random tuesday, a lightbulb went off in your brain. you scrambled bright and early the next day to go shopping, and by some lucky form of divine intervention, you acquired the perfect gift.

flash forward to now, and you’re carrying an insanely large box up to bucky’s room. in a blatant stray from what the rest of the team was doing, you decided to give him his present one on one, secluded from everyone else. partly because you were afraid of public embarrassment if he hated it, and partly because you knew bucky wasn’t very fond of being put on display.

you hope he’ll at least be grateful for that.

when the elevator finally chimes, signaling you’ve arrived at the dormitory floor, the box nearly slips from your grasp. not just from how heavy it was, but from the nervous sweat coating your palms.

the hallway is quiet enough to hear a pin drop, save for the faint sound of christmas music playing over the speakers. with careful, calculated steps, you make your way down the length of the corridor, dragging your feet the closer you get to bucky’s room. there’s a small part of you that hopes he’s downstairs in the gym, the kitchen, the backyard, anywhere but here. dropping and dashing wasn’t what you had in mind, but the anxious thumping of your heart was becoming unbearable. you know it will only amplify tenfold if you’re forced to stare into those steel blue eyes of his. the thought alone sends a chill down your spine.

you freeze in place when you hear the sound of a door knob clicking open.

please be wanda’s room, please be wanda’s room.

in front of you, the very last door on the left creaks open, revealing the tall and brooding super soldier whose company you were aiming to avoid.

it’s easy to forget how handsome bucky barnes is when he normally does nothing but grimace in your direction.

you still weren’t used to his new haircut, but it was clear he felt significantly more confident with it. is that a hint of aftershave, or cologne? whatever it was, the scent fit him perfectly; cedarwood with a hint of spice. the green henley he wears fits snugly against his broad frame, emphasizing all the muscles you’ve been caught staring at on more than one occasion. for once, he’s not wearing a scowl, though that changes when he catches sight of you.

surely you must look strange, standing dumbfounded in the middle of the hall with a box covered in santa-printed wrapping paper and a big bow that you can barely hold. right now the floor opening up and swallowing you whole was at the top of your wish list. and st. nick better make it quick.

bucky’s expression shifts from one of disdain to curiosity as he quirks a brow wordlessly. your own knit together in frustration, knowing you now had no choice but to do this exchange face to face.

“need any help?” he questions monotonously. as much as you want to be prideful and reject it, your arms feel like they’re going to fall off any second. he seems to catch your drift despite a verbal response, because in the blink of an eye he’s striding towards you, sweeping the gift from your arms and into his own with ease. you try not to gape at the way his biceps strain against fabric.

you stutter out a “thanks,” as you straighten out your sweater. bucky grunts in return and eyes the package in his hands cautiously. you’re half expecting him to shake it like a child when you catch the tiniest twitch of his upper lip.

it’s the closest thing to a smile he’s ever shown in your presence. something that gives you the courage to actually form a sentence instead of continuing to gawk at him.

here goes nothing.

“this is for you, actually,” you manage to shakily breathe out. bucky halts his observations, a glimmer of surprise briefly dancing across his face.

a beat of silence passes between you. “don’t remember asking for anything," he finally says. it’s still laced with his typical dry sarcasm, but there’s a legitimate amusement in his tone that can’t be missed.

you narrow your eyes at him playfully, feeling a little bit more at ease now that he didn’t completely rebuff you.

“i’m your secret santa, smartass,” you jab with your hands on your hips.

for the first time ever, bucky smirks at you.

“don’t recall asking for that either.”

you throw your hands up in defense, offering him a surprisingly nonchalant shrug. “don’t blame me, i’m pretty sure steve was the one who put your name in.”

“punk,” the man grumbles. he shakes his head, attention turning back to the present in hand once more.

despite his apparent annoyance, you can’t seem to stop yourself from continuing on.

“i know you’re supposed to do this kind of thing with everyone around,” you start off shaky, afraid of upsetting him any more than you may already have. his gaze immediately falls to you upon hearing your voice.

“i also know you’re not a big fan of being the center of attention,” you continue, shoving your hands into the pockets of your jeans. “figured you’d like this better if it was in private.”

bucky’s features soften. his jaw unclenched, his eyes not so narrow and judgmental. he looks relieved, flattered; a myriad of things you can’t name or place.

“i appreciate that,” he admits, suddenly shy and impish. for a second, he completely forgets about the gift you brought. the simple fact that you were kind enough to consider his feelings, despite how cold he could be to you, makes his heart skip a beat.

you simply nod your head in reply, teetering back and forth on your feet awkwardly trying to decipher your next move.

“you don’t have to open that right now you know.”

he sets the box down on the floor next to his door. “kinda defeats the purpose don’t you think?”

you shrug. “whatever you’re comfortable with. doesn’t matter what you’re “supposed to do.””

why did you care so much about his comfort level? he hardly showed any concern for yours. the notion consumes his thoughts, prohibiting him from offering anything except a nod of acknowledgement.

that awkward silence comes once again, signaling maybe you’ve overstayed your welcome, or that the moment of peace is over. you check your watch in hopes that father time was ending this exchange for you.

just your luck, he’s right on schedule.

“i uh, better get downstairs,” you announce, pointing your thumb in the direction of the elevator. “don’t wanna miss thor forcing everyone to do christmas karaoke.”

a noise akin to laughter snorts out of bucky’s nose, evoking a delightful warmth in your chest. it was different than all the other times you’ve been flustered in the presence of the super soldier. this was less about intimidation and more about…camaraderie. now wondering if maybe he doesn’t hate you as much as you thought.

it’s exactly what you need to reignite your holiday cheer and shed any remaining worries.

before you can second guess, you turn on your heels, closing the gap between your bodies. wrapping a hand around his arm, his metal arm, and offering a gentle caress, the sincerity in your words is clear as day.

“merry christmas buck.”

your touch burns straight through vibranium all the way to his chest. across his entire body, igniting every cell ablaze. a fire consuming him in ways unimaginable.

and yet. he enjoyed the burn.

as you pull away, much to his dismay, the tips of his fingers brush against the inside of your wrist. goosebumps errupt on your skin, from the cool metal, or that fact that bucky was so pretty this close, only time would tell.

“you too,” he murmurs with a faint grin. the soft crinkles by his eyes are likely going to be the subject of your daydreams for the next week.

you flash him a smile over your shoulder before turning down the hall and averting his gaze, not wanting him to see just how much you were blushing.

while unbeknownst to you, bucky was now a very bright shade of red.

he waits until he can hear the elevator doors close before slipping back into his room and very carefully unwrapping the box. there’s a nervousness in his stomach that’s unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. as the bare brown packaging becomes exposed, he begins ripping back the numerous layers of packing tape. you really took your time on this, he thinks to himself.

that funny feeling only amplifies when he sees the contents of the box.

a record player, a very expensive looking one at that, sits inside with another three wrapped items that he concludes are vinyls, judging from their flatness. on top of it all, there was a small note shrouded in luxe stationary. bucky’s heart stutters when he sees his name scribbled delicately in your handwriting.

his fingers falter briefly before he digs into the envelope.

i know this isn’t like the ones from the 40s, but it’s the closest thing i could find. also got a few of your favorite records, and one i think you’ll like too. don’t forget i have quite a collection of my own in case you ever want to try something new.

merry christmas ♡

bucky unceremoniously plops down on the edge of his bed. the normally stiff feeling mattress now mirrored a sea of clouds and feathers. he’d gladly sink into the abyss of softness, if it meant pumping the brakes on his thundering heartbeat.

from the moment he met you, bucky knew he was in trouble.

you had an aura about you that was magnetic, always drawing people in and bathing them in your light. your unconditional kindness and consideration, hell, even your mere presence in a room seemed to liven it up entirely. it was a hypnotizing, almost dangerous thing for the man, and if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was to push people away. for their sake, and his. bucky was certain that once he started keeping his distance, that you’d eventually give up in trying to crack his tough outer shell, or that the silly feelings he had would disappear.

but right now, as he’s staring at your handwriting and rubbing his thumb repeatedly over that little heart, he knows it was all in vain.

later that night, he stares up at the ceiling, listening to the familiar croon of it’s been a long, long time wafting from his present. he tries to focus on the beauty of the song, or the lights he can see from his window twinkling out on the lawn, but it’s nearly impossible. you’re the subject of all his thoughts. have been since the moment he saw you standing out in the hall. from the scent of your perfume to the little intricacies of your penmanship. the thing that’s plaguing him the most, however, is your hand on his arm.

bucky’s real arm had been gone for over half a century, having stopped experiencing phantom limb syndrome ages ago. yet somehow he felt it there, clear as day. the same tactile sensations on his flesh, right arm, in the metal prosthetic of his left. an electric shock that he’s never recognized before, and that he wouldn’t be opposed to feeling again.

tomorrow, he plans to thank steve for mischievously adding his name into the lottery.

and to ask you about your record collection.

thanks for reading! <3

tag list: @alastor-simp @j4desblurbs @pandapetals

!! if you would like to be tagged in the rest of the ficmas blurbs, please send me an inbox message or leave a comment !!