#but not actively harming or doing anything “ evil ”

[themthistles]

love seeing people go into beyond evil expecting juwon to be another cool lone wolf type detective who solves the mystery with his ~superior mind~ and (ethically questionable) methods and then be met with a clueless wet rag of a man who gets egged for those questionable methods by a local and then almost cries because the suspect refuses to turn himself in

[worldlydesiretemple]

i bring a sort of "gman isnt evil or a bad person" to the function that not many people agree with

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Demon King Headcanons

You have accepted the Demon King’s marriage proposal!

I wasn't planning on writing a second part, but some of you gave me ideas and I decided on short headcanons instead. The image of a big, buff, evil Overlord lovingly doing house chores for their human was too tempting.

Content: gender neutral reader, monster romance

[Main Story]

The proposal, as you quickly found out, came as a surprise to everyone. Not even the King’s loyal butler knew of such intentions; he’d assumed they were finally going to destroy everything and everyone at once. To him, the dramatic scene of you and his Lord enveloped in flames was anything but a romantic confession. It was your final battle. So one might imagine the poor lizard’s confusion when the Demon King returned with you following behind. “S-sir?” He questioned meekly. The armored creature nodded at his servant. “It has been done. We’ll plan the wedding upon our arrival home.” The what? His baffled expression must’ve given him away, because the Demon continued: “What’re you gawking like that for? Didn’t I ask you earlier how humans forge a bond?” The butler stumbled to search for his words, swallowing dryly. “Well y-yes, your Majesty…I just didn’t expect it to be anything more than curiosity.”

The same speechless reaction repeated itself all the way to the Kingdom. Soldiers, diplomats, other monstrous entities of the unknown Land, they all greeted you in disbelief. So much, in fact, that you began to poke fun at their hesitant response: “I am his mortal enemy”, you’d announce with a dramatic bow. “Spouse! We talked about this!” the Demon Lord would quickly correct you, flustered.

Truth be told, you're not quite sure what made you accept this ridiculous offer. Perhaps a mixture of intrigue and disillusionment. The city you've dedicated yourself to stood no longer, burnt to a crisp along with its corruption and crookery. In a way, the monster had unshackled you from a responsibility you no longer wanted to bear. And if that wasn't enough to convince you, well, the sight of the Ruler himself kneeling before you certainly sealed the deal.

Although it may take a while for you to accept the idea that your worst adversary had actually been infatuated with you this entire time. Were there even any hints? During your last battle you nearly died. You'd crawled out of an enormous crater on your fours, bones shattered and ligaments torn. When you pointed this out to your groom-to-be, he stared at you in horror. "I had no idea humans were that fragile. I was trying to adjust my strength so as to not do any harm." You could only nod, patting away the sweat beads forming on your forehead. Uh huh. Maybe it's better you didn't experience his full range of attacks.

Ever since the devastating revelation, he's been extra careful when handling you. Sometimes he'll awkwardly hover his large hands above you, with a concentrated frown on his face. "What the hell are you doing?" you ask, eyeing him suspiciously. "I'm trying to be gentle." he'll answer. "You're not even touching me." Fair point, but it's better to be safe than sorry.

The Demon King will often ask you about customs from your world as a way to make you comfortable, just in case you get struck by the occasional homesickness. His Realm is very different from what you're used to, after all. Lamentably, his own years spent in the human world were not too fruitful from a cultural point of view. He was either busy stalking you or devouring the souls of the innocent. Now that he has nothing else to worry about, he will gladly listen and even do his best to actively participate.

You wake up shrouded in thick smoke. Overwhelmed by heavy déjà vu, you rush down the grand stairs, searching for the source of the fire. Are you being attacked? Enemies of the Demon King? You elbow yourself against the kitchen door, similar to when you left your home to find the city ablaze. The Demon Lord turns to face you, visibly overwhelmed and exhausted. You gawk at the scene unfolding before you and remember to close your mouth, mainly out of politeness. "It's too small. I'm afraid I cannot use it", he reveals timidly, holding a human spatula between his fingers to showcase the impractical size difference. You glance at the disastrous attempt behind him and manage to deduce he'd been trying to make breakfast. In an unspoken agreement, he steps back and allows you to take over.

"I'm surprised you let him burn down the kitchen", you mention to the butler once you get a moment to yourself. The scaly servant sighs, and theatrically lifts his clawed hands in hopelessness. "Pointless to argue with him when he's like this, (Y/N). In my entire life serving the Family, I've never witnessed a more stubborn leader." He points to the lavish portraits adorning the walls with a faint smile. "And, to put it frankly, he's obsessed with you. I've never seen him in a more deplorable state. Marrying a human?! The shame, the outrage!” he cries out. “No offense intended to you, of course. You must understand." You hum in agreement, a tad uncomfortable, yet sympathetic. "M-maybe it'll tone down after the wedding?" you suggest as encouragement. "Oh, no, I suspect it will only get worse", he bemoans in return. Then, he promptly straightens his back and resumes his duties.

You go on your own way, not wanting to burden the lizard in his work. As you cross the hallway, you find the Demon King himself scanning each room, somewhat agitated. He notices you and his features soften. "I was wondering where you'd vanished." You approach him with the words of the butler still ringing in your ears.

[reikiajakoiranruohoja]

One thing that eternally baffles me with people calling dog sports abusive, is how the offered alternative assumes that a dog is happiest when it is not doing anything.

Putting aside PETA and its anti-pet stance, most critique I have seen comes from people saying the dogs are forced to perform for humans and therefore its exploiting them.

But even a cursory understanding of dog breeds tells you this mentality is not only flawed but also ignorant of the needs of the animal.

For one, you cannot force a dog to do things most dog sports require. If a greyhound doesn't want to run, it won't. If a husky doesn't want to pull a sled, it won't. Have you ever seen a dog in a situation it doesn't like? Most of us have to drag our dogs to the vet and then try our best to mitigate the dog's displeasure towards the vet.

A dog who wants to do something like running or fetching will do it regardless of your opinion. That is why most of dog training is directing this want so the dog isn't destroying things or hurting people.

The breed or breed mix also affects things. If you get a chihuahua, the experience with that dog is completely different from a border collie or a husky. Heck, even closely related breeds like German shepherds and Belgian malinois are vastly different in their temperament and mentality. There is this call for ignorance and naivete in posts decrying dog sports, where breed doesn't exist and any kind of activity outside the home is harmful to the dog. Admitting that dogs have been bred for jobs is to admit that human contact is not always negative for animals and that is a bridge too far for many of these people. It also means that jobs such as ratting, hunting, protection and such are blissfully ignored or assumed to be forced by humans. This means that when a pampered terrier does maul the family guinea pig, the owner gets blamed for abusing the animals. Posts that tell you dog sports are evil are not made with the dogs in mind, they are made solely for an ideology that benefits humans who do not have to live with the animal in question and so can sit on their constructed high horse.

[amuseoffyre]

I’m emotionally ruined by the fact that Aziraphale hasn’t broken out of his heavenly conditioning. He still loves doing good. He gets happy when people tell him he’s an angel and says “it’s nice to tell people about the good things you’ve done now that I’m not reporting to Heaven”. He will literally put himself in harm’s way to make sure he does the Good and Right thing.

It can’t be understated how much Heaven’s influence still impacts on him. Aziraphale has been created, ordained and conditioned to believe it and he can’t just switch it off or walk away. Crowley didn’t get the choice. He was Fallen. He was kicked out and - as per the rules of toxic and terrifying cults - Aziraphale was always told for centuries and millennia, Falling was the worst thing that could happen. If you’re bad, you’ll be forced out. If you’re bad, you’re not one of Us. You’re one of Them.

When he did something he perceived as Right (ie. saving innocent children from death), but knew it wasn’t what Heaven intended, he broke down. Crowley found him a crying, shaking wreck afterwards because he was so convinced he was Evil. He was so convinced he was going to be dragged to Hell and that he was now a demon because he did one thing that saved some children but because it wasn’t a specific directive, it was Bad.

It shapes so much about him and it’s why the whole series looks like he’s having so much fun doing silly human things, but there’s this brittleness to it. He’s happy and excited and he’s doing his human-life things and having a lovely time, but he’s also constantly stressed because of the Need To Do Good. From the moment Gabriel turns up, he’s a nervous wreck and is trying to hide it by Doing Good, by Solving the Problem, by Fixing Things, by being so active and reactive rather than letting himself think about it. It’s a sign of exactly how frantic he is that he starts giving away his books and letting humans touch them.

Watch his face when the Archangels show up unexpectedly: that isn’t joy. That’s blind terror. He’s so afraid of doing the wrong thing in Heaven’s eyes, even though he made the active choice to do so because it was the Right thing to do. He’s a Guardian and he will protect, but he is so very afraid of the repercussions, even now. 

At the end of S1, Crowley said “they’re gearing up for the big one” so Aziraphale’s not oblivious. He knows a big one is coming. He knows something worse than the Antichrist will be on its way. And he’s trying so hard to pretend that everything is normal and fine and if he ignores all the looming bad stuff, it won’t happen. If we don’t say anything about it, nothing has to change.

But then the changes come knocking at his door holding a box and the choice is gone. He can keep trying to blinker himself to it, but then there are angels and demons in the bookshop and he’s had to use his halo and everything is falling apart.

So when he realises that he can get himself into a position where he can guarantee those repercussions won’t happen to Crowley? He will absolutely take it. He says himself “I don’t want to go back to Heaven”, but the instant the Metatron offers him a free pass for Crowley, to take Crowley out of both Heaven and Hell’s sightlines, to keep him safe (Another bee inside the hive, if you will), no wonder he grabs it with both hands.

The tragedy is that Crowley thinks that when they saved the world together, that was the end of Heaven’s influence in Aziraphale. When he was cast out the split between him and Heaven was sharp and clean. He doesn’t - he can’t - understand how deeply it has tangled around Aziraphale. It’s built into Aziraphale’s entire being and unravelling it isn’t that simple. Aziraphale’s trauma is a horrible, terrible Gordian knot and Crowley can’t understand that he couldn’t simply cut through it, because that’s just not how Aziraphale works.

[wickjump]

I don’t know why but I just don’t like ink and underverse didn’t really help change my opinion can you tell me some of his good qualities?

i’m going to tell this to you right now if you ever want to get to know ink as a character do not go to underverse. i love it so so much, but underverse is not canon to him at all and isn’t good to get to know ink in the way he actually is in his canon. so instead im going to blab at you for a while

a lot of people tend to fanonize him as ‘emotionless who doesn’t care about anyone and i’m EVIL’ which is also not him at all, and definitely skews peoples' perspective on him. emotionless ink could never be canon, as ink without his vials turns into what comyet described as a 'husk', unable to function or do anything, much less evil apathetic activities.

the concept of emotionless ink can work with individual stories, but the fandom really messes things up with how they portray him. (all art used here is by comyet and either explicitly canon to ink, or dubiously/half-canon)

literally look at him. that is the face of someone who is not pure evil.

this isn't the fault of the people who write him that way btw, but rather the fandom for being unable to tell the difference between fanon and canon sometimes. anyway, ink appeal:

i, and many other people, enjoy him because the way he acts is very similar to people with autism/adhd. being rude without intending to be so, hyperactive, memory issues, struggles with empathy, social situations, and connection to others, xyz. even little tidbits, like losing his pencils a lot, can be reminiscent of people with poor object permanence often caused by adhd or other disorders (me fr). aaaand, their adhd is actually canon!! he's not intentionally an asshole he's just neurodivergent and cannot read a room for shit!!

for that reason, he's used for neurodivergent people to project onto him. also because his canon story is unique in a way never seen before, just. ever. he expanded the idea of the multiverse in a way that helped allow other people to build on it. so in a way, we owe a lot of the utmv to ink (or comyet for coming up with the idea of him in the first place). i highly recommend you read the comic! it's on comyet's tumblr page, or dubbed on youtube by a few people.

also, to those who say he's completely faking his feelings, what do you think his vials are for? he canonically experiences grief and other strong emotions, even if they're not the same way others’ feelings are. booyah stop making him an asshole i beg i just want one piece of content where ink isnt evil im pleading

^^^^ ink after one of his father figures dies. he tries to cope by saying it's in the script for his au, something ink has sworn himself to protect, despite his grief. he's coping :(

a lot of other people also enjoy ink because of their moral greyness and their priorities being rather interesting. and before you think 'oh thats just underverse': no it is not! ink's priorities are keeping aus on script and protecting them rather than the lives of individual people, however acknowledges them more as people if they're aware of the multiverse (such as his father figures, zephyr and top). otherwise, he views people as characters. ink does not harm people for the sake of harming them, they avoid fighting and would not be abusive or antagonistic for the sake of being an antagonist.

this is actually what influenced the god headcanon, a headcanon where ink is the god of creativity (often paired with error as the god of destruction), as many people interpret this distanced behavior as similar to gods in many media.

his dynamic with other characters is also really interesting, and how he intertwines in their stories. despite none of it being canon to him, he's used in many other stories and he's moldable to each of them. he's canon to dream, while dream isn't canon to him. same with cross! (ok i lied its not all comyet, this art is by jakei (left) showcasing ink in underverse) mind you, this is not canon to ink, only cross/dream respectively. comyet seems fine with this though, and is friends with jakei, creator of underverse (im unsure about joku). ink is a flexible character!

the way he impacts stories that, on his part, aren't canon to him is unique and something generally unseen in other fandoms. even though he and error have never canonically met in either of their stories, their dynamic is so multiversal that regardless of the story, or their relationship in it, 99% of the time their tales are intertwined. the idea that two characters have impacted each other so much despite never canonically being aware of each other, much less meeting, is so appealing. comyet actually made non-canon art of them as friends :)

this is why people who hate errorink for the sole sake of "they hate each other in canon" are incorrect and wrong. comyet also drew ship art of them forever ago which i appreciate so much thank you for the food

ink also has two canon (adoptive) father figures!! i love that for him!! they’re one of very few sanses with two parents. they are the silliest of guys. he's killer but with better morals because he isn't a murderer (its ok i love killer too he can change its all nightmare's fault pls believe me)

also he's french. imaginez être français. épouvantable. /joke (he is french tho)

also, he's canonically he/they and aroace! this is why you see many more qpr headcanons for him than other characters, though some people interpret him in other ways. though he's not non-binary (referred to as a male by comyet several times, even in the same sentence stating his pronouns), just flexible with pronouns, many people also headcanon him to be non-binary or otherwise trans.

overall, i think his appeal comes from how unique he is, how the fandom has expanded upon and used him in so many different ways, and generally his relatability to many neurodivergent people, me included. i love u ink sans.

UGH HES SO COOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! consume more content of them where they aren’t pure evil for one reason or another and you'll grow to like them i prommy. he's been screwed over by the fandom so many times

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Rejected soulmate au but I made it worse instead of better

Danny, instead of just leaving, instead snaps and commits a series of murders as Phantom, rampaging across the city. His first victims were his parents who he mauled to death, then Vlad, then his so called "friends". Once he came out of the green rage induced fog he realized what he had done and sobbed somewhere in the woods around Amity.

He knew that the GIW would arrive soon, and well, he's already in this deep and he can't just let a government agency that hell bent on genocide and conquering/expirementing on the entities of an entire dimension do as they please so he takes his hanger out on them as he's always wanted.

Hes so glad Jazz is away for collage. She's safe from them. Safe from him.

Its a wonder Clockwork didn't try to talk to him. He probably knew it wouldn't do any good, and Danny is technically of the living and Clockwork isn't allowed to harm the living or control them, only influence them into taking different paths. Hence why he did the time freeze/rewind fiasco when Danny attacked him at the clock tower when he was 14. He wasn't allowed to actually fight him and honestly at that point Clockwork didn't need to. But now Danny had that time medallion in his chest courtesy of his alternate evil future self and Clockwork couldn't do anything.

Danny was 16 and far too powerful for the master of time to take on.

Danny demolishes the GIW like he was playing Doomed on the easiest setting. It was laughable how quickly they went down and Danny found himself enjoying it.

He always had to tamp down that feeling. That vicious glee he got whenever he took vengeance on someone who wronged him. It had always been a thought in the back of his mind that he may have been inherently evil at heart and that he would turn to the dark side eventually.

He wouldn't be like the fusion of himself and Vlad though. That was just a mildless monster destroying everything in its path. What was even the point of that? For all the darkness in his heart, he couldn't see that as anything other that sheer stupidity. He assumed it was Vlads half. The only thing the creep was ever good at was dragging everyone around him down.

Danny packs up and activates the Fenton houses Baba Yaga Protocal, causing his childhood home to grow legs and literally walk away. He eventually managed to find all of Vlads secret labs and treasure stashes, raiding all of them and stripping them of everything they had to offer.

Then he went to find his soulmates dimension in the comfort and convenience of a newer and crazier version of howls moving castle. He had no plans on harming them per say, but he wanted to know why. Why reject a soulmate you hadn't even met before? A person who either platonically or romantically is your perfect match and can understand you better than anyone.

Danny himself suffered immensely throughout his childhood. His parents mental and emotion manipulation and neglect had left Danny longing for thier praise and attention but also left him feeling hollow and confused. Being the children of Evil mad scientists made it difficult to be friends with anyone. Even if the kids weren't weirded out by them, the parents of those kids would tell them that they weren't allowed to play with him or Jazz in fear for thier safety.

Rumors about the Fenton parents experimenting on thier children eventually reached thier ears. That was when he realized that other parents didn't give them twice daily injections of ectoplasm into thier bloodstream.

Im lazy but heres more:

1. Danny as a kid 9-12 realized that Sam and Tucker were crappy friends. Sam often tried to chase away any other girls that tried to talk to Danny for any reason (she was getting better) and often was controlling or patronizing to him while using her parents wealth to get what she wanted. Whether she realized it or not, she was actually a lot like them.

Tucker, Danny decided, secretly hated him and had straight up admitted before that he only became friends with Danny to steal the cool tech from his parents lab, which Danny had allowed and risked getting hurt by his parents to make his friend happy. Tucker was always jealous of Danny, stating that Tuckers own life was plain and boring while Dannys was like the protagonist of an anime. Tucker was quiet about it, but Danny saw how much the other boy enjoyed seeing him fail.

He tried to hang out with his big sister more, cause she could understand and she loved him, right? He was standing outside her door again with his favorite ball (it had the constellation Pegasus on it!) and raised his hand to knock on her door when he heard her groan loudly.

He knew he wasn't supposed to eavesdrop but he put his ear to the door anyway. Curiosity had always been his greatest weakness. On the other side she was talking on the phone. To who he had no idea cause Jazz didn't have friends, but she was complaining about mom and dad and...him. she told her phone friend that she loved him, but only out of obligation. She was his sister and she had to care about him, even if she didn't want to.

Danny didn't understand. She had just said she loved him so why did his heart hurt so much?

He went back to playing with Sam and Tucker. They were what he had, even if he didn't like them, he could lie to himself and tell himself that he did. Just like with mommy and daddy.

If he keeps telling himself that he loves them than he will. If he keeps telling himself that they love him then they will.

Dannys always been good at lying to himself.

Still, the soulmark on his arm remained. It was a vague promise of a light at the end of the tunnel. A dream that someone would show him what real love was like and they would sweep him off his feet and take him far far away from this place.

So why...

2. Phantom doesn't make a name for himself in this new dimension right away. Yeah he had all this treasure he stole from Vlad but treasure isn't money and he had no idea if money from his dimension would even be valid what with all the protections the us had on thier bills to make it difficult for people to make fakes.

Selling gold bars and the like was easier said than done, especially if you actually wanted a fair price for it, and he'd rather have a hoard stashed away for his later plans to more easily take shape.

3. Phantom was an excellent thief, even without his powers, but hes in too early to be arrogant and this world was filled with super-powered villians and heros alike, all trying to make a name for themselves.

He refused to be anyones stepping stool to something greater. Not anymore.

Danny was as cunning as he was skilled. He disguised himself in seedy bars, talking up whatever heist he had made recently, saying whatever thief had pulled that off must have been the greatest, sometimes he ever went dressed as a swooning girl for the extra oomph.

It usually worked and some meat head would take credit for his crimes. Word would sometimes conveniently make its way to the cops and if Danny was really lucky the poor sucker would actually go down for his crimes.

All to muddy the waters. Its harder to connect all these crimes to him when half of them have convictions and the other half have nothing linking them together <3

4. Danny needed minions but he didn't want to tell them anything. He wasn't in the position to start recruiting younger supervillians into his army yet. That was much later in the plan.

No, he needed a mercenary. One who didn't ask questions.

Mr. Deathstroke came with great recommendations and had a great track record for getting whatever contract he had completed and he had a vendetta of some sort against the Teen Titans and Young Justice.

Yeah, he was a bit fruitloopy but he seemed perfect for the job he had in mind.

Danny would keep Deathstroke at a distance of course. He was a mercenary, a hired gun, not his friend. Some one else could easily hire him to get information about Phantom or worse, hire him to attack or capture Phantom.

No the only thing tall, dark and scary was getting from him was the money owed to him in the contract. Money he now had plenty of.

5. Danny never really considered that he would have to compete with other thieves.

He had made sure to steer clear of places like Gotham and Metropolis because of the heros there who always stopped thieves and revealed their identities. Danny didn't need that, no thank you.

But as he was doing one of his heists, the third one this month and the one he planned on sticking the blame onto another poor sap-freaking Catwoman ran into the room with a sphinx carved of some precious stone and Batman not far behind.

Batman locked eyes with him for only a moment, cowl meeting domino for a split second, and Phantom knew he had been found out. This wasn't Gotham. He had no idea how they had gotten here or when but Danny wasn't naive enough to think the worlds greatest detective wouldn't be on his tail after he saw Phantoms arms drapped in the "priceless artifacts" from the India section.

They very much had a price. His buyer had paid a hefty chunk in advance.

Catwoman, who Danny had silently sworn vengeance against, kicked Batman away from her mid brawl and launching him in the direction Phanton was escaping.

Crud. It was time to fight and he was so not happy about it. Danny did manage to get away with the use of his electric powers. Turns out leaving the lower half of your face exposed is a bad idea, especially if your opponent knows Thunder Punch.

He used an EMP pulse as he ran to fry any cameras and Batmans equipment before heading down the hallway and through a few walls. He turned invisible once he was far enough away and flew off into the night with his prize.

This buyer better not backstabbing him. He's in no mood to play nice tonight.

[astraltrickster]

I feel we're at a point where we need to step back and consciously remind ourselves that posting ANYTHING personal online is a risk. It should be a calculated one.

Companies that run major websites HAVE to stay above board with the law, no matter how shit that law is, unless they're small enough to just dissolve and hide and pop up again under a different name later (usually meaning sole proprietorships) or big enough to be granted an unofficial "yeah we'll just look the other way because we want that sweet sweet lobbyist money" exception (in which case it's usually NOT gonna be the shit laws they're breaking). Meaning you should REALLY think twice about posting about anything illegal, and you should NOT be shocked when posts recommending illegal activity get nuked from a semi-major website.

This also means that if you're on a platform that's not DESIGNED for privacy - which, in many cases, includes the implicit purpose of enabling breaking certain laws the platform creators think are stupid, though they can't admit to it (just like how you can sell bongs in states where weed is still illegal but you have to SAY they're "for tobacco use only") - you have to operate under the assumption that ANYTHING you say can be intercepted and monitored. Again - unless the platform is explicitly there for privacy, unless your communication is end-to-end encrypted, unless the cops have reason to understand and believe that the logs don't EXIST, assume ANY platform host will hand over a complete log of everything you've said there and where you said it from to the cops upon request.

In addition, posting publicly about things that are typically protected by certain privacy laws can undermine the protection from those laws. "Reasonable expectation of privacy" is a legal term. You have it with things you say in private in your home. You have it to an extent with quiet conversations you have with a friend at a coffee shop. You DON'T have it with things you scream on a public street - and you DEFINITELY don't have it with things you post online with your legal name and actual human face attached.

I say this, because for the past few years I've noticed a disturbing trend of people assuming this is a uniquely bad EXCEPTION to a general free-for-all, and not...the rule. This is the default! This isn't a uniquely evil thing about Facebook or Twitter or Discord or anywhere else! It's not a "tumblr is secretly betraying us right under our noses" thing! This is just the reality of operating a website under the legal systems that exist! Even if it's a site whose operators' internal values are truly aligned 100% with yours, you STILL have to assume they're going to sing like a canary because, come on, do you really expect them to sacrifice themselves over one (1) user? Maybe a tiny forum of friends would, but no company is going to do that.

And that's not even getting into what happens when it's not a host/operating company or organization, but just some individual asshole other user with an axe to grind.

Tl;dr remember that We Live In A Society, stop expecting people and companies not to cover their asses, be careful about what you share online, and learn to use actual encrypted services. Sure, Facebook and other shitty entities like to pretend the internet is a super cool safe playground where all but doxxing yourself does more good than harm, but they're blatantly fucking lying. Talking about your disabilities is a risk. Talking about being queer is a risk. Talking about anything that might become illegal in your area is a risk. CALCULATE THOSE RISKS BEFORE YOU TAKE THEM instead of doing the shocked Pikachu face when your post of detailed instructions for how to firebomb a police station gets taken down and you get put on a list because you left it perfectly traceable to your real identity.

[chronicallycouchbound]

Intelligence Doesn't Equal Morality

Intellect is rooted in ableist systems and stupidity and intelligence are pointless social constructs that don't relate to morals or character.

I try to be a pretty good person, I fight for human rights, I regularly engage in mutual aid, and I care for my community. I try to do the right thing and support causes I care about and make positive changes in the world.

But I also am not very smart. I have several neurodevelopmental disorders, as well as cognitive disabilities. I can’t do simple, basic math, it’s hard for me to remember facts or algorithms, I rely entirely on spellcheck and speech-to-text to write, I failed many classes in high school and I barely passed with a low GPA, I had low pSAT scores and I never took the SATs. I moved around a lot all through school starting in third grade, and I missed a lot of basic fundamentals in learning (like how to do division and multiplication) so when I went to a different school they had already passed it and expected me to know. After my TBI, I could barely read AFTER I was cleared from my “concussion” symptoms because letters and words would flip around and I’d get headaches. Which still happens sometimes.

A lot of people see me as smart because I've learned a lot of academic language and can formulate thoughts into cohesive posts. But I lack a lot of necessary skills and rely on my caretakers to assist me. Things like budgeting and planning are extremely difficult for me. If I need to do simple addition or subtraction, even with a calculator, I quickly get confused and struggle. I forget basic information about myself all the time, let alone other subjects. I'm talking, has to check my ID for my birthday type confused. Doesn't know my name or address or what year it is confused. It happens daily, sometimes multiple times a day. Being able to type out posts like this often takes weeks and many adaptive tools to get there. Focusing is extremely difficult on many fronts, severe chronic pain, ADHD, dissociation, fatigue, migraines, and TBI, are just some of the contributing factors. I struggle daily with many things because of my lack of intellect.

I’m also privileged in the fact that I had some access to education as a homeless youth, that I had some supports in place to help me (towards the end of school), that I was somewhat able-bodied at the time and could walk or bike to and from school when the school system didn’t provide transportation. I was fortunate to have a chance to succeed, and I’m proud that I graduated high school because it was a difficult task for me, and others often aren’t offered that chance or get accommodations. I almost didn’t and I dropped out many times before graduation. I passed on sheer luck and what little privileges I had. 

That all being said, me being stupid (reclaiming it here) doesn't make me a bad person. I don't hurt people because I can't do math. I may mess up things or get confused but it doesn't make me want to harm others.

We often (wrongfully) equate morals with intellect. Being ‘stupid’, ‘dumb’, or an ‘idiot’ doesn’t automatically make someone a bad person. Plenty of evil, awful, and abusive people are extremely intelligent. 

I see this most notably with people advocating for IQ tests to be able to vote. Often from left-leaning people, in hopes it'll make the right (that they view as unintelligent), unable to vote. The reality is, it just hurts some of our most vulnerable members of the community while not actively doing anything to restrict some of the most dangerous members of our community-- those who know what they're doing to harm others and deliberately doing so. My voice matters, and I speak up against injustice and participate in dismantling oppressive systems. Taking away my right to vote won't make the right stop oppressing minorities (which also puts a lot of faith into the two-party voting system, which is a post for another day).

Additionally, legislative measures that discriminate against intellectually disabled people such as IQ tests for voting are also rooted in racism and classism. 

Yes, education can be a vital tool when it comes to addressing discrimination and creating safer communities. But the kind of education that is measured with an IQ test (or any test) isn't the same. Building compassion and caring for others can (and should) happen at any IQ level. We can all practice this, we can all participate.

It harms our communities and stagnates our progress when we equate intelligence with high morals.

[vampyrixdarling]

I LOVED YOUR ZOMBIE SONIC WRITING HSHDJF

Okay so Sonic with a reader that he caught feelings for, right ? But the thing was, they were a big bad meanie guy out for BLOOD. They liked Sonic too, but refused to change their villainous ways tehe

IM IN LOVE Q THIS IDEA

HCs or a one shot is fine >:)))

— 「𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐨’𝐬 𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧」

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ MASTERLIST

╰┈➤ Sonic the Hedgehog x villain!reader

: ̗̀➛ synopsis; Sonic never could’ve predicted that he’d be falling for the same person who would actively endanger his home and his friends. But it happened. Mutual pining with slight rivalry mixed in with playful fighting, who’s to complain?

: ̗̀➛ Type; romantic headcanons

: ̗̀➛ warning(s); brief mentions of fighting (not detailed), swearing.

Likes/Reblogs are always appreciated!! <3

I’m like honestly SO embarrassed of the quality of this😭 please let this slide Orion I am BEGGING🙏🙏 my writing is normally SO MUCH BETTER I SWEAR

→ Sonic is someone who prides himself on being able to save his world from any threat that dares try to destroy it or hurt his friends or innocent people. He’s a hero, and he’s proud to call himself one. Sure, the praise and the fame that comes with it is cool and all, but all Sonic really cares about is saving all that he can, and taking down evil. He doesn’t need a reward for just doing what he loves. Hell, he’d even get to hangout with his friends just talking about the fight he had, and try some of Amy’s delicious deserts of course. Except if it was strawberry shortcake. He’d stay far away from that if he could.

→ You, on the other hand, were just another villain. You found a kind of sadistic joy in the misery of other people— a sick satisfaction from watching all those below you suffer a terrible fate at your hands. It’s always been this way for as long as you could remember, really. There wasn’t a moment you truly felt happy. No moment where you truly felt complete. And maybe, just maybe, causing pain and suffering to those undeserving made you feel just a little better about the dull, boring life you had. Something like the phrase, “if I can’t be happy, nobody can”, as much as you hated it.

→ But, nobody could deny the slight excitement you felt when the blue blur himself stood in your path, eyes locked on yours as he got ready to attack. A fight with him was never boring, that much was guaranteed. and perhaps you felt the same way, unfortunately you’d never get to finish your thought before he spin-dashed into you, sending you flying into the nearest wall.

“Ugh, come on, [Name]… haven’t we been over this once before?”

“Three times, actually. Learn to keep track.”

The hedgehog rolled his eyes as he sped towards you again. Meanwhile, with a cocky grin on your face, you shakily got up.

→ Sonic would feel extremely conflicted and confused. On one hand, you were everything he hated. Someone who felt joy in causing terror and harm upon those he cared for. But, on another hand, there was an undeniable chemistry between you guys. None of you would ever admit that, though.

→ He hated how felt this way about you. He shouldn’t feel anything like this for any of his enemies. But, there was also this one flaw about him. The fact that he’s willing to give second chances and hope for the best. He does see the good in you, no doubt about it. It’s just that you’re being so damn difficult, he wish you’d just give up.

→ But you weren’t oblivious to this. You saw how the hedgehog briefly hesitated before landing a punch to you. You saw how his eyes lit up once he realized you weren’t dead from that landing. And, a part of you felt pity for him. You realized how hard this was for him, to hurt someone he’s grown to love, and you really wished you wouldn’t care. But you did.

Because you loved him too.

→ None of you took the realization well. You both hated each other for feeling this way, and while you both tried to separate from each other, you just kept coming back. You both would swear it’s because you’re causing trouble and Sonic’s just trying to save everyone, but you both knew it was different. But one day, during a pretty heated fight..

“Why can’t you just let me do what’s best for you, [Name]?!”

“This isn’t what’s best! You don’t know anything about me!”

“I know that I love you!”

…

Oh.

Oh..

→ Once the awkwardness was out of the way, and you two were finally able to confront each other… you got it all out. You both had a talk about how you really felt. He expressed his concerns, and you voiced your clear distain towards leaving your villainous ways. Which, he understood. He hated how you refused to stop, but you just wouldn’t listen to him. So after negotiating, you agreed to slightly tone down your attacks. Which wasn’t much, but at least you weren’t killing anybody.

Bonus: He’d LOVE chasing after you and getting into so many playful fights with you while you’re attacking the town. It would be so fun and exciting for the both of you.

[ceilidhtransing]

In light of recent and ongoing UK fuckery, I am so sick and tired of the idea that extremely transphobic things “aren't really transphobic” because they are coming from people who “probably mean well” and “don't hate trans people”.

Yeah, because bigotry can only be perpetrated by people who are actively, consciously hateful, sitting in their villainous lairs and dreaming up new innovative ways to be evil. (Obvious sarcasm.)

Transphobia is not just “when you actively and knowingly hate trans people”. Transphobia is also

A paternalistic attitude that says that trans people can't really be trusted to know themselves or what they want and so need to be gatekept from healthcare by cis “experts”

A refusal to listen to and take into account trans expertise; hell, a denial that trans expertise even exists

The idea that while some trans people existing in society is fine, ideally we should be limiting that number as much as we can

The idea that transition - social or physical or both - should only ever be a last resort after all other “possible avenues” have been explored, because being trans is fundamentally an undesirable inferior state and ideally we should be protecting people from transition for their own good

An attempt to clamp down on the use of “dangerous unregulated private healthcare” and an insistence on “safety” and on “doing things the right way” that manifests in reality as a denial of care because no viable alternatives to such “dangerous” options are actually provided

A carving out of exceptions to the basic principle of bodily autonomy whenever a body happens to belong to a trans person

A total dismissal of the concept of harm reduction when it comes to trans people; the only harm reduction that really matters is making sure no cis person accidentally does anything trans, and that end should be doggedly pursued no matter how many trans people it will harm along the way

An expectation of ludicrously unattainable standards of evidence and success for any healthcare involving trans people, that you would never demand of “normal” healthcare - a >15% regret rate for some common surgery is fine; a <1% regret rate for something trans-related is a national scandal that calls for an immediate inquiry into care standards

The refusal to change policies and approaches that have been demonstrated time and time again to harm trans people, because you view the status quo of cis authority over trans bodies as more important than the survival of the people those bodies belong to

The demand that cis people as individuals, and cis society at large, deserve to have their opinions taken into account regarding how a trans person chooses to live and what they choose to do to their body, and that trans freedom should hinge on cis approval

An assumption that segregation between “normal healthcare” and “trans healthcare” is just natural and necessary, even when it is literally the same procedure or treatment

The welcoming of openly trans-hostile voices into conversations about trans issues to the exclusion of actual trans people, because “it's really important that all views are aired” (apart from the views of trans people, obviously)

The attitude that, no matter how ignorant of, detached from, irrelevant to, and unwilling to learn of trans people's lives you are, your personal consent and satisfaction must be obtained before any progress around trans equality can be made, and trans people must only move at the pace of your willingness to understand and get on board

An insistence on endlessly rehashing the same basic points again and again and preventing any forward movement by repeatedly dragging the conversation back to square one, forcing trans people and their allies to debunk the same nonsense again and again and defend the same well-proven, well-established truths again and again

The denial that transphobia even exists or is a significant problem that needs to be addressed - it's not bigotry, it's just conflicting views! After all, gender identity is a polarising issue!

and so much more besides. Transphobia is a social system, a way of thinking, a set of baked-in assumptions, an institutionalised bias. Conscious, active “hatred” is not a prerequisite for anything listed above, but they are all transphobia, and at the root of all of them is a casual indifference to trans survival, a prioritisation of cis comfort and cis interests over trans lives, and an instinctive valuing of cis existence over trans existence. A lot of cis people don't even recognise these things as transphobia because they themselves hold those casual prejudices and therefore see the extensions of them as natural.

And at this point, I don't care about “good intentions”. These things are all manifestations of the insidious and deeply evil web of transphobia that prevents trans people from living full lives as equal participants in society. People who keep holding these attitudes and doing these things aren't “basically well-intentioned”; they're just bigots who don't know or care that they're bigots.

Transphobia is not just “when some hateful fanatic says they want all trans people dead”. Transphobia is all around us. Start seeing it.

[spider-xan]

I'm happy to see all the meta this year, re: the parallels between Jonathan and Dracula at the castle versus Renfield and Seward at the asylum bc last year, it wasn't really a popular topic of analysis from what I remember, and without spoiling anything, I do think doing a read-through of Dracula last year put Renfield in a different light on a re-read, and it's honestly a relief to see Renfield being treated with more respect and sympathy this time around, as opposed to him being a joke character, prop for Seward's storyline, or his mental illness being stigmatized as something that makes him evil, creepy, and undeserving of sympathy and compassion.

Likewise, as someone who does like Seward as a complex and very flawed character, I'm glad to see more discussion about the way he and Dracula are foils to each other instead of such posts being dismissed as character slander - a lot of characters in the novel parallel Dracula in unique ways, so it's a legitimate topic of analysis if approached in good faith! - as well as viewing his treatment of Renfield in a more critical light bc while he isn't actively malicious in terms of intent, it was a little frustrating last year to see some of that critique reduced to how it's unfair to hold him to modern standards when his actions still nevertheless caused harm and some Victorian contemporaries would have seen them as wrong, not to mention that many of our 'modern' standards regarding mental illness are not progressive at all.

[ieatangstforbreakfast]

Pairing ೃ⁀➷ 𝐄𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝟒𝟐! 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 x Fem! Reader

Summary ೃ⁀➷ Lovers have secrets of their own, no matter how much they come to trust each other, whether it be a past mistake or an unspoken trauma. For you and Miles, however, your secrets came in the form of hidden identities— one being a masked vigilante, and the other a mastermind.

Genre ೃ⁀➷ Forbidden love, mutual pining, angst♡

Tags ೃ⁀➷ Both are artists, reader is from a very wealthy family, both are living double lives, underaged smoking, reader is female and uses she/her pronouns, forbidden love (ish?), swearing, daddy issues, mommy issues, reader is unhinged, both are mentally unstable, lots of flirting.

Author's Note ೃ⁀➷ l went through like a fuck ton of shit [Broke up with my boyfriend of two years, entrance exam, and uh I lost some friends] and 2024’s barely started lol sorry for the late update, i am,,, extremely deep in hurting 👍

Tag list ೃ⁀➷ @sakura-onesan @coffeeandtealol @luvjunie @noetophat @proudgojofucker @depresssedcowboy @adorefavv @l0starl @your-girl-mj @nyumeii @iheartamajiki @yoluv-tiannaaa--212 @bakauwu @callsignwidow

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟐: 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐎𝐧 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬

Summary ೃ⁀➷ Miles and Eddie make an exchange. A certain nightmare plagues his thoughts. Your insanity unfolds, and so does Miles’ suspicions.

[Warning: Blasphemy, mentioned of fucked up things and crimes, deranged thinking]

MASTERLIST

Previous chapter || Next chapter

“Miles, what would make you hate me?”

The memory was so long ago. Well, to be exact, perhaps it’s been a month or two since it happened. Miles could still so clearly remember the way you leaned your head against the damp wall, your eyes far off into the void of whatever haunted you. At that time, his feelings had been but a spark budding within his chest ever so delicately, a butterfly ripping out of its cocoon in his stomach.

“I don’t know.” Miles whispered into the air. “I don’t think it’s possible to truly hate a person when you know them personally.”

At that moment, you looked at him, with your head half-buried within your hood.

“Why’s that?” You asked, fiddling with the ends of your hoodie.

Miles took a moment to think about how to word his answer.

“When you recognize someone enough to know that they’re not evil people who’d do random shit for shits and giggles, you learn to realize that they’re not really a monster.. At least, not as much as they seem.” His lingering gaze travels towards the ample of your cheek. “I can’t hate you when I know you. You’ve got a name, and you’re somebody’s sister, daughter.. Well, you don’t have to be all that. You just need to be somebody, and you’re somebody to me, and that alone’s the reason why I can never hate you.”

“That’s.. Interesting.” You whispered. “So technically, you humanize your enemies.”

“That’s one weird way to put it, but yeah.”

“But what if it’s a façade?” The words rolled off your tongue seamlessly. “What if.. They’re not exactly the person you thought they were. What if they’ve done more harm than good?”

He thinks about it for a moment.

“It’s not my job to humanize people. People humanize themselves.” Miles answered. “If there’s truly nothing at all about this person that makes them human, or makes me feel like they still have a relatively active conscience inside of them.. I can’t.”

“So you’re saying thay if they’re not human, you’ll hate them?”

“No!” He rapidly shook his head.

“No, ‘cause Miles, I’ll be fair with you. Ion think there’s anything more monstrous than humanity. We are our own enemies. Nothing else causes more pain to a human other than its own body or its own kind, which is why hatred is such a natural thing.”

“Hatred is a natural thing for you, because you grew up only having to think about yourself.”

“Because if not me, then who would?” You spewed. You didn’t mean to sound overtly bitter, but you were. “Unlike you, Miles, my family ain’t the shit. It’s me against the world always— I-If, had I gotten a remote opportunity to care about anyone other than myself, maybe I wouldn’t be this hateful.”

“Well, you got a chance now.”

“How so?”

“You got me.”

You paused, wondering if you’ve heard correctly.

“… I’ve got you?”

Whatever did that statement mean? You’ve heard about a million pick-up lines, but what the hell was this?

“F’course you do. We’re friends.”

Friends.

“Friends?” Just friends?

Miles hums. “Buddies. Amigos.”

Ah, right, that’s how it always starts. Just friends.

Miles snuck his hand into one of his pockets, plucking out something round that you were too lost in your haze to even notice. He seems to fiddle with it for a moment, digging his fingers into its plush before nudging it towards you.

“You want some?”

You turned around and realized he’d peeled you an orange. “.. What.. These are so expensive these days. How’d you even get one?” Your hand reaches out for the fruit, examining its tiny size. You’d heard about the sudden inflation of prices, so fruits inevitably turned into a luxury for most. Miles parts the mandarin and places the larger half on top of your hand.

“.. I stole one from my neighbor’s garden. God did say generous people prosper, so I did him a favor.”

“I’m pretty sure there was a ‘thou shall not steal’ in one of the commandments, Miles.” You laughed, plopping a piece atop your tongue. The tangy, sweet, yet sour flavor bursts right in, making you grimace ever so lightly. “Oh, that’s sour.”

Miles took after you, similarly cringing. “Eugh.”

“It’s probably not all that ripe yet. It’s fine though,” You plopped another into your mouth. “I like oranges— sour things as a whole. They snap me back into life.”

“That sounds sad.” He mumbled, turning to look at you. “Kinda worrying, if you ask me.”

“Well, I wasn’t asking.” You plucked out one of the seeds from your teeth.

“Right, ‘cause you never ask.” Miles took another bite. “You only answer.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know.” Miles shrugged. “I like saying random shit to tick you off.”

You rolled your eyes, trudging your way up from the floor as you staggered from the cold. “Thanks for the orange, Miles.” Running a hand through your hair, you looked out and sighed. He couldn’t help but feel surprised at the lack of your sass.

“You’re welcome, princesa.”

Your brow cringed. “Don’t call me that.”

His finger twitches. He watched as you froze for a moment, turning to look at him. With gentle steps, you approached and leaned down— tufts of your hair brushing against the temple of his forehead. At that moment, he swallows while taking in the scent of your perfume and its ridiculously sweet stench. How could everything about you be so sweet?

You plucked your pen out of his hands. “This is mine.” You reminded of him. Miles didn’t utter a single word til’ your eyes met. Even in the darkness, you saw, but you ignored— well, rather, you tried to ignore it, but it stung.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

Miles turned his head, forcibly pushing down the butterflies fluttering like haywire in his stomach.

Hands clammy, heart haywire, eyes unable to meet yours.

“Sure, whatever.”

That day ended there, but Miles knew then. He knew.

Eddie Brock couldn't look past the television store, as his eyes were drawn completely to the news. Not that he couldn't afford a paper, or a gadget of his own— he was simply nervous, figdety, and this ominous pit that holed itself into his stomach unnerved him like a pig carved up for the butcher. He'd known of the news already, honestly, something along the lines of the daily murders and crimes that weren't all too unusual to be fair, and rather than the screen's bright technicolored themes, he was hyper focused entirely on one thing.

The face of Will Barlowe, the almighty senator. Eddie had long been staring at that man's creased, brown skin and slick, blonde hair that was fading into this falsified shade of platinum all because of his whitening strands.

Damn the rich, all of them.

Eddie was no one, like everyone else. A drop of water in the ocean, a needle in a haystack. He was one, like the rest, with the hard workers who carried the economy with their white, blue, pink-collared jobs. He thrived, initially, three years ago. He was an activist then— a journalist in a crisp collared shirt and black dress pants, warning the young about the dangers of climate change, and speaking outwardly in regard to politics.

Now, he was nothing more but a wrinkled jacket-wearing, eccentric and amusing conspiracy theorist scraping the tiniest bits of his dignity to post videos on Facebook or Youtube shorts about how fucked up and dystopian America's grown to become.

When the Prowler, the younger one, decidedly linked him a location allegedly shared by the elites, Eddie wanted to think of it as a chance to shine, to end everything once and for all, and to avenge Anna. For Anna, and for what could’ve been their happy, serene life. But when he arrived, painstakingly clad in plaid while forging the identity of a lost tourist, he was disappointed entirely to find out that the warehouse had been burnt down.

He could still recall the charcoaled crevices of what could’ve been his salvation— that masked boy, the Prowler, promised him salvation in a what-could’ve-been some rich guy’s attempt of a house barbecue.

“Did I make ya wait long?”

A voice reminiscent of a growl. That same shade of neon magenta lingered, popping like a change of color in the melancholy of great Harlem. Eddie tries not to look, but the presence of the boy simmered like fire even as he hung like a spider from the ceiling. He was always like that— the Prowler. The boy was a tall, lanky thing who walked and talked suave. Dominican, he initially assumed. Eddie figured this little vigilante was likely a high schooler with hopes consequently dimmed by the recession.

“Nope.” Eddie attempted to appeal cooly, instead, he only crumbled more. “I’d been watching the news this whole time, tryna check if there was anything about the fire.”

He hears a metal click. “They prolly wouldn’t say nothin’. See, if they didn’t wanna hide it, it’d be all over the television. But it ain’t there, so that means the Chávez’s are hiding the fire from the other families. They prolly paid the witnesses to keep their mouths shut or bribed all the television networks to say it’s some barbecue party gone bad.”

A few passersby couldn’t help but squeak at the sight of the infamous vigilante hanging from a store sign, but they all seemed to know better than approaching him. Trouble was wherever he was, after all, or something the daily bugle said along those lines. They shared glances, sure. Curious, amused glances like how people would marvel at a lion in a zoo.

“It’s,” Eddie finally looked at him. “it’s something ‘bout the Chávez’s?”

With a momentary pause, the Prowler released his grip from the metal poles and dangled down for a second before decidedly letting his feet hit the ground. He was tall— truly, around an inch or two taller than grouchy Eddie. His braids seemed much longer than he’d last seen them. Did he recently get them redone?

“.. That’s right.” Prowler hummed. “.. But we might wanna move some place else to have this conversation, Mr. Brock.”

And where the cat went, curiosity followed down as it made its way to the dark alleyways.

Eddie had a million questions, like any other normal being. The Chávez’s, the Primos, the Barlowes, the Fisks, the Osborns, and all of the other wealthy families connected to one another were all listed down on his kill bill naturally, and he’d been dreaming about the day of crossing out their names with ink made from their blood. Cliché, but a threat either way. Eddie wasn’t a writer, but a journalist anyways. Creativity in terms of wording his hatred was limited and it wasn’t his forte.

“In your past facebook post, you mentioned the Chávez’s briefly,” The boy began, halting by the corner dampened by rain. “I need information about the whole family.”

“… Aren’t you supposed to know the basic information about your enemies?”

“If it were that easy, I wouldn��t be needing your help.” The two white shapes that proxied as his eyes narrowed, grimacing ever so lightly. “There’s little information about them in the black market, and within the scarcity, most of them aren’t factual.”

“They’re rich enough to be able to squander their wealth on silencing people,” Eddie kicked at a can. “Of course no one knows, but I do.”

“How so?”

Picking at something in between his cheek, Eddie sighed a long sigh.

“… My wife worked as their private attorney.”

He watched the boy take a step back. “.. Your wife?”

“Yeah.” Eddie nodded. “My wife, Anna. She was taught to keep silent about their crimes, and to find a loophole in every case.” A lump formed in his throat.

The Prowler stared. He couldn’t make out whether it was an empathetic or judgmental one. “.. So your wife covered up the Chávez’s crimes?”

“A part of it.” Eddie mumbled. “There’s more to the elite than we know, Anna had to burn her files after every case, so she couldn’t snitch or post them after she quits.”

His head turns. “… I see.”

He sees the boy shift, weirdly, fidgety. He couldn’t particularly describe the unease this young vigilante conveyed. It was almost like he was on the verge of asking something, but his mask made it harder to read what he was desperate to know about.

“.. So can you tell me?”

A simmering silence sunk into the gaps of their conversation.

“What’s in it for me?” Eddie asked, knowing he shouldn’t have, as it was obvious and painstakingly accusatory.

“Why do we have to have transactions when it comes to justice?”

Eddie paced. “Capitalism.”

“Fair point.” The Prowler sighed, rocking on the ends of his neon shoes. “Well, what d’ya want?”

Eddie thinks, and thinks. What could a conspiracy theorist— no, a journalist want? Could he ask for a man’s death? The head of Barlowe? The head of Chávez? Or could that only be achieved after this gamble? He looked at this boy, and Eddie pictured this teenager basking his hands in blood.

What would make him any different from the elites?

“… When you went to the warehouse, you guys.. Took evidence? Even a USB, right?”

He stared. “Yeah, we dug it up and we tried sending it to every news outlet we could find.. All of them rejected the information.”

“Why?” Eddie furrowed his brow. “Was the information incomplete? Did you send the evidence beneath a credible name as a source?”

“Credible name?”

“Yeah, if the information comes from a credible source, they might do something about it. Likewise, if the information is complete, they might take the risk, after all, the Chávez’s are old money, and they have a lot of influence in regard to politics. If they publish anything against them, without complete information, or if you’re just a bunch of trespassers regarded as criminals by the media,” Eddie held out a finger. “Someone will get shot.”

The boy swallowed.

“If not you, if not your partner, it’s the journalist. Always the journalist.”

And Eddie’s seen too much of his co-workers wound up as mere victims in a headline. ‘Journalist shot dead.’

And he didn’t want his name to be reduced to a John Doe in one of the many causes people are too afraid to fight for.

“… I’ll tell you all about the Chávez’s, if you give me the records you stole from the warehouse.”

The Prowler stood, seemingly caught up in his thoughts for a moment. “.. Okay, but I’m telling you, don’t make a large move without consulting me first.”

“I still want my head attached to my head, of course I’ll consult y’all first.” Eddie chuckled, his fingers pouring into his pockets. “Then, what do you want to know about the Chávez’s?”

Without missing a beat, he answered.

“You can give me all you got. Recent scandals, fuck ups.. Perhaps, you got anything from the collapse of the Aureum building three years ago?”

“The Aureum building,” Eddie echoed, reminiscing like a veteran released from war. “That was the messiest thing I’ve ever witnessed in the last ten years. The lawsuits, the bribes, and the social media mayhem—“

“The deaths.” Miles cringed, remembering his father. “Surely, that was the most fucked up thing.”

“Aside from the architecture? Sure.” Eddie pulled out a box of cigars from his pocket, wringing out a single stick. “Weak scaffolding, quick-dry cement.. Put two and two together, and everything collapsed as soon as the opening began.”

Miles wallowed, grimacing at the sight of the habit. “Could it have been planned?”

With a flick of his lighter, Eddie took one breath in and sighed. “Could? There’s no ‘could’, boy, it was planned.”

Planned? Planned by who?

Were the Chávez’s really masters at self-sabotage? Or were their enemies really just each other?

“You see, the Chávez’s specialize in human trafficking, slave trade, and child labor. The people they ship work tirelessly for other businesses without a fee— because we, you and I and the rest of us who had the freedom to earn education, refused to work under hellish circumstances and poor environments. Without us, precisely, without the poor, the rich are nothing.”

“Then the Aureum building?”

“The Aureum building was a cover-up for a bigger scandal.” Eddie tilted his head. “The people inside were likely witnesses, or people who knew about the human trafficking.. And when the building collapsed, they sued the construction companies involved, got the money, but damaged their reputation.. And I don’t see why they’d do all of that just to damage their reputation.”

Miles pondered and pondered.

“.. It was probably someone from inside the family who planned everything.”

“That’s what I think so too.” Eddie added, blowing off another puff of intoxicating smoke. “Someone who won’t suffer from the damaged reputation.. Yet someone who still manages to benefit from it all financially.”

“… Could it be.. Any one of the siblings?”

Eddie takes a step back, likely thinking about it. “.. Well, the other one’s in London, the other one’s too stupid, and the last’s a minor.”

“Minor?” Miles repeated. “How young are we talking?”

“.. Well, the last time I heard about the girl.. She was thirteen, and it’s been three years since then, so she’s probably fifteen to sixteen.”

It’s not as though a thirteen year old could possibly plan out such a meticulous plan… Well maybe, or maybe not, it’s not as though Miles was the only genius capable of great things.

“You know any of their names?”

“Names.” Eddie furrowed his brow. “The last girl’s protected by the law, since it’s illegal to paparazzi minors.. But the first two are Montrell and Anthony.”

Montrell. Mon. Three children. Two older brothers. One girl. Sixteen, sixteen years old just like you.

Miles swallowed.

It’s as though he could feel your hands blocking your vision, whispering sweet nothings into his ear.

He falters, alerting Eddie. “What’s wrong?”

“.. My head just hurts.” He mumbled, turning his head. “I think I kinda overworked myself. I still got a date.. Need to.. Rest.”

“Date?” Eddie blew. “That’s right. You’re quite famous, ain’t you?”

Miles rolled his eyes, able to freely express his distaste for the supposed compliment behind his mask. “I try not to be, don’t wanna make her think about it too much. The broad shoulders don’t help as much, though.”

“She know all ‘bout your..” With his cigarette squeezed between his ring, Eddie gestured at him. “Your little vigilante thing?”

Leaning his head against the brick wall, Miles crossed his arms and shrugged. “She better not. Don’t wanna make her daddy even madder.” He lowers his gaze a bit, his mask naturally zooming into the title of Eddie’s cigarette box. It was the same brand as your brother’s, likely a different flavor. Mint or something. Everyone around him smoked too much.

“She from the finer part of York or what?”

“The finest.” He recalls your brother’s luxury car. “.. But I think she’s tryna hide it.”

Eddie plucks the cigar out his teeth, a sort of accusatory yet mundane expression scribbled all over his scruffy face. Eventually, he laughs it off. “That’s all of what’s wrong with our society. The poor pretend to be rich and the rich pretend to be poor. They like romanticizing poverty but likely won’t be able to find comfort if they walked in our shoes for ‘bout a damn mile.”

“She ain’t nun like that.” Miles butted in. “She’s sweet, my girl. Cruel, sometimes, but that’s how ladies gotta be from time to time— seeing as how the world fucks them up every now and then.”

“.. That your first date?” Eddie asked.

“I guess. We’re kissing, but we got no label.”

Eddie scoffed an old man’s scoff. “Your generation’s got me fucked up. Y’all and your situationship bullshittery.”

“It ain’t like that.”

“It’s always like that.” Eddie narrowed his eyes. Miles similarly cringed, wondering how Eddie could be so bitter— having to remind himself seconds later that the man’s poor wife was dead. Dead as hell. As dead as his father. “If she can’t even be upfront about her wealth, she’s likely hiding something from you.”

“My man, I’m lucky she even looked my way. You know nun ‘bout her, don’t be like that.”

“And what if she’s from the oligarchy, huh?” Eddie exaggerated. “What if she’s a Fisk? A Barlowe? Hell, even worse, what if she’s a Chávez?”

Miles didn’t reply.

As the puff of smoke emanated through the damp air, suddenly, Miles pictured you holding a cigarette while grinning at him wickedly— and somehow, that tantalizing air.. Suited you like the slip of a glove.

“I’m just kidding w’ya, man.” Eddie laughed, flicking the cigarette away, crushing it with the sole of his wrinkled boot.

“Ain’t funny, Ed.” Miles grumbled. “People I loved died in Aureum.”

“But she’s still rich, though. You can never be too sure ‘bout the kind of secrets her family’s keeping. If push comes to shove, will you still be able to love her if you do find out that her family’s fucked up?”

“Stop it.” He angrily seethed. “Stop.”

Eddie watched with a certain stank in his eye.

“… Y’know, there’s a rumor that one of the Chávez kids are illegitimate.”

.. Miles left seconds after.

It’d not been his greatest day, and earnestly speaking, his gut’s been clamoring at him to listen, only for him to reject its pleas. He’d thought about listening— to whatever higher being was calling upon him to stray away from you.

His Mama told him to pray throughout his struggles. She’d not been a zealot, his mother. But she was no stranger to the novena, to pray and to call for help in such long days. He’d been subjected to it early on: the novenas, the masses, the lingering of frankincense in the air. Though she never truly coerced him to participate in the church, Miles simply titter-tottered throughout those dull Sunday evenings.

He didn’t want some higher being to stop him from becoming a horrible person; Miles wanted to be good on his own accord.

But you.. You made him question. Not you, but himself.

Though his dad always told him to question everything while he’s young, Miles couldn’t question you. How could ever question you?

An illegitimate child. Which one was it?

Your brothers, who had everything?

Or you, who had nothing?

And although Eddie left the alleyway unscathed, Miles felt that blood had stained his hands.

And you could still taste blood in your mouth.

You could still hear the crunch of that man’s neck echoing in your ears, his tiny pleads of self-preservation before the snap to his death. It rang and rang behind your eyes, between your ears, like a haunting melody you couldn’t help but repeat.

The memory of his fear merely energized your veins, but left you gawking in dauntness even as you worked your way through the hotel— showing Montrell the ropes and tending to the preparations for the upcoming charity event. The snap, the way it snapped— the way his neck snapped was a musical lyric that pulsed and pulsed in your mind.

Snap.

Snap.

ＳＮＡＰ.

The idea of fear intrigued you, cannibalism, however, not so much. The symbiote immensely argued with you, that it wasn’t your body in particular feasting on human flesh, but the symbiote itself. It needed to be fed, and it needed sustenance— but you didn’t know where else to find that sustenance.

“Miss?” Charlotte, the head housekeeper called out to you, snapping you back from the profanities of your mind.

Suddenly, you’re back staring at the new, tall, stained-glass windows— basking you in the glory of pale lights in shades of ethereal yellow and blue. It’s been under construction for quite a while now, but after your father had approved of the idea, you were willing to wait long enough to see its outcome. You’d only gotten the news just a few hours ago in regard to its completion, and now you’ve been staring at it for a while now.

“Yes?” You stifled airily, wallowing in a hundred emotions.

Charlotte bows her head for a moment, unveiling an approaching guest.

Before you could even process to question who it was, Montrell and his gentle eyes appeared before you. He seems to marvel at the windows before you as he takes another step up the stairs.

“Wow,” He huffed. “Is this.. Your design?”

You simply looked at the window with crossed arms and a smile. “I couldn’t forget about the windows when we went to Veronica’s wedding. I liked.. The colors and the drama it endowed.” You smiled, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. “.. This was my final project in the hotel.. I’ve done so much to rebrand everything, but we still can’t do much ‘bout what happened in the past.”

The lights dawned upon the both of you.

“Does it hold any special meaning?” He asks.

You shrugged. “It varies on the person, I guess. I think, those who don’t really know me will try to put meaning into all that I do, but those who really know me know that my art is plainly.. Meant for aesthetic.”

Montrell frowned. “How can you make art without passion?”

“.. You pick up a pen.” You carved a smile. “And you just draw.”

You draw, and you draw. Carved it in, like how a knife would pierce a sack of flesh. Murder the canvas with each stroke, and if they ask you ‘why?’, answer with ‘why not?’.

“I think.. Only Miles can place meaning in my art. After all, my passion resides in him.”

“Like a proxy.” Montrell darkly laughed, shaking his head. “.. I wonder how hard you’d break once you lose him.”

You turned your head to look at your brother’s charming face.

“Is that a threat?”

“A warning,” He remarked. “After all, how could he ever love you once he realizes that our family’s responsible for his father’s death?”

You turned your head back to the windows. “… I feel guilty, actually. I don’t really know how to approach Miles if he ever comes to realize my identity.”

“.. Don’t you feel lonely having to constantly push away the people you love?”

You shrugged. “I’m a pretty girl. Pretty girls are never lonely.”

“Sure.”

Montrell looked at you. To be precise, he eyed you, and he looked at the way you casted your eyes downward. From a mile away, one would believe you fostered insecurity and shame in the way you’d stare, but knowing you and the way you were, that downcast gaze of yours imbued disinterest and a heightened sense of.. Superiority.

No matter how hard you try to appear empathetic, you were always and inevitably still a Chávez. Even in the way you pursed your rouged lips, or spoke with eloquence, or held your head high.. You and your siblings, who were forged to become heartless from the beginning, were never bound to be kind.. Or good.

But could Miles do it?

Could he actually change you? Humanize you?

Make you kind and loving, and normal?

You tightened your grip over your arm. “I.. Was going to escape tonight, originally.. For our date. He wanted us to have a halloween date. It’s so dorky. He’s so dorky.” The way you fawned was genuine, though. He could see it so clearly. “But after daddy mentioned the USB, I didn’t know how to face him without feeling guilty.. I came to meet Miles with the intention of using him to get his dead dad’s stuff but I ended up.. Falling for him. I never knew I was capable of feeling like this.”

“.. When we’re too busy to survive, it feels frustrating to have to care for someone else. That’s why our family doesn’t feel like one.” Montrell whispered.

“We’re not a Greek tragedy.”

“Exactly, which would mean,” He turns to you. “You’re likely still savable, [N/n].”

You lightly winced. “.. I haven’t heard that nickname since I was twelve.”

Your brother chuckles at the reminder. “.. We called you that since you couldn’t pronounce your name when you were three.” Montrell heaved a long breath, as though he were a dreamer reminiscing the times. Ah, he truly is a sucker for what’s long gone, huh? “Antonne and I were so excited to have you. Your first word was my name, actually, Mon. I had to sneak up into your cradle every night just to make you practice say my name. Mama used to hold you in her arms whenever I got home from school, and she used to read out my cards with you in her other hands ‘cause you were one energetic kid.”

Oh, so like a normal family?

We were capable of having that this whole time?

…

“[Y/n]?”

You snapped yourself back to reality, Montrell’s voice leading you out of your internal monologue. “Did you hear my question?” He queried. “You kinda zoned out there.”

“Sorry, I was thinking ‘bout something. You were saying?”

“Once you get the USB.. Are you going to leave him?”

The question seemed far fetched from the previous topic, which caught you off-guard. You turn your head. “.. I don’t know. I’d rather make him hate me, and have him leave me first, because I don’t think I can ever bring it upon myself to leave him.”

Such a romantic.

“Do you think you can handle it?”

“.. It’s not a question of whether I can handle it, it’s a question of whether Miles can handle it.”

Montrell murmured. “.. What if he gets revenge?”

“Revenge?” You repeated, the idea sounding funnily dramatic. “Revenge on me? I didn’t throw that building over his father’s head.”

“Ah, yes, but there’s a thing called karma.” Montrell spoke as thought to remind you. “It’ll be out there to get you, or at least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

You couldn’t help but aimlessly ponder. “… Why do poor people believe in futile things such as karma?”

The way you worded it, and the way it exited your tongue seemed unusually natural. Montrell, who’s been too used to such words, only shrugged. “Cause there’s nothing else to save them. That’s why they have a god, [Y/n]. They can’t save themselves, and so that’s why they believe something otherworldly will.”

Before you could speak, Montrell looked out into the glass windows before turning to you.

“Speaking of which, I think you should use daffodils for the upcoming party.”

“.. Daffodils?” You repeated.

Your brother nods. “Yes. I find them to be quite lovely.”

Since when did he have an interest in flowers? You internally squirmed. “Where the hell am I going to get daffodils in autumn?” You groaned. “We can use other yellow flowers for the golden theme.”

“Well, you’re not in charge anymore.” Was his attempt of a tease. “Surely there are still daffodils here in this season. We’ll have to find the best greenhouse in town.”

“But why?”

“Because I said so.”

You sweetly casted a glance at him, smiling as a thought crowed at you.

A sharp pain shoots through Miles’ head. A pulsing, familiar pain— resembling a bullet, dove straight into his subconscious.

He stumbles back as darkness clouds his vision, a sort of slithering and slimy feeling coursing through his system like a snake seething beneath his skin. His heart was hammering against his chest. It was like that time during the warehouse, where he felt genuinely uneasy and unsettled. The eyes of that figure behind the window, watching him tremulously stare back.

In the cage of his mind, Miles finds himself inside a dark void— where the silence was loud enough to hear the sound of a pin drop.

Then there was this drumming.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The melody was unfamiliar, but the voice nostalgic. Miles crawled amidst the darkness, searching for the voice, only to look up and catch the sight of a pristine, delicately made shoe. It kicked against the front of a desk, making a rhythmic pattern. Thump. Thump. Thump. With each passing moment, his eyes continued to linger upward, from the shoe, to a leg, to a waist, to your pretty face.

You sat there, above the desk, with your pretty hair and your pretty eyes, puckering up your pretty lips along with the song. You were so idly calm, so leisure while singing so softly, he could hardly make out the words exiting your mouth. A dim, green light cascaded against the silhouette of your figure, further accentuating the pink of your lips and the darkening of your gaze.

You smiled, but your eyes held nothing. Like you never knew what kindness was, even in his presence. You never looked at him like that before— like you hated him enough that you wanted him to die.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The thumping was growing faster and faster with each second. Upon seeing his struggle, a stifled laugh laces the lyrics.

Miles tried to move, but his whole body writhed in pain— like he was beaten, defeated. His arms itched in burns and scars. With the sound of your hum, Miles looks up, only to see you cross your arms before your chest, the tip of your shoe gently grazing against the skin of his temple. He feels as though he was being watched, idly, by an audience that had no interest at all in intervening. Like everyone was amused to see him.. Kneeling before you.

Click. Click. Click. The cutter clicked in your palm as the blade rose higher.

It’s like your presence alone was enough to blind him, and his conscience kept crawling back to you no matter how hard it tries to stray.

Really, who are you, [Y/n]?

Why was it whenever you lingered in his dreams, you were the cruelest person to exist?

And why was it that Miles knew that he’d probably still adore you with your hands around his neck?

“.. Miles?”

From a gentle shuffle, Miles awoke to the sound of his mother’s voice.

Miles jolted up, his skin half drenched with cold sweat. Unfortunately enough, his awakening was nothing avian. On the contrary, his awakening felt like a somber chore. The material clung onto him like glue, making him utter a groan. For a while, he helplessly looked around like a child lost between rows of linoleum aisles, his mind hopping from question to question. 'What just happened? What was I dreaming of?'

Like some hungover drunkard, he gently peeled himself away from the sweat-stained sheets and begrudgingly sat upright. Rio’s gentle hand cradled his aching head.

“Rest, mijo, you’re exhausted.”

“Mama, I—“ He broke, running a damp hand over his head. For a moment, he flinches, checking to see if his hands were covered in blood. “What happened?”

His mother’s dark curls lightly brushed against his temple. Her eyes were just as exhausted as he was, with dark circles rimming the doeness of her gaze. “I got home to you taking a nap but you kept squirming. I was so worried. Que paso?”

He looked around, realizing he’d dropped himself unconscious atop the sofa.

“.. Nightmare.”

Night terrors, to put it precisely. It’s been haunting him since the death of his father three years ago. He thought they’d long vanished after meeting you, but after his suspicions arose, his anxiety came crawling back like a dreadful stench.

Rio handed him a glass of water, to which he gulped down to its very last drop— like he’s been thirsting for all his life.

“Mama,” He called out. “… What do I do?”

His loving mother creased her brow, shaking her head. “What is it, mijo? What’s wrong?”

He runs his hand over his face, wondering how to begin. At that moment, Miles recalls your sweetest smiles, your loudest laughs, and your warmest hugs.

You held his hand, dragged him out of that maze, and you vandalized the hotel together. You tore yourself away from the expectations of your family, and went to him.

You chose him.

But could he go so far to assume that you loved him?

Rio shifted comfortably, trying to appear more welcoming to whatever catastrophe Miles was about to unleash. “What’s wrong, Miles?”

Miles couldn’t even admit it to himself, though he’d long noticed, he preferred to remain ignorant ‘til the truth was spilled from your own lips.. But he didn’t know how much longer he could last. Blood runs thicker than water, but both feel the same when your eyes are closed— and that could mean many things.

“A lot, ma.” He buried his head into his hands. “And Ionno if I could deal with it all.”

“You don’t have to deal with everything, Miles.” Rio frowned. “You’re only fifteen. Eres demasiado joven. Con el tiempo todo se arregla.”

“Me duele la cabeza.”

“Ponte vaporub.” Rio stood to grab the small, blue ointment. As she unscrews its green cap, Miles was immediately hit with its loud, minty scent. Digging her fingers into the substance, Rio smears the vaporub all over Miles’ forehead. “Sana sana colita de rana, si no sana hoy, sanará mañana.”

He lightly moved away with a sigh. “I’m not a kid anymore, ma.”

“I’m your mother, you’ll always be my kid.” As the cooling sensation sunk into his skin, he felt his mother’s palm cup his cheek. “And since you’re my kid, I always get worried about you. I know we ain’t got nothing much, but we got each other, Miles. You’re a great kid bound to achieve great things.”

He wasn’t too sure about that. That whole great kid thing. You had your fingers entangled all over his puppet strings, and it made him hesitate.

But what if that was exactly your plan? To ruin him entirely for your benefit?

“.. Ma, what would you do if the person you liked lied to you about their identity?”

Rio sat in silence.

“.. Que?”

Ah, fuck. That’s a stupid question.

“Nothing.” Miles turned his head. “Sorry, that was a stupid question—“

“No, Miles. I didn’t mean to— I just, you like someone? A girl?”

Miles shifted uncomfortably. Rio softened. “A boy?”

“No, ma!” He exclaimed, embarrassed. “I-It’s a girl. I like a girl.. Por los clavos de Cristo.”

“Oh, I was preparing myself.” Rio placed a hand over her heart. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d accept you no matter what, I just didn’t have a long wonderful speech prepared for it.. But what’s wrong with the girl?”

“Well, ma, it’s just..”

“Did she cheat on you!?”

“No! We’re not even together yet, ma. We were gonna have our first date today, but.. But her family’s been treating her horribly, and her older brother picked her up while we were out buying costumes for our halloween date only for him to directly tell me that it ain’t happening.”

“And then?”

“She talked ‘bout her dad throwing a fit, and now she hasn’t replied the whole day.” He slipped his fingers through his hair. “I even woke up at six in the morning just to get my braids redone at Tasha’s… And they invited me to a party at their house on Sunday.”

“Sunday? Then— that’s great!” Rio exclaimed, placing her hands over her son’s shoulders. “That would mean they’re open to getting to know you. Well, I think you can borrow some of your dad’s old clothes for the party, you two look great in suits anyway.”

“W-Well, ma, that ain’t entirely the problem, she’s..” He swallowed. “Ma, I think she comes from a very rich family.”

“Okay, and?” Rio raised a brow. “Did she ever make you feel inferior for having superior wealth?”

“.. No? Well, she’s been trying to keep it on the down low this whole time, but.. Whenever I see her, she acts so.. Proper and polite when she don’t even notice it. And her brother’s British too, and I— Ionno how the hell that happened, but he sound like the type to spit out tap water if I ever brought him to a restaurant.”

“Well, you’re dating the girl, Miles, not her brother.” Rio sighed. He thinks of it for a moment, then shrugs. Only then he notices his mother’s wide smile, her shoulder nearly glued onto his.

“So.. Who’s the girl?”

Miles fiddled awkwardly, unsure how to answer. Rio seemed adamant for an answer, so, after a while of internally mustering up sentences, Miles replied. “Her name.. [Y/n].”

“Mhm.”

“She uh.. Sixteen. I-I met her three months ago.. And we started doing graffiti together since then.”

“Oh, so she’s an artist?”

Miles gaped. “S… Sum like that, yeah.”

Your art varied. Your colors were blander while his, more vibrant. But there was something about the way you drew, that was so meaningfully realistic that it captured entirely how your mind pondered in its darkest moments. An art style that captured entirely the darkest of what life could bring.

He remembers going through your sketchpads, how your dabbles consisted of dull realism. Maybe it was only dull because it was exactly what New York’s become— cold and calloused.

But in contrast, you were able to set his world on fire in a way he’s never seen. Only you could paint over the dullness with scarlet, in a way that had him choking from the smoke emanating from your fire.

But he couldn’t tell his mother the way you’ve worsened him.

His mother wouldn’t let him get too close to someone as bright and dangerous as you.

“Why haven’t you mentioned about her before? I could’ve helped!” Rio tossed her dark curls to the side. They’d always reminded him of the dark sea. “Es puertorriqueña? Puede hablar español?”

“No,” Miles thinks about it for a minute. “I-Ionno, actually. She never told me anythin’ bout it, but she can’t speak Spanish so I ain’t sure.”

Rio attempted, no she really did try to attempt— to hide her disappointment. Were her grandkids bound to forever be free of her culture? How saddening.

“Pero creo que ella está estudiando español.”

“Oh?”

“Sí.” Mile seemed to lightened up. “She’s so cute. She can’t even pronounce ‘roja’.”

“But she’s trying.” Rio could not be any happier. “She’s trying! Eso es bueno! Ella ya me gusta. Not everyone tries these days, you know.”

He wondered if his mother was faking her enthusiasm just to ease him. He’d expected her to be more.. Angry about it.

“.. I’m surprised you’re not upset, ma.”

“Upset?” Rio furrowed her brows. “Miles, how could I get upset? You’re experiencing what every other teenager experiences, that’s great!.. I know you’ve been trying to act like an adult to help us, and you’ve given up so much just to keep us afloat. I’ve been getting worried that you’ve been focusing too much with adult responsibilities that you’re forgetting that you’re just a kid. You’re allowed to go around and be a kid. You’re allowed to like a girl— so long as she’s not a bad influence.”

Miles pushes back the thought of you being a smoker.

“She’s not a bad influence. She’s.. Just going through a lot.. She makes me happy, ma.”

Rio looked at him proudly. Only then, she wondered if her dearest husband ever brooded like this too upon realizing his feelings for her. She wondered if Jeff ever pouted the way Miles did, and looked out into the world with such admiration in his eyes as though he were shaping the void into an image of her.

Jeff loved, and thus, Miles could love too.

“If she makes you happy, then I’m happy.” She beamed. “So long as she’s not a brat or an alcoholic, or a racist, or any of those bad people, I’ll accept her.”

The mother shared a loving glimpse of her son, making out an image of her late husband in the way he smiled. Suddenly, she pats her lap and stands up. “Bueno, I’m making adobo.”

“I can help—“

“No, sit down, you’re tired.” Rio held out a finger. “Take a rest, Miles.”

“But Ma—“

“Rest.”

And he did.

Well, he tried. It was a subtle attempt. A poor one, at that. He sat upright by the sofa, listening to his mother chop up the potatoes. He tries to discreetly look into your messages, only to find you’ve finally texted back.

her ♡ || two minutes ago.

sorry i haven’t texted!! 😭😭

remember the party this sunday? my dad is making me help with the preparations so i couldn’t go to our date

i’m really sorry 🥺 don’t get mad

if you want, we can do it tomorrow.

Miles pouted. He didn’t want to reply immediately. He didn’t want to look desperate.

So he waited for another five minutes.

.. Even though you made him wait for six hours.

He switches the television on in attempt to distract himself from your message.

‘Last night, a horrific murder happened within Brooklyn, as the body of a beheaded man was discovered outside of a local bodega. Witnesses claim that an alien disguised as a teenage girl had ripped off, and eaten the man’s head.’

“The hell?” Miles burrowed his brows upon being greeted with the news on television. “An alien?”

He watches as the screen switches over towards one of the witnesses, a scruffy man with reddened eyes— evidently too lost in whatever he was taking to speak too calmly.

“.. They’re prolly high as hell.”

‘I’m ain’t even [censored] with y’all— some [censored] ripped off Kyle’s head— it was a horrific looking piece of [censored] made out of black goo or whatever the [censored]. The government’s [censored] making alien [censored]!

‘So far, there have been no records of the scene, as the cameras had been blacked out.’

“What the f—“ Miles grew mindful of his language upon realizing his mother was in the other room. “How the hell did that even happen!? Blacked out my ass.”

It was more or less, likely a murder related to the elites. One of their kids must’ve been hanging out with those junkies and killed a man for fun.

A phone begins to ring. Miles turns his head.

“Miles, can you get that for me?” He heard his mother, who was too busy chopping up something, call out.

He turns off the television, hops out of the sofa and heads straight into his mother’s room. As he flicks the light open, a king-sized bed greets him with its gray, large glory. He used to jump on that bed too much when he was a kid. Now, it looked.. Desolate, and almost deserted. With how large the bed was, he couldn’t help but ponder how lonely his mother must’ve felt, sleeping in a bed less warmer than three years ago.

Miles passes by the closet, and after foraging for a bit, he manages to find his mother’s phone atop a drawer— swiftly grabbing the gadget before turning to leave.

As he turns, his foot accidentally nudges against a box.

He peers through it, before kicking it away.

Making his way back to the kitchen, he hands the ringing phone over to his mother before curtly returning to the room to close the lights.

But as his hands reached out towards the switch, his eyes were drawn back to the sight of the box.

It looked like it’d been cast aside beside the closet.

Hearing his mother speak over the phone lightheartedly, something about something. Miles trudges towards the orange, cardboard box, kneeling by the floor with a single knee down on the wood. His hand curiously glazes over the top, feeling a pile of dust collect over his fingers.

Hesitantly, he takes off the lid, finding a familiar white, collared shirt. He pulls it up to the ceiling light and watches as it unfolds into a larger sheet.

This belonged to his father’s.

He looks right back into the box, finding a pair of black, dress pants neatly folded into a square. Meekly, he tugs on it, hoping he wouldn’t uncover anything sinister like a severed hand or an eyeball. After pulling the whole thing out, a longer line of black unravels.

A strange array of emotions lingered inside him.

Nostalgia. Wrath. Happiness.

It smelled like dust, and it was forever devoid of its owner’s scent and warmth.

“Miles, do you want juice?”

“Huh? Y-yeah.” He stammered. “Grape juice would be nice.”

His mother’s comment slips past his ears. For a moment, he pondered about wearing this to the Sunday party, but he couldn’t help but think how it likely wouldn’t fit him. His father was a giant, and he was quite lanky.

Upon hearing his mother’s footsteps, Miles hurriedly and clumsily attempts to refold the clothes, only then hearing a soft clatter. He pivots his head to the side.

There was a USB.

“For the florals, I think daffodils would be great.”

Your hands skimmed across the air in attempt of drafting an idea. From afar, you manage to earn a wider view of the banquet hall. Workers left and right helped with tidying up the refectory, scrubbing up windows and mopping up the floors. “It would match the golden theme, don’t you think?” You asked of Charlotte, who nodded wobbly with her dire age.

As of that moment, you’d been preparing for the layout of the party. As much as you didn’t want to listen to Montrell’s suggestion, you figured getting on his bad side would be a bad move.

The fundraiser, originally hosted by your aunt, was planned out to gather enough money to support Senator Barlowe’s projects. Your family was to auction off high-priced materials such as clothes, jewelry, paintings, and even estates for the sake of meeting the goal. Which would also mean that the highest of the elite would be attending the party.

And you were less than thrilled to be its co-host.

Charlotte marvels at your suggestion, taking it with a smile but a pique. “However, daffodils can’t usually be placed with other flowers, so I’ll have to make a special request to the florist to do the preparations extensively.”

You raised a brow. “Why can’t they be placed together with other flowers?”

One of the maids carrying a porcelain vase walk past you, making you gently remind her to put it aside.

Charlotte parts her palms. “They secrete toxins into the water. So whenever it’s placed among other flowers, the rest die.”

“Oh,” You widened your gaze, processing this newly found information. “How did you know that?”

Charlotte blinked, trying to think back. “.. Well, daffodils were used for your mother and father’s wedding. It was a struggle, since the day of the wedding, half of the bouquet had already wilted.”

You stood back in surprise, crossing your arms before your chest. “Mama must’ve been furious.”

Charlotte shook her head. “Your father plucked flowers out from the gardens and made her a bouquet himself.”

Wait. What? WHAT?

Wow, who knew your daddy was quite the romantic?

I’m just as shocked as every other person.

“M-My father?” You dumbly repeated. “My father plucked out the flowers himself? Or was it Mr. Nigel?”

“Your father, himself, Miss.” Charlotte laughed, finding your shock to be quite amusing. “He’s quite great at it too— flower arrangement. Your grandmother taught him from an early age.”

“My father truly arranged the bouquet for him and mama’s wedding?” You couldn’t believe your ears. “He has that sort of talent?”

“Why, of course!” She beamed a warm beam. “Like you, he used to oversee the interior of the hotel. He has great taste when it comes to color, and you’ve inherited that side of him.”

You tried to think about it, your father— who was now an old man with a permanent sneer on his wrinkled lip— arranging flowers in his youth, picking out pastel and cream curtains for the parties, and overseeing the menu. It didn’t seem like something he’d do, at all. Then again, your mother used to describe him in a way that made it tragic.

A good man, never a good father. Torn between yearning to be held in arms that never welcomed him and finding his worth beyond the standard of his own father.

You tried to sympathize with him. Your father.

Though he was who he was, he cared about you, in a twisted, fucked-up way. Your engagement with Richard Fisk was privately decided after the hotel went near-bankrupt had it not been for the Fisks and their mystical talent for cover-ups— and your father simply took most of your managing rights away just so the family you’d marry into wouldn’t use you for their own greed.

The fate wasn’t entirely horrible either. You’d marry into new money, sure, but their wealth would most definitely preserve the comfortable life you’re living right now.

It was your own greed that was worsening you.

Your desire to have a tantamount of power.

But what if you never needed it?

“Miss!”

What if all you needed was a peaceful life? Marry into the Fisks, host parties, and care no more about anything?

“Miss [Y/n]!”

.. But what about Miles?

He hadn’t answered any of your texts yet.

“Miss [Y/n], a call.” One of your secretaries came crashing through the doors with his phone. How you hated that word. Call. A signal of what would definitely exhaust you. Where was Montrell? Why weren’t they calling out for him? Were you really the only one able to handle all the messes in here? Workers left and right stopped as he trudged up the stairs, nearly tossing the phone over to you. You slip it close to your ear, making your way down with each click of your heel.

Charlotte watches as you listen to the caller with such intent. Silently, you eyed your surroundings before heading out.

As you reached the patio, you looked out into the dimming violet evening that was fading out along with the scarlet of the sun. The caller rambles on, something along about the recent incident.

“I’ve bribed the higher-ups to rush the investigation and to arrest the witnesses. We’ll release the story that they had murdered their friend after taking drugs.”

“Good.” You plucked out your vape from your pockets. “Report to me immediately once you find all the records about their families and their identities.”

“Understood.” You hear the sound of Morrison’s computer typing. Likely writing up a list. “I’ve also halted the investigation of the fire. I’ve told your father the information was tracked from an accidental leak after a delivery of the samples to one of the families had the address exposed. Sir Anthony will have to take up the blame since it was his idea.”

You took a long huff. “Good job. You did well.”

The smoke lingers, and you close your eyes.

Sorry, Antonne. You’ll live, I guess.

“Morrison,” You called out to him. “.. How’s Miles?”

The typing comes to a halt. For a moment, the two of you shared a moment of silence. You picture him pushing his glasses up higher off the bridge of his nose.

“.. I’ve spent most of my attention on other things, so I haven’t been able to check up on him yet.”

“Ah, is that so?” You mumbled. “Never mind then, just continue on with halting the investigation. I’ll take care of the rest, and remember, if any of the witnesses start describing my face—“

Clack.

You turned your head.

What was that?

ＳＯＭＥＯＮＥ‘Ｓ　ＨＥＲＥ

No shit.

Beyond the gardens, the skies were beginning to dim. That familiar shade of magenta, it lingered like a ghost and it haunted you like your past. There was a click that set your mind off, and suddenly you couldn’t help but feel like the world was integrating itself into a technicolor, dotted comic.

Then and there, spying on you from the top of the six Corinthian columns of the garden, sat the young Prowler.

“Miss [Y/n]? You were saying?” Morrison pried from you.

You parted your phone from you ear, a side of your grin heightening into a catty smirk.

“… If any of them start describing my face, take care of it.”

Then and there, you ended the call with one light tap. You remained stubborn with your posture, seemingly amused and befuddled by it all while keeping your head high. The boy watched you curiously but stiffly, as if he were unsure of what to do. You were mutually frozen, but you couldn’t allow any sort of weakness to seep through the cracks of your confidence.

You took a step close, and he tenses. The sound of your heel clicking against the tiles sends an echo into the garden.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” You greeted of him with sincere politeness, placing a hand over your hip. Was it an attempt to appear idle or what? “… It’s quite an honor to have you here as a guest.”

“Who are you?” The boy growled, voice delved baritones deep. “Really.”

You tilted your head.

“Who would you like me to be?”

His gauntlet unfolds, and suddenly, he launches himself at you, grabbing you by the neck.

[A/n: I PASSED MY FUCKING ENTRANCE EXAM GUYS]

[angelstate]

“Broken People, Broken Things”

Broken!Simon x Kind!Reader

In times of need it's difficult for him to speak up, a nagging feeling on his chest, a sinful voice in his mind that tells him he doesn’t deserve the help he needs, that after going through so much in life he should've learned to not ask for help.

an alack sentiment filling his head, a loss of hope so profound that makes him feel hollow, no amount of soil can fill the hole in his chest. is terrifying, the absence of himself on his body, as if he can only be the shell of what he once was.

a stray dog who bites the hand that tries to feed him used to be hurt rather than helped. He knows it’s not all his fault, that life wasn’t kind to him from the very start but guilt still manages to spill through crevices, straining his sanity.

it doesn’t matter how much you try to pull him out of his self-depreciation state, his already too far gone into his own head, thoughts of self-hatred already engraved for him to be eaten alive in the middle of the night.

it’s a cannibalistic situation, being the consumer and the consumed, harming himself until he’s bleeding then wincing at the pain, licking the blood of his wound like a harmed animal, self-sufficient and self-destructive, infecting himself with more pain than he already was in, a cycle of torture with no easy ending to relieve him from the pressure in his chest.

in a world where people's opinion of you controls the way your life plays out, he understands clearly why he didn’t amount to anything worth praising, he can recognize that his life was meant to start and end in one painful motion, surrounded by nothing but despair.

He finds it comical, how life pulls his strings and leads him to suffering when he hasn’t recovered from past wounds, like the universe wants to see how clever he can get to salvage his worthless life, how badly he wants to survive despite having no motive to live.

“Are you listening to me?” you speak, voice soft and kind, pulling him out of his thoughts, like being pulled out of the ocean by a kind stranger who saw him struggle to swim, being helped to fill his lungs with air and not water. he looks down to meet your gaze, your doe eyes always holding a warmth to them, your smile of understanding and patience he doesn’t think he deserves.

“Sorry, I got distracted for a second” he answers, voice low and gruff, tongue rolling with a heaviness created by his thoughts, he should’ve listened to you speak rather than lose himself in his mind, you are the only normality his life still has, the only thing he doesn’t associate to a bad memory.

“s’okay..it’s late either way, I should let you go to sleep” you reply, sounding apologetic as you always do, looking down with what he can only guess to be embarrassment, you shouldn’t feel that way, you should never feel ashamed, he knows you never mean any harm, only acting on love and friendliness.

“I’m not tired yet” he lies, he is tired, his body is aching and begging to rest but his mind feels more active than ever, two entities disconnected and acting on their own accord, he wants to lay down and rest but he doesn’t want to leave, not yet…please, not right now.

He remembers when he was a kid, not older than 4 years old, and terrified of the night, fearing something was hiding in it, waiting for the perfect moment to attack, to kill him. His father's screams in the other room and objects crashing against the walls only fueled his fear, that when the sun goes down, the world knows no peace, that monsters come out and are searching to kill him, to kill his mother.

He never grew out of that, he knew monsters as he believed before weren’t real, but that doesn’t mean that a similar evilness isn’t around, a sort of plague, a parasite that spreads every time he blinks. nights for him didn’t get much better either, something about the quietness didn’t feel right, a wave of doom he couldn’t escape on his chest, he could only stare at the door of his room while waiting for the sun to rise, only then being able to sleep.

“I thought you would be tired, you worked so hard today” you comment, it had been mere seconds that passed until you spoke but it felt like ages, like the time slowed down, once again the universe toying with his sanity. 

you always acknowledge his efforts, his actions, and his reasoning even if you are far off of what he intended, you’re always so nice to him, pretending the rumors and whispers about his past and intentions don’t reach your ears, that you aren’t aware of them when he can’t begin to remember the amount of times he heard about them, too many to count, that’s for sure.

“it was nothing…don’t worry” he answers, but oh how much you worry, concern filling your mind every time your eyes land on him, the tiredness in his eyes evident, his heavy steps a clear sign of his body tired of carrying his weight around. you wish you could lure him into his room, put him to sleep, be able to grant him a good night's rest.

Does he want to rest? Does he deserve to rest?

he feels numb at times, something lacking in his brain, stopping him from fully connecting and experiencing his feelings. It doesn't get any easier with every passing day, hours blend together and before he knows it he’s back by your side, your praises for working so hard and doing things he doesn’t find enjoyable for the sake of everyone else around him.

“Want a cup of tea?” you offer, tilting your head to the side, voice softer and sweeter, like one that people use to lure an animal close, trying to capture him and give him a home. It’s unsettling to him how good you make the idea of being welcomed in a home and not being terrified by the people living in it, like that’s a possibility, like if he lets you put him in that cage he won’t regret it.

“would appreciate it if you made me one” he replies, hesitant and doubtful even if you have never shown a sign of evilness, but anyone who offers him something must want something back, he knows it, he was taught that was how it worked. he doesn’t know what you want, what he can give you, and that terrifies him more, he doesn’t want to owe you anything.

“Okay” you say and leave the room with quiet steps, he doesn’t dare to move from his place, eyes focused on the place you were standing a few seconds ago, he’s alone in the room, being able to hear you open the kitchen door and move things around.

he knows you’re only a few feet away, in another room, the door open and your movements are skilled and soft, but you’re still a person in another room, and he is standing alone, in the darkness remaining because the lamp on the corner table does nothing but illuminate the objects that resting on the surface, everything else is dark.

everything else makes him remember when he was a kid and he was scared, he doesn’t want to be scared anymore.

He stumbles for a second, his foot taking a step back before he can realize he is moving, losing his balance and regaining it quickly. It feels like he’s falling apart from the inside out, a pillar inside of him deteriorating to the point he isn’t able to stand the weight of his past.

He doesn't know what to do, why it affects him so much your kindness and why now out of any other time he feels like he can’t stand the fact you’re in another room, you’re not his father, you're not dangerous, you’re not his mother, you’re not in danger. So why is he so worried he feels like suffocating? 

you affect him in ways he doesn’t like, it makes him feel self-conscious about everything he's gone through in his life, he doesn't understand why you bring that out of him, you are not linked to his past, you’re part of the fresh start he created for himself because of guilt.

maybe you remind him of the kindness he was denied, you remind him of what he could've had if life had been any kinder to him when he needed it when he was just a kid, when he feared his father would kill his mother and him one night, in the middle of the dark with no one to save him.

God, you shouldn’t be kind to people like him, who know nothing but to tarnish everything and everyone around him, he is poison and you’re too pure to even associate with him, your kindness shouldn’t be wasted on him he doesn’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve you.

He hears something shattering and follows not even a second later a scream of pain that could only come from you, his eyes dart towards the door, the hallway dark and the winces of pain continue.

For a second, a small fraction of a second he doubts the legitimacy of your injury, thinking his memories are getting to him, making him imagine something that isn’t at all happening, then he hears you fall to the ground, sobs ripping through your mouth and he knows it’s real.

He leaves the room with heavy steps, he’s adjusted to the darkness of the place but moves around, turning lights on with a freakish fear, wanting to have a clear vision even though he’s going straight towards his fear.

He reaches the kitchen and enters, his eyes moving around until he spots you on the floor, curled into yourself, hand bloody and burned, the broken cup and hot tea not even a meter away from you as you sob, holding your injured hand out as to not further damage the wound.

the image brings back memories he doesn’t allow himself to indulge in, moving around till he reaches you, grabbing the wrist from your injured hand with a sudden move, making you scream for a second before realizing is him who grabbed you, his eyes are strained on the wound, your skin looks irritated and half of your hand is soaked in blood.

“What happened?” he asks, tugging at your wrist as if the pain will make you speak any faster, he isn’t the kindest but he doesn’t mean to be harsh either, the panic is just too much on his bones to not let it out somehow, you’re the only person he knows is able to stab yourself with his sharp edges and survive to forgive him.

“I slipped and the cup fell on my hand…tried cleaning it but I cut myself” you explain through sobs and whimpers, trying to get your hand out of his grasp but every movement makes the pain of your wound stronger.

It’s stupid, how you managed to get yourself to fuck up something as simple as a cup of tea, it wasn’t a hard task, the floor hadn’t been mopped since hours ago and yet you still slipped and injured yourself like a baby deer with unstable limbs.

you shake your head, embarrassment once again plaguing your mind, he doesn’t differ with you, he doesn’t think you shouldn’t be ashamed of your mistake, you should be, you are ashamed and he agrees with you but for different reasons.

He thinks you should be ashamed of not calling out his name for help, for sitting on the ground and crying instead of asking for his assistance, you deserve to be helped when injured, and you deserve to be taken care of despite having made this mistake before.

you can make the same error again and still deserve to be forgiven and aided.

Because you’re human, and most importantly you are you, the woman who rescues everyone from their troubles like they are trapped in a burning building, you do everything and anything to make sure the people you love are safe and happy.

He can begin to understand why you think he’s worth the effort, maybe it’s pity, maybe with just one look at him and his reputation you can make out everything there is to know about him, every past trauma, every scar, every emotional issue he can’t let go of.

“It's fine…we’re going to be fine” He says, looking into your eyes, a silent promise you can’t decipher, you nod, pretending that you didn’t notice he aligned himself with your struggle, making himself a part of the situation so you wouldn’t be alone.

he doesn’t want that sort of faith for you.

He softly guides you to stand up from the ground, moving you towards the sink, standing behind you as he turns on the faucet, holding your injured hand and letting the cold water wash away the blood and cool off your irritated skin.

his breathing brushes on your neck, and the warmth of his chest spreads across your entire body as traps you between the counter and himself, it doesn’t have any malice in his touch nor does he mean anything sexual by it.

It’s the worry that has his body glued to yours, the need to surround you so you won’t get injured again, as one hides with their siblings somewhere in the house when your parents begin fighting again, it’s something natural that comes to him, used to protect and preserve the people he didn’t want getting hurt.

“I'm sorry for screwing up your tea” you apologize with a soft whisper, eyes focused on the blood washing away, it doesn’t hurt a lot anymore, just a small sting that lingers a bit uncomfortably, tolerable but not ideal.

you’re truly apologetic, you knew he didn’t get much sleep, that resting wasn’t something he usually did so you had tried to help him but in the end, it seemed you only caused more panic in his soul, his pupils still blown out as he assisted you with cleaning the wound, as if he was doing it for more reasons than just kindness.

maybe he was, you don’t know his full story after all, maybe you remind him of someone, of something he had buried a long time ago that you brought to the surface again and left him with anxiousness on his chest and worry in his mind.

“s’alright… it’s too late for tea either way” he comforts you the best he can, the best his words and feelings will let him right now, he isn’t upset about the mistake you made, anyone can fall, anyone can break a cup, he didn’t care about that, messes get cleaned up, a cup of tea isn’t as valuable as your health, you should know that.

It's too late for tea, and it’s too late for the amount of tears that continue to pour out of your eyes even though the pain isn’t overwhelming anymore, this time is your feelings, your physical state has nothing to do with the tears falling out and you’re too ashamed to admit it.

“I wanted to help you…I'm sorry Si” you speak again, a small hiccup interrupting your words but you don’t let that stop you from telling him how sorry you are that you managed to mess up one of the only things you knew he liked, tea.

“wanna make another one then?” he asks you, offering to let you try again, a second opportunity he knew you deserved and wanted, and even though he wasn’t in the mood for tea or anything at all, he was going to drink what you want to make him, even if it’s the last thing he does.

you shake your head, sniffling as you close the faucet softly with your noninjured hand, looking down as neither of you moves away from each other or makes the attempt to gain some distance. You didn’t want to make it again, didn’t want to risk embarrassing yourself and making the same mistake, this time in front of him.

“don’t want to screw up again” you answer him, voice low and full of shame. He understands you, maybe second chances aren’t always appreciated and he accepts that you don’t want to try again tonight.

He sees himself in you more than he wants to right now, more than he thought he ever would actually. He guessed that even someone like you could come from a not-so-pretty background, one where making mistakes is a sin that cannot be let go of without punishment.

different houses, different torture, same ending.

because of that, some part of him has to care for you, you deserve that, he cannot believe it enough even though he won’t say it out loud, don’t want to be caught by other people and have you end up being a outcast like him, you don’t deserve that, you don’t deserve that ending.

He makes you turn around softly so you’re facing him, his hands wiping away your tears with a gentle touch, he wished he could do more, turn back time and help you make the cup of tea, or go even further and stop whatever made you believe making a small mistake was such a high offense.

“Are you alright?” he asks, aware you aren’t but it feels cordial to make the question either way, giving you an opportunity to express more than you normally would, he knows you don’t talk enough about your feelings and it’s time you do.

“It’s not fair that you suffer so much and I can't even do something to help you” you reply and his heart stops for a second, the blood on his vein also coming to a halt as he feels himself being delirious of your words.

you did not hold such sentiment for him, nobody did, nobody has and nobody will. That was his life, a never-ending cycle of being looked down upon and having to do everything by himself because why would anyone want to help him or even try to? it’s stupid, you’re being stupid.

“Don’t say that darling..” he shushes you softly, his hands moving to caress your hair, he shakes his head, not wanting to believe you actually care, not wanting to get hope out of lies, it wouldn’t be pretty if he did and you broke his heart in the end.

“years of pain always lead up to isolation, you don’t deserve that” Captain Price once told him after a tough mission, and the words replay in his mind as he has you in his arms, the water mixed with droplets of blood on your hand staining the kitchen floor as he holds you gently.

He's living like his dead, and he doesn’t like it, doesn’t like he drags you to that same misery every time you’re around him but he doesn't want to let go of.

what is not devotion but to become a better person for the one you love?

“I appreciate your intention sweetheart…” he says as the silence from you eats him alive, wanting to make the ache on your chest disappear, he had never wanted to make you suffer, even unintentionally.

he is ready to repair everything broken so you won’t get harmed ever again, he’s ready to repair himself for you.

He had never wanted to become what he hates, a lover, a sentimental person, and yet as he finds himself becoming all of that and more, he can’t help but enjoy it, especially if it means never letting go of you.

Love wasn’t something he knew much of, never got the chance to learn when he was a kid and for a very long time he thought it wasn’t real, a mythical feeling everyone lied about existing so they wouldn’t be alone for the rest of their lives.

Your existence and kindness prove him wrong, your persistence in trying to make life easier for him, the way you laughed, the way you acted, your personality, your likes, and dislikes, everything about you showed him that love was real and he was experiencing it with you.

even if it took a lot of time for him to realize it he did now, and he loved you a lot, more than he would ever let on, more than any piece of literature could ever describe.

Tomorrow is a new day, and another cup of tea can be made, you cannot cry for what was never lost, and his gaze never falters from you so you don’t have to worry, he will always help you, you’re his air and he is yours.

Love cannot easily be tarnished and he swears he will never let anything happen to the one the two of you share, even if that is the only thing he does with his final breath.

(little reminder: I'm taking requests if you guys want me to write about something specific xx)

[thomas-jefferson-miku-binder]

i think what bugs me about the jhinhwei fics i’ve read so far is the way they treat hwei. hwei isn’t naive. i think that’s a very important part of what makes the ship work, actually. hwei is tormented. maybe not as much as jhin (who is doing it like him really), but there’s a nuance to his actions and his feelings and his choices. it’s portrayed twice in his biography. first, by his deviancy from the temple’s curriculum, by his willingness to explore an aspect of himself that isn’t only harmful to hwei but to others as well. and the reason is selfish. he wants to know how far he can go, how good of an artist he really is. so he endangers his masters and almost kills them to simply test his abilities.

hwei is careless and so self-centered that he becomes distant to the consequences of his artistry. and then, when the damage is done, he takes the role of the victim, of someone who encounters these situations rather than entices them. this is not to say it’s his fault what happened to the temple masters because of jhin, but that the idea that he had anything to do with it is so unbearable to hwei that he needs, for his own sake, as a form of coping mechanism, to attribute the guilt to destiny itself. which brings me to my second point, which is that hwei actively seeks jhin, not to punish him, but once again with the premise that he “must do so”, that there’s no other viable option, no other path.

tldr.: hwei isn’t clueless, he takes a passive role in his own story and points to fate as the reason things happen to him. which doesn’t make him evil, but also doesn’t make him naive. he has selfish motives and that should be explored more often in fanfiction.

[cashmere-caveman]

read a post about there being next to no record abt the historic edward little again (we dont even know what he looked like!!!) and now im thinking a lot about how he died in uniform again.

hes far from the only character to die in uniform (the marines die in uniform! franklin dies in uniform!) and he isn't even the only lieutenant to do so (gore, under his slops, was in uniform; fairholme, too presumably; irving famously wore his coat that hickey steals later; george wore something that used to be his uniform when he got eaten but imo atp he did not wear it as A Uniform anymore that were just the clothes that he had on if that makes sense) but at the end, he is the only one where i still felt that it was an active choice to wear it.

almost everyone else sheds their layers along the way or turns into something else, but ned starts in uniform and he stays in uniform and that's it.

fitzjames famously sheds his vanity and dies in his shirtsleeves, without any of the pomp and pizzazz of his uniform.

jopson, another character who is to me really connected with a certain mindset of holding up appearances, dies in his shirtsleeves, believing himself abandoned by the very person that was his reason to even wear a uniform at all.

goodsir as a doctor/assistant surgeon doesn't really have a uniform in quite the same sense as many others but when he dresses himself before his suicide it is not as an affirmation of his role, or at least not a positive one. he has sworn to do no harm, but he was forced to do it anyway and now he will add a final evil to his toll of sins in the hopes to balance the scales at least somewhat and for that to work, he must wear his outfit as always. he ends up with all pretenses stripped bare anyway.

tozer, a man so proud of his uniform in the beginning, again, dies in his shirtsleeves, no rank left, betrayed by someone who had convinced him to give up everything and yet! reduced to nothing but an ordinary man, he tries again where before he had given up. he cooperates, he coordinates, he even calls crozier captain again, he tries very hard to do the right thing in what looks like a no win scenario from the get go!! and he fails, of course, but he tried.

almost everyone else also ends up either dressed down (bridgens, armitage, dundy, des voeux etc) or somehow transformed (blanky, to some extend silna with her patched and bloody furs) or in hickeys case, both (iconic underwear & greatcoat combo). little never changes. he sometimes has a little scarf, theres the bandage for his headwound for a bit, he sometimes wears the full parade uniform with epaulettes and sometimes just the regular one, there are at least two different uniform hats and ofc you can tell that he loses weight by the way his shape chages under all that wool but he is always. in. uniform.

and maybe this is just my mind making up dots to connect but i think he might even be the last character that crozier ever gives an order to in his official function as a captain (in the tuunbaq seduction/boss fight scene he has been stripped of his rank, at least according to e.c.).

before his final scene, all we get is little arguing over the orders they are given, and how to interpret them. and he is still wearing his uniform!!! wait hold on im not gonna check but maybe he might only wear a jumper in the tent where dundy lauches his soft mutiny actually, so maybe this whole post is crumbling like a domino line but!!! ignoring this. moving on. (even if it is a jumper i remember him wearing sth dark blue aka Uniform Colour so im claiming it doesnt even matter bc spiritually that hypothetical jumper still is a uniform. im not going to let anything like "accuracy" and "real details" fuck up my post smh 🙄. im joking. however! Moving On as i said) (edit: i rewatched the scene and it IS his uniform actually, just v rumpled. going insane btw)

he doesnt even dress up for carnivale! the only other characters that are not in costume are jopson and crozier and they were literally too busy keeping crozier from dying to even begin thinking about joining the communal arts and crafts session! little is atp the acting no2 of the expedition so u might say he was busy but fitzjames has the overall command and still finds time to have a little gender moment in private and the imperialism-approved version of it for the Big Crowd!! (u could ofc argue that fitzy Always has time for a gender moment and who would i be to argue but my point is: i have no doubt that man was fucking busy preparing carnivale & beginning to prepare the walkout and there still was time to Express Some Character!! so how come ned didn't do anything?)

the one other scene we get where we can catch a small glimpse of characters out of their element before it all unravels (pre tuunbaq attack on the camp) is the scene at night when morfin gets shot. it shows lots of characters in various states of undress (silna big blanket burrito i love you) that allows us to see them differently, like their costumes at carnivale did, but in an entirely opposite direction. while carnivale was about putting on masks, this scene is about taking them off. and it drives me insane because i know that little must be there. he is somewhere in the crowd when morfin gets shot but so far i havent been able to make him out and i need to know what he is wearing so bad. it is actually for science (my own curiosity) ! i really need to know. and i cant help but feel that maybe it is intentional that he is just ~somewhere~ instead of In Front of the Fucking Camera because, well. that would be just ned little, wouldnt it? and we dont even know who that is.