#I can't apologize enough for getting tangled in the complications

[apparitionism]

Tabled 6

“Change the vocabulary!” Myka has just exclaimed in a hotel room in an airport in Chicago, in a full-throated effort to bring Helena around to her newly realized way of thinking, here in this story occasioned by @barbarawar ’s months-ago @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange request regarding what would have happened if Myka and Helena had had their Boone-proposed coffee. Much has ensued since then: meetings poor and poorer, rendering hopes faint and fainter, leaving potentials squandered and... squandereder? Seeing to it that emotional moves make sense is always challenging, I find. People want to make sense to themselves, want to make sense of themselves, and someone as thinky as Myka would, I imagine, double-want that. But while we all contain multitudes, we tend to bumble through situations as unfull representations of those multitudes: weird gotta-keep-moving sharks desperate to present consistency. I too keep moving: trying to land this thing, even as it fights against the stick, remaining *this far* above ground. Apologies as always, my strung-along giftee. See part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, and part 5 for the convoluted way we got here.

Tabled 6

“What?” Helena says, but it’s not her usual “what”; she’s obviously flummoxed, and her echo of Myka’s characteristic bafflement is precious. Preposterous, but precious.

Myka had hoped for some spark of recognition at her transformation of “change the rules,” but the confusion... it might be better. Sweeter. She tries not to make too much meaning out of this chime of similarity, even as she wants to pull that soft, bewildered “what” from the air and cradle it.

“I was trying to be clever,” she says. “Never mind that. And never mind fixing it, because we can do something else.”

“Repair it?” Helena says: a cautious, skeptical—and, yes, still baffled—synonym proffer.

Don’t laugh, Myka instructs herself, but faced with the idea that Helena really might think they’re playing a word game, it’s hard to follow her own order. “Never mind that too,” she says, a chuckle bubbling in her throat. “Because never mind. Because that’s it. Because you know what we actually can do?”

Helena raises her hands up, high, obviously in question, but really for all the world as if she were indeed being held at gunpoint.

This is not ending as it began, Myka tells the universe. Not as it began, or any other way.

She chambers the only bullet she has, aiming it right at Helena’s heart.

She pulls the trigger with a smile: “Ignore it.”

Hands still high, Helena opens her mouth slightly, and she squints, as if Myka has morphed into a dangerously unidentifiable animal.

Yes, Myka thinks, wildly, trying to live up to that wariness, I’ve been genetically engineered right here in this island of a hotel room! A Warehouse agent crossed with a yawper who has her very own plans! Amorphous ones, but! This infusion of abandon—Moreau power?—gives her the strength to hold Helena’s gaze.

The standoff lasts until Helena gets her language working again. “That recommendation is... entirely specious,” she says. “And you sound uncharacteristically overwrought.”

It’s a wobbly pair of objections. Myka draws even more strength from Helena’s lack of conviction. “What if it is? What if I am?”

“I don’t believe the slate can be wiped clean,” Helena says, a little more firmly. “Nor do you.”

So you do think we know each other. “I’m not saying it can. I’m saying I know it’s dirty, and so do you. I’m saying we ignore it.”

Helena’s face, from her “what” until now, has been a study in something Myka honestly never expected to see from her: full (fully wrong-footed) incomprehension. Myka doesn’t blame her, for she’s finding herself pretty incomprehensible, but she presses on. “You were ready to ignore my Boone-changed opinion of you. Weren’t you. When you hoped I’d know I was the someone else.”

After a pause: “That was then,” Helena says, her resentment at Myka for having worked her way to that truth—and for having articulated it—very clear.

“Oh, not anymore?” Myka pushes. “Even though now we both know I was that someone, and that there wasn’t a Giselle?”

“That was then,” Helena repeats.

Wait... “There’s a Giselle now?” Myka can’t process it, if it’s so. If it’s so, she will have to let Helena leave, then bury her face in one of the expensive pillows from this room’s unignorable bed and scream.

Another head-toss, the most dramatic one thus far, accompanies Helena’s next words. “I’m of a mind to say yes. But pursuant to my previously articulated policy, I’ll tell the truth: there isn’t, but there could be. In the future. I agreed to meet with you today to ensure you wouldn’t mistake yourself over Pete, but I have no intention of stepping into a similarly mistaken place. I’ve done my best to let this go.”

Myka can’t accept any of those words. “Ignore that too,” she says. She would like to point out that that whole litany was pretty rich, coming from Ms. To-Continue-to-Speak-Together, but instead she zeroes in on what seems the clearest contradiction. “But if you’re letting this go, why do you care about me mistaking myself over Pete?”

“Why did you care about me mistaking myself in Boone?” Helena counters, sour.

The response is uncharacteristically incompetent, particularly because Helena already knows the answer. “I could repeat something somebody once told me, about not walking away from what she called ‘your truth,’” Myka says, with what she hopes is a “that was then” fillip. “But I won’t. What I’ll really say is, I asked you first.” She allows herself a half-breath to marvel at how unusual it is for her to have this much of the upper hand.

“I could say the same thing.” Helena is visibly struggling not to acknowledge Myka’s advantage, but she collapses, saying, “The former, not the latter. I didn’t ask you first,” her devotion to accuracy (or so Myka reads it) defeating her. “Nevertheless I could repeat the something somebody once told you. As the why.”

Myka continues to press. “But isn’t repetition boring? You hate being boring.” She hopes this observation might visit upon Helena that kick of so we do know each other: “I bet you threw your coffee on me just so I wouldn’t walk away thinking how dull you’d been.”

“That was not the reason,” Helena says, but with a press of lips that suggests a ripple of otherwise.

Here, Myka shouldn’t press. “Then what was the reason.”

“You were being recalcitrant, and you know it,” Helena says.

“And what are you being now?” Myka asks, as laconically—as lean-back, as Helena-esque—as she can.

That question causes Helena to scowl and move energy into her hands, extending and then bending her fingers; though she doesn’t quite form them into fists, her intent is clear: she wants to deck Myka. It’s glorious. Please, do it, Myka urges internally, so we can get this all out in the physical open.

But Helena resets her face and waves her hands, the flutter of fingers dispelling the energy and its threat. “Realistic,” she says, prim.

Quit acting like me, Myka would tell her, but for the fallout. What she says is, “I wish I still had this coffee,” pointing at the table, the tragic cup-ceremony of which probably now deserves replaying as farce. Or was it farce the first time? No surprise, really, that they would skip-jump their way over the natural course of history.

“Yes, because stains solve problems,” Helena sarcastics.

Maybe; maybe not. Nevertheless, Myka says what’s true: “You seemed to think they would. And anyway, they redound to your benefit.” Helena greets this with a completely reasonable additional “what,” but Myka blows past it with, “Maybe because you ignore them? Anyway, this one here”—she gestures to the now-dry coffee-map on her shirt (it looks like no country, and she’s disappointed to be unable to name it as “this Brazil” or “this Azerbaijan”)—“kept me from walking away when you thought I shouldn’t.”

“A delaying tactic,” Helena says, offering only bored disdain, as if the very idea of it had been in the end inconsequential.

Keep pushing. “How long was that delay supposed to last, anyway?”

Helena doesn’t have an answer; Myka knows it because she begins to pace. She starts, of course, at the doorway, then walks past the bed, over to the window, and back again: bed then doorway, doorway then bed, bed then window, back and forth—six times, Myka counts—before she leans her back against the door, crosses her arms over her chest, and says, “Why are you tempting me this way? Why this way? What’s changed? In this room, in the few breaths since resignation and coffee, what’s changed?” It’s a fret.

“Well, what’s changed for you?” Myka asks, with no fret at all for once in her life. “More breaths since, but why did authority let you out of Boone-prison?”

Helena’s face produces an inscrutable scowl-smile hybrid. She thrusts herself away from the door, walks to the bed, rubs her hands together. Re-gathering energy? “I suppose I could offer a long-winded explanation about having been given to understand that the balance of safety and threat had shifted. But instead, to quote: ‘What I’ll really say is, I asked you first.’”

“Well played,” Myka admits. In return, she’s gifted with the little acknowledging bow of head she loves. (Loves—yes.) It draws her physically closer, that head-bow: only a few shuffling inches, but enough that she can answer, more quietly, “What’s changed is I saw a future. And I saw how much I’m willing to ignore to have it.”

“I do not understand your morality,” Helena says. This time, she sounds a note of wonder rather than censure.

So much recursion in what they say, think, feel, do—once, then back again, and then again. Maybe they’re bound to get something right, if they try everything over and over? This particular repetition-with-variation seems a little better than usual, tragedy repeated not as farce but as fairy tale... or, no: Warehouse tale. Because for better or worse, there’s no escaping the Warehouse, the curse but also blessing of wonder. She and Helena are here together today only because of the Warehouse—that necessary condition of their meeting and connection.

Myka could dilate forever upon fate and purpose, but “ignore it” must be her mantra now, her grounding principle. For better or worse... for better and worse. The true moral of any Warehouse tale.

“I don’t understand anybody’s morality,” she says, “especially not mine or yours. I’m not trying to. I’m ignoring that too.”

But what she can’t ignore—not now, not anymore—is the way in which their bodies have, so gradually, continued to near, with Helena slowly mirroring Myka’s movements, these little distance-closing developments. So small is the gap between them now, the displacement it would take to touch surely must be measured by time, not distance.

And yet she hesitates, for this raise of hand must speak correctly: not want, but offer.

Slow. Stretch that time, turn it back into space.

She does that, moving as slowly as she can. More slowly than she ever has.

Helena doesn’t retreat.

Minimalist increments... yet their yield is immense: Myka’s right hand meets Helena’s left, and their fingers link and twist, palms not pressed but near.

It is their first genuinely mutual touch since Boone.

“I will be blunt,” Helena says, soft, burred by the contact. “I need you to... just say.”

Blunt. This knife of request—indeed unsharp—meets Myka’s fears, at first bending against them, yet still bearing threat. The force of it makes her glance away, and again she’s drawn to the clock. All she can find to articulate is, “I missed my flight.”

It could have been a way of saying, but Myka didn’t mean it like that, and Helena knows it: she raises an eyebrow. The leavening takes away the knife, and it gives Myka leave to lighten too, to postulate, “Maybe we’re constitutionally incapable. Of the saying. Or maybe it’s just me? Okay, not maybe—probably. Is that a dealbreaker?”

Now Helena cocks her head, completing the gesture with a lifting twist of chin. It calls of early, early: Helena handcuffed in a chair, Myka foolishly imagining she knew how all the ensuing moments would go—then being flung up to meet the ceiling.

The book would have known that would happen, but Myka didn’t. Hasn’t. Flights, crashes. Over and over, each as unpredictable as every other. Which will Helena choose to inflict now?

“Have we agreed to a deal?” Helena asks. The question isn’t coy. “Ignoring may be a way forward, but historically, you do seem to presuppose the existence of agreements that you fail to inform me I’m a party to. That you then accuse me of violating.”

So: an objection, but one grounded in their shared history. A flight and a crash. “That is an uncomfortably accurate description of what I do,” Myka admits. “Let me start again. I missed my flight. Did you?”

“Miss your flight? Yes.” More leavening: unfunny joking, words for the sake of them. To continue to speak together... of course this has been what Myka wished too. Of course she would listen to Helena saying words about anything.

Not anything, her Boone-and-Giselle-haunted memory reminds her...

“But that was not the issue under discussion,” Helena continues. A providential interruption.

“Right. Dealbreaker. Saying. Inability.” Why are you vamping? What is the impediment? The answer is immediate: You are the impediment. “Change the vocabulary” was a nice idea, but one word was never going to be enough. “Look,” she begins, determined now to do better, “I—”

Helena tightens her fingers’ grasp against Myka’s. It’s a very different way of getting things out in the physical open. “Wanting you warps all I do,” she whispers. The words, the grasp: both are saying. Out in the open.

More even than the oh-so-welcome grasp, the words mean everything to Myka. And their meaning is itself everything—everything that matters—so she steals them and says them back: “Wanting you warps all I do.” It’s mind-clearingly correct. The relief of at last having an accurate description of the past half-decade: it hits her like that slug she’d perversely hoped Helena might deliver.

But having used Helena’s words, however perfect, while coming up with none of her own pains her, so she feels she has to modify, “Warps. And warped, but not in any of the ways that might have helped. I can’t apologize enough for how I got it all so wrong.”

Helena’s tilt of head gentles. Her chin drops. “Someone has recently recommended, rather eloquently, ignoring such things.” She smiles. “You are terrible at following your own prescription.”

Helpless to object, Myka says, “That can’t come as a surprise.”

“A surprise? No. Perhaps an obstacle.”

“Would you... surmount it?”

Helena says, “For you...”

Myka fears she hears a lift of question. “That’s what I meant. Would you?”

“As stated: for you.”

The certainty is... transporting. Nevertheless, “I don’t know how this will work,” Myka admits. “If this will work.”

“Nor do I,” Helena says, yet her admission is a balm.

So much remains to be negotiated. So fragile this semi-resolution between their hands.

Then: “I’m so tired,” Helena says, actual rather than despondent, and Myka is ready to agree that yes, she is tired too, that everything that’s taken place in this room has taxed her to her limits, but Helena follows that admission with, “Will you lie down with me?”

Myka tenses. Her immediate, insistent bodily approval of the idea jangles against her just-as-immediate worry over where such a request—and such approval—might lead.

No doubt feeling that stiffening via their still-joined hands, Helena says, “For rest. Rest, in privacy, and nothing more.”

Myka believes her. She doesn’t trust herself, for her self is a serial liar with terrible impulse control, but she believes Helena.

Who is also a serial liar, one with similarly terrible impulse control, but saying “no” to this person who has so lately spoken of want and warp, this person whose hands continue to grip hers, is not an option.

Thus in a hotel room in an airport in Chicago, Myka lies down on a bed, and Helena lies beside her. They shift their bodies awkwardly, then less so, as they find a fit: Myka on her back, Helena on Myka’s left side, curled like punctuation around everything they’ve suffered.

From a position moments ago unimaginable, Myka finds room to ask, “What are you doing?”

“What? Nothing,” Helena says, as if Myka has made an accusation. She stills the slight, slight stroke her fingers have begun to apply to Myka’s hair.

More unfunny comedy. “I don’t mean with your hand. I mean, every day. In your life.”

“Oh,” Helena says. The stroke resumes. “Waiting.”

“You said you hadn’t stopped living.”

“That is not what I said.”

“If you could press pause on the semantics.” It’s true that Myka could—should—quote with greater accuracy, given that she knows exactly what Helena said. But Helena knows that Myka knows exactly what Helena said, and while continuing to speak together is the weirdly frustrating joy it is, they should really try to get somewhere.

Helena sighs; the sound contains a put-upon “fine.” She says, “I pretend to have expertise in several areas, including forensic analysis, for which pretensions I’m paid absurd amounts of money.”

“Ends before means?” Myka asks, a tiny joke.

“My own fabulism is unsurpassed.”

That’s probably a joke too, but thinking back on her own vast course of lies, Myka finds it important to counterclaim, “I’m not sure that’s true.”

“Does competition truly matter at this late date? A win in this category is dubious—sinful, even—but today I’m inclined to concede your victory in anything you like.”

So she understood Myka was talking about herself; is that pleasing or disturbing? In any case, Myka does know the concession as a surprise: “You are?”

“Today. For here we are, at rest. Salvaged. By you.”

“But only because you wrecked my shirt,” Myka reminds her.

They’ve been wrecked, over and over, with stained shirts only the most recent, small detritus. Yet here they are, salvaged, washed up on some unfamiliar shore... this island of a hotel room: no Moreau; instead, uncharted.

Would that it were an island, one they could make their home.

“Only because,” Helena echoes. “Only because you were being recalcitrant... but we can’t carry such recursion back ab ovo.”

“Or we can,” Myka says with a hiccupy laugh, momentarily captured by the possibility, seeing it as a burrowing-in, a we-got-here-and-this-is-how affirmation.

“This from the woman whose mantra would be ‘ignore it’?”

“Game show,” Myka goes on, the laugh persisting; there’s no escaping the beautiful fact—she might have imagined it would be true but now it’s a fact—that lying with Helena wrapped around her makes her giddy. “Whoever buzzes in with the preceding turning point the fastest gets...”

“What?”

“I was about to say ‘a point,’ but that sounds weird. A point for a point?”

Helena’s cheek flexes against Myka’s, in what Myka suspects is her I-don’t-quite-understand squint. “A point for a point... surely that should be the name of the program? But I’m not conversant with game shows.”

“You are a little. Whammies.”

Another flex of cheek. “The current argot for being affected by an artifact?”

She’s right. But. “It’s from a game show. The coinage... it’s Pete’s.” Myka wishes she could have forever avoided introducing him into the conversation, the room, the problem. But in the end this hotel room isn’t an island.

Helena nods. The movement is an acknowledgement of what Myka has done—but it’s also yet another blessed slide of her skin against Myka’s. “What will you tell him?” Helena asks, and Myka can face the question only sideways, through the warmth of the slide.

Lying in bed is unquestionably better than sitting at a table. Myka nevertheless feels an incipient lie forming, a dodge to push off difficulty: I don’t know, she could tell Helena, and maybe that lie of omission would suffice, here as they lie in a comfort Myka has already disturbed more than enough.

However. The truth is she’ll tell him whatever she has to, to get herself free. To make him let go. So that’s what she says to Helena: “Whatever it takes.”

To her shock, the out-loud saying wallops her with a vision of a still different future, one stark and Warehouse-less. The view is empty: of purpose, of feeling. A disaster. “What happens if I burn it all down?” she asks. Her heartbeat speeds; her blood floods fearful.

“As you should have in Boone?” Helena responds, with acid; then, “Sorry. Momentarily failed to follow the ‘ignore’ prescription myself.” She raises herself on an elbow and looks down at Myka. It’s a new, breathtaking view, one that Myka feels her prior lack of as acute deprivation.

Into that negative space, Helena says, “If you burn it all down, then you and I will rise from the ashes.”

Every word is clear as still water.

Purpose: Myka and Helena, rising. Not empty of feeling; rather, replete. That reward would elevate.

“Is that what you want?” Helena asks. “To burn it down?”

“Yes.” Myka can say it; it’s true, if the rise is the result. And yet she can’t uncommit her professional self so easily and entirely. “But also no. And I have to tell him something.”

“‘Ignore’ is a powerful word,” Helena observes.

“I don’t think that will work,” Myka says, for she can hear his escalating “but why” iterations as clearly as if she were herself the Ladies’ Oracle of the uncanny book. “I’ll have to explain. That I was wrong?” she tries, but that’s too small. “That I’m always wrong and he should have known that?”

“Really? Then you must be wrong about me as well.”

“Don’t use my overgeneralizing words against me,” Myka says. She touches Helena’s temple, intending it as a rebuke.

It lands instead as a caress, against which Helena leans and nestles. “Aren’t I using them against me?” she asks, low and amused.

Myka says, because she can’t not, because the words are desperate to be said, “This. I want this.” Joking, disputing, speaking, bodies together (and so much more of bodies together): all of this.

“Me using your words against myself? I see why you would.” Helena smiles against Myka’s neck, then raises herself up again, her expression changing over. “But thank you. For saying.” She follows this by reclining, nestling closer still.

The words, and the movement, are warming, but leaning all the way in would lead down a path too tantalizing. “You’re welcome,” Myka says, but she follows it with, “When we leave this room. What will you do?” she asks, because this is something she doesn’t know but might now learn, no book required. Just a Helena.

But there’s no “just” about Helena, and particularly not when she’s gazing up at Myka, sweet yet flinty, and that look tempers her answer. “Wait,” she says, differently than she said “waiting”; now the task rings of burden and freedom both. Waiting for something, rather than waiting, without predicate.

However, that predicate: Myka is the one who must act. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“I’m accustomed.”

The little shrug of resignation that accompanies those words: Myka feels it small against her shoulder, but its implications make it seem a larger shudder. Helena has waited through so much—decades of punishments, and Myka should not make her suffer anything even vaguely similar. She’s about to say “I’ll hurry,” even with no idea of what that would look like, but she’s preempted by Helena saying, into her ear, “But please hurry.” A breath of telepathic direction.

So. Now she must.

Yet that direction requires changing not the rules, nor even the vocabulary, but the speed with which the future is ushered near. It’s a daunting prospect.

Daunting but necessary, if Myka is to blunder satisfactorily. “I will,” she says. But what is necessary isn’t sufficient, not if the goal is to bring about the truly desired future. “Once I’ve done... that. What comes next?”

Helena shifts her position again, un-nestling herself from Myka’s neck, her head still on the bed but reared back a bit, looking up, and Myka tilts her head to look down. She’s often had to angle down, just that bit, to look into Helena’s eyes, but this prone person is a dramatically differently enjoyable inflection of the standing version.

As she appreciates the view, she receives Helena’s answer: “You should text me.”

So strange to hear that voice say that sentence. But relief dizzies Myka, even as she’s reclining and looking, for she realizes it’s just strange; Helena saying it doesn’t make her seem a stranger.

“And then we should meet for coffee,” Helena adds—lightly, but not throwaway.

“Or save the world?” Myka says, trying for the besting echo. Trying to overwrite the words said in Boone.

“And save the world,” Helena says. “Our world.”

The modified callback is pointed and just right; it overrides both Boone and Myka’s attempt. Myka shakes her head and says, “I’m no match for you.”

“Counterpoint: you are the match for me.”

How can it be true that Helena is saying these words? Ever, but more so here, on this day, the one Myka intended to end with the end, this day, that is instead ending with a beginning.

Not enough of a beginning, though, and Myka wants to make that clear—that, and her regret at its clear, clear, clear, yet absolutely necessary insufficiency. She says, “I want to kiss you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.” Helena doesn’t move; she has to know what’s coming next, and Myka delivers it: “But I can’t.”

Helena sighs. “I do not understand your morality.”

Third time the charm—the Helena-knows-it charm.

She might as well know it, because who is Myka, really, to recognize and hold to some bright line? But to start now would entail a foundational lie—“I’m free”—one that would infect all that came after.

You could ignore that too...

Animals, animals. Of course they would advocate for the body getting what it wants, regardless of consequences.

But the dismissal of obligation, though it might seem easy now, can’t help but make realizing the future more strenuous. Myka should not increase the burden. Thus in the end, despite the pain of want, she has to get herself out from under the bodily lie she so desperately and foolishly told—she has to do that before she can give herself leave to know the bodily truth. It may be just as desperate and foolish, if differently so, but she wants, wants, wants to know it.

“Like I said, I don’t either,” she says, to ward off, for what she hopes will this time not seem forever, Helena’s charm. So as to think herself as far away as possible from the basic physical reality that a tiny turn of her head could “accidentally” join their lips, she turns the opposite way and tells the ceiling, “I have to rebook my flights now.”

“To set the future in motion,” Helena says. Agreement, but aggrieved.

Myka smiles at both of those, allowing herself a minimal turn back toward Helena. She’s a far better sight than the ceiling. “You do know something about that.”

Helena breathes out, probably in more-aggrieved affirmation, and she makes no move to sit up. Is it possible to be aggressively still?

Helena’s answer is an impressive yes.

Myka allows herself a dispensation, as she did when she watched Helena approach in the airport, so many hours ago: twenty more breaths before she takes the get-up initiative, as Helena very clearly intends to force her to do. So she breathes. Very. Very. Slowly. Inhale: beat... beat... for as many beats as she can manage. Hold, for the same: an the number is not small. Exhale again as many, then again, hold. That’s one. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold. Two.

Eighteen more of these with Helena warm against her; it isn’t how she ever imagined heaven, or its earthly approximation, but here it is.

For now.

Right as she reaches inhale thirteen: “Are you asleep?” Helena whispers.

“Sssh. I’m counting.”

Helena doesn’t ask “what.” She stays still, now solid and present only, until Myka reaches the pause after her twentieth exhale.

Disengagement is difficult.

After, they busy themselves with phones and booking. Myka situates herself at the desk, while Helena reclines on the bed: these stations they might have taken if they had done nothing but inhabit this room as travelers, travelers now bored before departing.

Helena finishes before Myka does, at which point her reclining becomes reclining, a grandiose occupying of space. A new Helena aspect, and Myka would never have seen it, never if not for salvage, wrecking, recalcitrance... back and back and back. How they got here.

“I don’t want to leave,” she tells that new grandiosity.

Helena stretches, arms up then sweeping wide, as if making a snow angel. Then she props herself up on her elbows. She moves both her hands, a finger-flutter suggesting that whatever statement she about to issue is obvious. And it is: “Then we’ll stay forever.”

For a brief counterfactual burst of cosmology, Myka believes they could. But this time Helena is the one to rise and dismiss the possibility, although she does it with still more ostentation: “And yet this room is entirely inappropriate as anyone’s final resting place.”

Myka loves every muscled, meaningful emphasis. From inside that love, she pities her earlier-today self, the one who thought she could have lived without the continued possibility of this.

Well. She could have lived. But it wouldn’t have been living.

For all their need to speak together, their final minutes in the room are silent, as if refraining from using that small duration of their privacy to the purpose they set, they might be able to bank it. Against some unprivate, nonspeaking future.

As they reenter the unprivate hallway and head toward the far greater unprivate spaces of transit, Myka says, “That coffee was expensive.”

“Worth every penny.” The and you know it is inescapable.

Inescapable and true.

Helena’s flight is scheduled to leave well before (the first of) Myka’s is—New York is so much easier to reach than anyplace named Dakota.

“Not The Dakota,” Helena says when Myka shares this gloomy observation with her, as they wait for the tram to the terminals.

Myka doesn’t know whether to groan or congratulate her on the reference. She settles for a sincere “Touché,” then asks, “Should I come to your gate with you? To... sit?” She’s thinking on sitting together. Sitting together. What people see when they look.

“Should you?” Helena asks back, with an eyebrow.

“No,” Myka has to concede. “I’d want to kiss you goodbye.”

“Anyone looking would expect you to kiss me, and/or me to kiss you. Goodbye or otherwise. But you’ve made it clear that isn’t in the offing until we can fulfill everyone’s expectations.”

“Everyone’s?”

“Ours and those of fortunate observers.”

“Of course you’d think they’re fortunate,” Myka says; she hears and feels affection—distinct from want—in her voice. Affection has been gone for so long between them... she welcomes its old-friend tenderness, gently yet insistently shouldering its way through all that must be ignored.

More eyebrow, differently inflected. “Of course they are fortunate. You underestimate our beauty but, more significantly, your own.”

Such a compliment is unassimilable right now, so Myka counters with, “But not yours. I don’t underestimate yours.”

Helena leans backward. “Your saying such things is why you should not come with me to my gate,” she says, and Myka reads the lean as speaking commensurately about what is unassimilable. “Because I want you to come with me,” Helena goes on, to Myka’s delight, “and then to board the flight with me.”

“Burning it all down,” Myka notes.

“Which you don’t want to do,” Helena notes back.

“But I will if I have to.”

Helena now offers a wrinkle of brow. “There is almost always a better way. You showed me that.”

The wrinkle doesn’t belong, so Myka tries to smooth it by saying, with a lightness, “You were going to freeze it all down. Totally different.”

“In any event the way found then was better... and, I must say, better than shooting you in the head.” Helena says this dry, joking back, yet also a little stunned, probably at the idea that Myka would joke in the first place.

Myka answers that surprise with, “I’m pretty happy you thought so.”

Helena doesn’t move, but she says—tight, as if dampening some vibration—“Your understatement is rhetorically effective. In that I now want to kiss you more than I ever thought I could again be capable of wanting.”

This should be simple. Grab her right now and never let her go. But nothing is as simple as it should be, so Myka says, “I’ll bear that understatement thing in mind.”

“I suspect I’m weak for a wide array of rhetorical techniques. When deployed by you.”

The bubbling of possibility is... irresistible. “I’ll make a study,” Myka says, exerting great effort to keep herself under control. “Maybe litotes next.”

“Not ineffective, you may find.”

They are tuned tight to each other now. In public, but speaking privately. If they can keep this alignment... they’ve had it before, lost it, got it back. Myka lets herself dissolve into one final dispensation: the blissful idea that they will always get it back.

Are there any words to describe what she is, other than “in love”? If so, she doesn’t want to know them.

She also doesn’t want to watch Helena walk away. She’s mourned such walks too often. So they clasp hands one more time, then let go; Helena turns away, and Myka, after enjoying the movement of Helena’s hair the turn occasions—that swirl of fluid promise—does too.

****

At the Sioux Falls airport—which Myka, hating its provincial familiarity, always greets with an internal but why do I have to know this place whine—she wants nothing more than to roll off the plane and into the car she’d parked in the absurdly small lot so many hours or days ago, thence rolling on to the B&B and into some state that might, if she’s lucky, resemble sleep.

What she wants is not what she gets.

Mrs. Frederic is standing by the security exit.

  TBC

[secretdarkdaydream]

Cocktail Troubles

Summary: A little liquid courage is all it takes for Y/n and Elizabeth to to tangle themselves in a complicated mess of love and infidelity.

Pairing: Elizabeth Olsen x fem!reader (g!p), Scarlett Johansson x reader

Warnings: Smut, g!p reader, top!reader, infidelity, unprotected sex, alcohol mentions, anal play (let me know if I missed anything)

A/n: This is a first attempt at writing a smutty fanfic. I apologize in advance for any mistakes and/or typos.

Y/n knew it was wrong.

~♡~

This was wrong.

Liz knew it was wrong.

And yet here she was between the blonde's legs.

"Don't you dare stop." She said breathlessly, her other free hand moving to hold onto the shelf next to her for dear life. She bit her lip, holding back her moans as her thigh was propped up on Y/n's shoulder and the older woman's tongue danced up and down her dripping slit. "Oh.. god!" She let a loud moan slip before moving her hand to cover her mouth.

Y/n replaced her tongue with her fingers, the silver ring on her thumb brushing against Lizzie's clit just enough to pull her closer and closer to the edge. "I fucking love it when you scream for me but you need to keep it down if you want to cum." Y/n said as she looked up at the beautiful woman.

Liz was barely able to listen, the pleasure overwhelming her senses. "I'm so close, baby.." she said, her hips bucking up against Y/n's hand. "Please.. I'll be quiet, I just-" she said as a small whine left her lips. "I need your tongue." She said and Y/n smirked. God, she wanted to play with her, she wanted to keep her right there on the very edge but she knew they didn't have time for that tonight.

She kissed inside her thigh, nipping and biting at the skin until a purple bruise surfaced. Her tongue lapped up Liz's dripping cunt once again, going back and forth teasing her entrance and up to press and suck her clit.

Liz clamped her mouth with her hand again, moaning against it, her hand pulling slightly on Y/n's hair as she desperately chased her high.

Y/n could feel her getting closer, focusing solely on her clit as Liz's moans go up in pitch until she went still, her eyes closed as her body shudders. Y/n feels the pool of wetness spilling onto her tongue and she gladly took it all, helping Liz ride out her orgasm.

Liz pushed Y/n away gently, signaling her to stop, wincing from over-sensitivity. The older woman gave her inner thigh a few kisses, making Liz smile lazily as she stood up, making sure to keep supporting Liz as she met her lips in a soft kiss.

Liz moaned into Y/n's mouth, grabbing the collar of her leather jacket to pull her closer. "I can taste myself on your tongue.. are you going to kiss your girlfriend with that mouth?" She asked against her lips and Y/n sighed at that.

"Can we not talk about her right now?" She said as she stole a few more kisses from Liz. "We don't have much time before we need to get back out there".

"You never want to talk about her but we should." Liz pushed and Y/n sighed again.

"Liz-"

"I want you." She said and the way she looked up at her told Y/n everything she needed to know. She loved her.

"I can't do that to her, Liz." Y/n said and Liz chuckled humorlessly at that. In all honesty, Liz was fed up with being the second choice.

"You already did! She's your girlfriend-"

"And she's your friend!" Y/n argued.

"-and we've been doing this behind her back for almost a year, Y/n/n." Liz said and looked up at her. "we're doing this right now in her house, while she's out there hosting a fucking barbecue." Liz said as her hands still held onto Y/n's jacket. "I want more."

"I want that too, I just.. this is complicated." She said and Liz looks away from her with annoyance. "We'll figure this out, I promise." Y/n said as she moved her hand to under Liz's chin, moving her head so she'd look back at her. "I promise.." she said and brushed her lips against hers.

Liz could feel herself succumbing to Y/n, as she always did, right from the start. She had a weakness for the older girl, one she can't explain. "I hate that she gets to have all of you." She said against her lips.

"She doesn't. You do, my love.." Y/n said and captured Liz's lips in a fiery kiss, her hands pulling Liz impossibly close to her by her hips, her hand roaming around her back.

Liz was getting all hot and bothered again and if she could, she would stay here in this bubble of theirs forever. But she knew they were running out of time.. they were going to start looking for them soon.

"We have to go back." She said, reluctantly pulling away from Y/n's addicting lips. "She'll start looking for you soon... I know I would." She said and Y/n nodded, pulling Liz in for a gentle kiss, one that made it clear to Y/n - she was head over heels in love with the younger actress.

Actually, Y/n already knew that. She knew that from the very moment they met but she didn't want to admit it.

They only had one problem.

Y/n hated labeling Scarlett as a problem because truth be told - they are the ones that created the problem. Not Scarlett.

In fact, Y/n was once convinced that Scarlett was the love of her life. She was patient with Y/n, helping her mend her broken heart piece by piece until she could feel like herself once again. But something changed about a year into their relationship. They drifted apart, they didn't see eye to eye and Scarlett would constantly pick a fight out of nothing. Y/n tried, she loved Scarlett. But she just wasn't in love with her anymore.

It's been nearly a year since she met Elizabeth, after the premiere of Endgame, and was completely taken by her the very second their eyes met.

It started with nothing but a little playful flirtation at the premiere after-party over a few cocktails. Y/n thought nothing of it at first, and neither did Liz. But the more cocktails Liz drank, the bolder she became with her flirting, and Y/n, well... Y/n was putty at her feet.

~Ten months ago~

Y/n saw her on the red carpet first. There was this glint of mischief behind her angel eyes, something that captured her attention. She brushed it off and turned back to pose and smile at the cameras beside her girlfriend. Out of instinct, or more so to remind herself that she had a girl she was loyal to, she pulled Scarlett closer to her by her waist. The action took Scarlett by surprise, making her sigh in annoyance and putting her hand on the other woman's chest, bringing distance between them as she played the role of the happy girlfriend to the cameras.

"Can you please not do that?" She asked.

Y/n kept her smile for appearances but retracted her arm from around Scarlett's waist. "right... I forgot that you were still mad at me for no apparent reason." Y/n said as she turned to look at her girlfriend, the fake smile still on her face.

"I am not doing this right now. Can you just give me a break so we can go through this premiere?" Scarlett said as she looked back at Y/n, the flash of the cameras capture their fake smiles. Y/n was furious, but of course, she wouldn't start a fight right here and cause a scene.

"Well isn't this the power couple of the year?" Scarlett turned around at the sound of the voice to reveal Chris Evans and alongside him was the green-eyed beauty that captured her attention before.

"It's so good to see you," Y/n said as she gave the man a hug. "I can't believe this is the end for Steve, I'm heartbroken." she said and Chris laughed a little.

"It's time to move on, you know?" he said and she nodded understandingly. "Anyway, I heard a rumor that someone is going to be the new Lara Croft..." He said almost in a whisper.

"You told him?" She looked at Scarlett who only shrugged. "It's not out there yet, but yes, I am." she said and a small gasp turned their attention to the younger blonde actress.

"That's incredible! I'm so excited for you. Did you start training already?" Chris asked and Y/n nodded a little.

"Oh yeah," Scarlett answered for her in a chuckle. "That's all she does all day, she's barely at home and filming hasn't even started yet. She better be the best damn tomb raider by the end of it or i'll have to do something about it." She said and both of the actors laughed a little, though Y/n could tell it wasn't much of a joke. Scarlett's tone was intentional, it was a small jab at Y/n. But Y/n simply shrugged it off with a forced laugh.

"Well, Chris knows how crucial the training is for the role. I'm sure you know that as well." Y/n said and Chris hummed in agreement. "And i'll be the best Croft the screen will ever see." She added with confidence.

"Oh my. I love Tomb Raider, wow�� you'll be perfect in it." Elizabeth said and that earned a couple of small chuckles from Scarlett and Chris.

"Y/n, this is Lizzie." Scarlett said as Y/n found herself drowning in those green orbs.

"Hi, I just- I've seen some of your work and I honestly think that you're perfect for this role. Just the way you're bringing life into your characters is honestly.. beautiful. I wish you the best of luck with it." Elizabeth said and Y/n smiled at her gratefully, taken aback by what Elizabeth has said to her.

"Thank you, that's so nice of you to say." Y/n said and was about to say more before an announcement was made that they should all get inside for the screening.

As if fate played a part in this, Y/n and Elizabeth were seated next to each other.

Liz didn't know why she was blushing so hard ever since their small interaction. Maybe it was because she remembered the older actress from her movies. She remembered how taken she was with her performance, how genuine she was. She remembered her physic from one action movie, how her toned muscles moved and flexed in the fight scenes, her signature smirk that made Liz weak at the knees. Liz tried to shake these thoughts away but the smell of Y/n's perfume was overwhelming her senses and the alcohol from the couple of cocktails she drank before was numbing her judgment.

"I'm a fan of yours too, by the way." Liz tensed as she felt the brunette lean to whisper in her ear, just a mere second before the lights dimmed.

Y/n tried to focus on the movie, she really did. There was something about Elizabeth Olsen that managed to make her head spin. For the entire movie, the two exchanged words and glances, their knees nearly touching. When Y/n turned to check on Scarlett when the scene on mount vormir came, she was occupied speaking to someone else to the other side of her.

The movie ended with big applause and everyone made their way to the after party.

"Hey, how are you feeling? I'm sure that wasn't easy to watch." Y/n said as she grabbed Scarlett's wrist.

"It was fine, I'm fine. I want to enjoy tonight so just.. go grab a drink or something and I'll talk to you when I want to go home. I want to be with my friends." Scarlett said and Y/n frowned at that, letting go of her wrist.

"Are you serious right now? I'm supposed to just keep myself occupied until you've had enough. when are you going to stop punishing me for whatever this is about?" Y/n raised her voice a little and Scarlett shushed her.

"Keep your fucking voice down." Scarlett said and then let out a sigh. "Can you please just give me tonight? we'll talk about this at home, okay?" she said and Y/n just sighed in defeat. "Love you." The blonde said and pecked her cheek before making her way to a group of people Y/n didn't know.

Y/n sighed in defeat and made her way to the open bar, taking a seat and ordering a martini for herself.

She didn't know how things got so bad between them. She took a large sip before she heard someone clear their throat.

"Hi," said the blonde as Y/n turned to look at her, a small smile spreading on her lips. "Is this seat taken?" Elizabeth asked and Y/n made a gesture for her to sit next to her.

"How come you aren't over there with all of your castmates?" Y/n asked, she tried not to but it was like her own body betrayed her as she subtly checked the younger actress out. The way her dress hugged her curves was simply sinful to Y/n's opinion.

"Well.. I saw your handsome self sitting here all alone and I just had to come over. It'd be very unprofessional of me to pass an opportunity to speak to the future Lara Croft, don't you think?" Liz said and the older woman chuckled at that.

"It sounds like you're going to try and get some spoilers out of me." She said and Liz laughed lightly. Y/n's heart skipped a beat at the angelic sound, so without thinking twice she asked the woman, "can I get you a drink?"

"Vodka soda, please." She said and Y/n made the order from the bartender.

The night went on and soon both women were a little more than tipsy. Y/n could barely keep her eyes away from the blonde and Liz could hardly stop flirting with the older actress. There was an unmistakable tension between the two, a connection that formed so naturally. Y/n felt like she was being seen again, and all her inhibitions went out the window. All she could think about was this breathtaking woman sitting next to her and she felt like there was something pulling her in more and more.

Thinking about was she was doing, she thought about Scarlett, looking away from the enticing green eyes, searching the venue for her girlfriend. "I think I saw her talking with this SNL guy like an hour ago, what was his name?" Elizabeth commented after noticing Y/n's searching eyes. "Colin, I think." She said and took the opportunity to check Y/n out without shame. She bit her lip as she looked at the rolled-up sleeves of her dress shirt, a few tattoos visible.

"Yeah... I don't even know why I came. The last time she spoke to me was after the screening and that was like two hours ago." She said as she turned her head back to look at Elizabeth, catching her wandering eyes and lustful gaze. "But then, I wouldn't have met you. You made this evening far more pleasurable and interesting."

Elizabeth made no attempt to cover the fact that she was checking the older actress out. She took notice of the imprint in Y/n's trousers, taking her time in looking back up to meet her eyes. "I'm glad I got the chance to meet you too. You're quite impressive yourself," she said glancing down at her crotch once more before looking back up and licking her lips seductively. "Much more than I thought."

Y/n could feel herself growing hard at the action, giving Liz her signature soft smirk as she leaned toward her just a little. "You thought about me, Olsen?" She said, Elizabeth made no attempt to deny that. "I take the compliment, but you definitely outshine me. And i'm sure that there's a lot more of you I could get to know."

"Oh, so is this a competition now? because I never back down from a challenge." Liz asked with a soft smile and a small scrunch of her nose.

"Well, I have no doubt you'll win. You look like someone who always comes on top." Y/n said without breaking eye contact.

The remark made Liz blush and look away, sobering up for just a moment as the image of herself on top of Y/n flashed in her mind and she could feel herself drenching her lace underwear. She played with the drink in her hand and thought about what she was doing. This was Scarlett's girlfriend, her friend, and her coworker. She couldn't do this to her. But the aching feeling between her thighs was so hard to ignore.

Just moments from succumbing to her temptations, she made an excuse to go to the bathroom. Brushing off Y/n's insinuating comeback with a soft giggle as she made her way across the room. She might have swayed her hips a little more than usual.. which Y/n couldn't keep her eyes off of.

Y/n chuckled and shook her head, searching the room for Scarlett again only to see her engaging in a conversation with Colin, that stood far too close to her, her hand on his arm as she laughed at his jokes. Y/n felt like she was joke. Did Scarlett bring her as her plus one just for the red carpet pictures? To pretend that everything is perfect? Their fight prior to the event echoed in her mind as she contemplated her actions. She knew what she wanted to do was wrong but she couldn't help but feel like she was alive again. She felt like Liz was giving her a way out of the hell that was her personal life. Like Liz was a breath of fresh air when she felt like she was drowning.

"Fuck it." Y/n said, drinking the rest of her martini in one gulp and going to the bathroom after Liz. She hurried a little, hoping to catch up to the blonde, walking around the corner and down the corridor to see her walking just a few feet away, the music blaring around the venue.

Liz looked over her shoulder, not really surprised to see Y/n walking behind her. They locked eyes knowingly before she walked into the bathroom. Y/n followed inside, only having a second before she was slammed against the door with a gasp.

"We shouldn't do this." Liz said, only a few inches from her lips and her hands resting on her chest.

"No. We shouldn't." Y/n said heard.

Elizabeth looked down at the lock being turned before she met Y/n's eyes again, seeing nothing but lust in them. They met halfway in a fiery kiss, their heavy breaths and soft moans mixing together as Y/n pushed Liz backward until her back met the sink of the quite spacious bathroom stall. Y/n pushed one strap of Liz's dress down, exposing her breast, and pinched her nipple, earning a soft moan from the younger actress. She grabbed her waist and turned her around, bending her forward just a little as her raging bulge pressed the back of Liz's thigh.

Liz was surprised at that, Scarlett shared with her on one drunken night out with the cast that Y/n has always been very sweet and gentle with her, vanilla, she said. "I didn't think you had it in you." She said breathlessly as their eyes met through the mirror. Y/n hands lifted up Liz's dress to around her hips, her hand pushing her panties aside before undoing her belt in a hurry and pulling out her raging hard cock.

"You might want to hold on to that sink." She said with a soft smirk, her fingers dipping between Liz's folds, making the both of them moan. She gathered the wetness before smearing it on her cock, rubbing it against the wet slit, pumping a few times and gently pushing into Liz's needy pussy.

Liz moaned loudly as she felt Y/n stretch her out, slowly pushing inch after inch into her. Y/n was a little more girthy than she was used to, the stretch made Liz roll her eyes with pleasure. Liz's hands held onto the sink as she felt Y/n starting to thrust slowly, letting her adjust. She looked at the older actress through the mirror, moaning softly as pleasure was written all over the older woman's face. Liz swore it was the most beautiful thing she has ever seen. "You feel so goddamn good.." she mumbled.

Just then, Y/n pushed hard into Liz, making her moan again and push her hips back in search of more. She kept that same pace for a few minutes before groaning, grabbing Liz's hips roughly, and starting to thrust hard and fast into her. Y/n watched in the mirror as Liz's breast bounced, making quick work to free the other as well. "Oh god! Yes!" Liz moaned as Y/n's hand moved to play with one of her breasts.

Y/n reached her hand to open up the top few buttons of her button-up shirt, showing a hint of her collarbone tattoo. The sight made Liz even wetter, white cream starting to ooze out and coat Y/n's thick cock. The older actress watched as her pelvis hit Liz's ass with every thrust, watched how her cock disappeared into her dripping wet cunt, making her moan and land a harsh slap on the blonde's ass.

Liz moaned loudly once again, she was on cloud 9. She couldn't remember the last time she was fucked like this, Y/n's thick cock hitting all the right places. She met Y/n's eyes again through the mirror, "harder." She said as she moved her hair to one side, her cheeks flushed with red.

Y/n smacked her ass again before moving her hand to hold onto the back of Liz's neck. "So desperate for me." She said with a small smirk. A string of moans and incoherent mumbling left Liz's lips as Y/n granted her what she asked for. She kept her pace just the same but made sure to end each thrust harder. Y/n moved her other hand, licking her own thumb before pressing it against Liz's tight back hole, just enough to tease.

Liz's eyes were closed, the added feeling bringing her closer and closer to her high. "Yes... I'm so fucking close." She moaned loudly. "Y/n! Yes, push it in... I'm gonna cum!" She moaned, throwing her hips back.

Y/n could feel Liz starting to clench around her, moaning at her words as she pushed just the tip of her thumb into Liz's hole. "Fuck, Liz... I'm right behind you.. so close." Y/n started to mumble as her thrusts started to falter a little.

Liz let out a few high-pitched moans, her body convulsing as she came, feeling Y/n's warm cum filling her up and coating her greedy walls. Y/n slowed down her pace, letting them both ride out their high, a few more ropes of cum spilling deep into Liz's pussy. She collapsed forward onto Liz's shoulder, both of them breathing heavily. She placed a few kisses behind her ear before standing straight again, watching as she pulled out. Liz whimpered at the feeling and Y/n cursed under her breath at the sight of her cum dripping from the blonde.

Liz watched this in amusement through the mirror before turning around to face Y/n. She reached her hand down, collecting their mixed cum before bringing it up to her lips. "Fucking hell," Y/n said as she watched Liz suck her own fingers clean.

"I know it's just a one-time thing," she said, adjusting her panties and dress as Y/n did the same with her pants. "But I really do wish I could get more than just a taste." She said as she stepped closer, buttoning Y/n's shirt back up.

Y/n still regained her breathing as she watched Elizabeth fixing her shirt. She moved her hand to Liz's cheek and pulled her into a kiss that filled with desire as both women let their tongues meet in a perfect dance. Y/n pulled away a little, Liz almost trying to follow her to close the gap again. "maybe.. maybe it doesn't have to be just a one-time thing."

~Present Day~

"There you are! I was wondering where you two went, the food's gonna get cold." Scarlett said as Y/n and Elizabeth made their way back out to the back yard.

"Y/n showed me to the bathroom and we got stuck on these lovely photos you have in the corridor. Who knew you were such a cute baby?" Liz quickly spoke and both of the women laughed softly.

Scarlett made her way to Y/n as she grabbed a beer, surprising her by pulling Y/n close and stealing a kiss from her. "I missed you." She said softly as Liz tried her hardest not to stare daggers at her friend. Y/n smiled softly at her girlfriend and gulped. Her phone buzzed and she took it out of her pocket, only to see a text sent to her by none other than Elizabeth herself.

"I guess you do kiss your girlfriend with that mouth." The text read and Y/n looked up from her phone to see Liz smiling softly at her phone with the hint of a smirk on her lips. Her phone buzzed again.

"Come over tonight and I can show you what I can do with mine." Y/n groaned internally at the thought while Liz smirked to herself.

She was going to get Y/n all to herself, even if she had to keep playing their little game for a little while longer.

[moonglide]

echoes of wisdom hours 12 & 13

-spoilers for end of the hyrule castle quest and for the goron quest, up until the dungeon.

-i fought ganon. i died to magic tennis. again. that's 9.

-realized that to survive magic tennis, i needed to go far away from ganon to have enough reaction time.

-i beat ganon! echo ganon, i guess.

-tri, you say that our opponent must have the echo power? gosh! who'd've thunk it? t'weren't like i suggested that or something.

-as we ascend to leave the wall BREAKS. i was scared. i did not want another boss fight.

-link comes out to save us with a baseball bat????

-oh he gets crystalled. nooooo

-the shadowy figure with claws is kinda creepy. it's probably that (endgame spoilers, probably) null guy people keep mentioning.

-god i love how supportive the king is. botw zelda would've killed for that kind of praise.

-love how i go back and i'm like whelp. time to sleep.

-wait can i echo my own bed??? I can!!! and it heals two hearts!!! i forgot to mention when i got the gerudo bed, but it was so useful. and now this is more useful!

-kitty!!! hello almond. how was being abducted into the shadow realm?

-throne room.

-hold up. rift in eldin volcano, sure. rift in faron wetlands, sure. rift in holy mount lanayru??? excuse me? where is that. there is only so much room on the map for a big-ass mountain.

-oh it's the region i thought was hebra. ok.

-prime energy? excuse me? just call it the triforce like a normal person.

-hi impa! what quest do you have for me?

-the pretty white horse is MY horse??? sweet! thank u impa.

-teleported to the ranch. horse is missing. can't find it. someone please tell me where the horse is. are they hiding the horse? will the ranch hands give it back if i apologize for making fun of them for their horse-finding skills?

-whatever.

-where to go first? I don't want to go to lanayru, because, you know. it's holy. it's wisdom. it's cold. it's definately meant to be last.

-i think i want to do eldin first because the gorons seem like the least serious. fun little volcano excursion instead of tangling with wood spirits in the mystical forest.

-kakariko! man is missing his cat. i get the cat outfit! it's fun.

-honestly i like the disguise more than the gear the king gave me.

-also since im in kakariko, let me talk about the slumber dojo real quick. i checked on ao3 for echoes of wisdom fics. guess what the one with the most kudos is. guess what. it's the slumber dojo guy banging zelda while she's sleeping. come on guys. i'm a lil disappointed but i'm not at all surprised.

edit: ok so it ain't anymore. but it was yesterday.

-found a fairy flower! how fun

-speaking of fairies, time to become more s t y l i s h

-damn you expect me to expand my accessory limit? in this economy? inflation is crazy. she jacked up her price by 3x. i still did it tho.

-business shrub! i made like ten smoothies.

-i finally made an unappealing one. it's two rocks. i understand that. but why does two sticks of butter make a radiant smoothie? that's not radiant. that's just gross.

-completed a small rift before i got to goron city. was i supposed to? idk. it never came up.

-oh dalton (or whatever his name is) is sweet. bro needs a confidance boost.

-went to the rock roast first. it was quick.

-lizalfos second. can't believe dalton's a nerd. i love it

-i was gonna use the echo that pushes out in all directions, but instead i sent out a redead and a tornando. it worked.

-sorry for destroying your dead dad's portrait. my b.

-ohhh i fly by grabbing the bird. that makes sense. i thought riding echoes would be something i needed to unlock.

-dalton how did you get here. you can't fly. i don't understand.

-bro is like 'according to my calculations' but my dude. you are just punching a rock. it is not that complicated.

-for a second i thought nugget of wisdom 52 was just 'HYAHHHHH!' and i cackled because that's just so goron. but apparently the shout was just a little interuption before the actual nugget. sad.

-tri wdym the limit is two. where did that come from.

-also i totally died again at one point. i don't remember what it was, but i remember i died. so that's 10.

-fave echo: ignacio or albatrawl.

-death count: 10.

[thedawningofthehour]

Yeah. About the Githel and comparing the two to an extent. My thing was about the lie and having to keep a secret from a child. But Yeah. Draxum is a lot better to Gale than Gothel was to Rapunzel. I know that Draxum cares about Gale a lot and the vine thing I think was being overprotective and not wanting to find out the secret. But he did feel bad by the next few scenes. And apologized. I just don't know how he deals with realizing he chained down essentially his own son. I don't think it’s well?

Alright, I'm going to use this to sort of air my feelings on Mother Gothel and how it influences doth. You're absolutely fine, you didn't annoy me or anything, I just have...kind of a lot of thoughts about it? Shit's complicated. (Also please actually read the whole thing through before you start getting mad because I promise I am not making the point you think I am)

One of the things that really bugs me when talking about Tangled is the insistence that Gothel didn't love Rapunzel. People do this a lot, claim an abuser can't 'really' love their victim if they're abusing them.

Which to me is a very dangerous line of thinking because it implies that the opposite is equally true, that someone can't be an abuser because they love the person they're abusing. And that can lead to people staying in abusive relationships, because their partner/family member/friend does love them. Yeah, they might. But not enough. Not how you deserve.

Let's start with who Rapunzel is in the scene we're properly introduced to her, on the eve of her eighteenth birthday. Rapunzel is intelligent, literate and knowledgeable of math and astronomy and highly skilled in a number of crafts. She's never met anyone else in her life, so obviously Gothel educated her. There was no reason for Gothel to do this. If anything, educating Rapunzel gave her the tools to question her mother and the stories she'd been told, as she later does. Gothel still taught her to read, still bought her books and a guitar and craft supplies, still celebrated birthdays and got her presents. This establishes right from the start that Gothel is willing to go out of her way for Rapunzel's happiness, even when there's no benefit for her.

Little examples of this are sprinkled throughout the story. Agreeing to go get the paints Rapunzel wants is a major one-Gothel had already won the argument, she had Rapunzel feeling responsible and guilty for their fight and there was no need for lovebombing. She outright states it's a long trip for the paints, she's established that Rapunzel fucked up and possibly isn't deserving of a birthday gift-but she doesn't use that. She picks up and goes to get her daughter the one nice thing she wants for her birthday. For no reason other than Rapunzel asked for it. Even at the end of the movie, the thing Rapunzel offers to Gothel to allow her to heal Eugene is their relationship back. Gothel kept the royal army from finding Rapunzel for nearly two decades; she's smart enough to keep Rapunzel imprisoned until her will was broken. She doesn't need Rapunzel's cooperation. She wants Rapunzel back as her daughter.

And please do not think I am using any of this to make excuses for Gothel or saying she's actually a good person, because I very much am not. This circles back to Mikey's comment in the latest chapter, how Draxum's love for Donnie should have changed him. Because if Gothel truly loved Rapunzel with everything a mother loves her child, then that should have changed her too. She should have been greatly conflicted on allowing Rapunzel out to see the lights, her fear and possessiveness over Rapunzel battling with the knowledge that Rapunzel is lonely, socially stunted, that she's missing out on all the experiences she deserves to have out there in the world. She should feel guilty for her decision to keep Rapunzel entirely hidden away, maybe not to the point of actually changing her mind but it should have caused her some anguish. She should want these things for Rapunzel, for her to be able to have friends and study and become a professional artist, even if she knows that it could realistically never happen. She should have thought, at least once in those eighteen years, that she should tell Rapunzel the truth.

She never does. She never doubts what she's doing for a moment, even when it hurts Rapunzel. Because even though some part of her does love Rapunzel, Gothel loves her youth more.

That's the trap with abusers who love you. It's not that they can't love you if they're abusing you, it's that if they're abusing you, they love something else more. Maybe that something else is the feeling of power and control they get by abusing you. Maybe it's their own comfort that they love more, their unwillingness to critically examine themselves and seek help and ultimately change their behavior. Whatever it is, they are putting it before their love for you, and it's overriding everything that love is telling them to do. Gothel loved Rapunzel. But she was so much more in love with herself that she was wholly incapable of even considering Rapunzel's needs before her wants.

So now we get back to Draxum, and ask the question of if Draxum would do the same. And that's impossible to answer because for Draxum, his love for Galois and the reason he kidnapped Donnie are so wholly intertwined.

Like, I suppose you could make the argument that the King and Queen of Corona wouldn't truly understand what the power of the sundrop flower meant and what would be necessary to protect Rapunzel, that showing her off as princess and eventual queen would be advertising her power and putting a giant target on her back, (I mean, people would definitely realize something was up with the immortal queen whose court was never ill and seemed to recover from serious injuries overnight) but let's be real-if Gothel's priority was keeping Rapunzel safe, she could have just shown up and offered to work with the King and Queen and their guard to assure the princess's safety. Not to mention Gothel's original plan was just to take a lock of hair and leave Rapunzel with her parents. But this doesn't extend to the situation in doth. Draxum is 100%, wholly convinced that the Yokai will be entirely wiped out in a few decades. A century at most. He truly believes that if he hadn't kidnapped Donnie, then Donnie would have died young. He would have lived a miserable life in hiding, facing persecution and taunted with the things he couldn't have purely because of what he is, and then would have died violently and possibly painfully at barely a fraction of his natural lifespan. And then he'd be forgotten, except as one of the 'mutant monsters' that humanity cleansed, who he was and what he could have accomplished erased.

Sure, he didn't love Donnie when he kidnapped him. But he loves Galois now. And his love might drive his guilt, his self-hatred and conflicted feelings on what to allow him and tell him, but it can never drive his doubt. Draxum cannot doubt what he's doing for one moment, because what he's doing needs to be done if Galois is going to have the life he deserves. If he stepped back, told Galois the truth and allowed him to return home-that's it, he needed Donnie's big brain for all this, he ran projections to make sure he really had to do this and there was literally no way he could accomplish what he needed to do without Donnie. His revolution will fail, the humans and the Council of Heads will rush in, there's a very good chance Galois would lose his head right alongside Draxum-and even if not, the humans would kill him soon anyway. Gothel's love for youth and beauty completely overtook her love for Rapunzel, to the point that it effectively didn't matter because she would never hesitate to choose herself. Draxum's desire to conquer the surface and his love for Galois are at a head, and his love cannot win because every bit of love he has for his son drives up the opposing score. He could never choose one or the other because he could never choose anything that stood opposite of his love for his son, but it's because he loves his son that he's still doing this.

Would that be different in a world where the safety and liberty of Yokai and mutants is assured? In a world where Draxum has already succeeded and no longer needs Galois, but wants to remain his father? Is Draxum's position and legacy worth keeping from Galois the truth he so rightfully deserves to know? Would his desire to maintain what he has with his son overrule his desire for his son to be happy, even if that happiness comes at the expense of Draxum's?

Well. That's something Draxum thinks about every night.

[catalogercas]

Whumptober 2023 Day 2 Prompt:

Not Enough Rain to Wash the Sins Out of this House

"I'll call out your name, but you won't call back."

Thermometer | Delirium | "They don't care about you."

Jamie winces against the tangled memory from the middle of the night, where his dad and Roy were both real and both there.

Keeley and Roy's whispers are a low buzz in the background of their bedroom as Jamie pinches his brow against the throbbing in his temple. His head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton, too heavy to lift from his pillow, and he can't keep his eyes open so he just listens to Roy rehash what he'd sort of hoped was a particularly vivid bad dream.

Because he hates how he has to carry this with him. Can't escape it. No matter how much he wants to.

Stupid trauma.

"The fucking muppet was trying to get ready for training at 2 in the morning," Roy says. "He was spiking a fever and fucking out of it."

"So why do you look like you want to commit murder then?" Keeley asks. "You know you can't murder a fever, yeah?"

"He...," Roy grunts then continues, "I haven't seen that petrified fucking look in his eyes since fucking Wembley. He was completely delirious, Keeley, fucking apologizing for taking too long to get ready and for almost face planting into his dresser. Took me ten minutes to get him to calm down enough to realize that fucking piece of shit wasn't here before I could get him to down some Paractemol."

"Oh," Keeley says with a sharp gasp. "That fucking bastard, messing with our boyfriend when he's not even here!"

And Keeley's right.

That's what he hates the most. That his dad doesn't even have to show up to make things worse. He's already done enough for a lifetime.

Jamie winces against the tangled memory from the middle of the night, where his dad and Roy were both real and both there.

He'd startled awake to the the open threat of his dad standing in front of him with an empty, broken beer bottle in hand, waving it towards his rear as he told him to hurry up and get his kit on, and Jamie was trying, he was, trying to so he could maybe avoid the sharp cut of jagged glass against his skin. But his limbs were heavy, and he just couldn't get them to cooperate.

Then there was Roy's voice cutting through it repeating that it was okay, that it was just him, and that he was safe while Jamie tried to make him understand that he had to get ready, couldn't disappoint his old man more than he already had, could he, until he'd finally slumped against Roy in complete exhaustion, sobbing until Roy gently led him back to bed and gave him medicine before pulling him in close and wrapping his arms so tight around him he felt like he couldn't get loose. Which he'd really needed. It grounded him. Made him feel safe. Like nothing but being wrapped in Roy Kent's arms could.

The weight of Roy's arms and Keeley's soft snores from the other side of the bed, where she'd somehow slept like the dead through his entire breakdown, had lulled him back to sleep.

"We're sure I can't go up to Manchester and have at the bastard?" Roy asks.

"You're no good to me and Jamie, or Phoebe, if you're in prison, Roy," Keeley says, like she always does.

"Well if it weren't for that, it'd be fucking worth it," Roy mutters, like he always does.

"Mmm," Jamie hums. He has mixed feelings about it. Always has, probably always will, but he feels terrible enough as it is and doesn't want them to keep going on about his dad.

Keeley reaches over for him, "Didn't know you were awake, love. How do you feel?"

"Like shit," Jamie says. "Can't even get me eyes open."

"Oh you poor thing," Keeley says as she rubs at his back. "Anything we can do?"

"Stay with me? And, er, don't talk about murdering me dad right now, even if he deserves it? Still me dad. 'S complicated," Jamie slurs drowsily.

"Of course," Keeley says, squeezing his shoulders.

"Right, then," Roy says, "I'm getting the thermometer. It's got to be lower now than it was last night, but, you twat, I almost took you to the E.R."

"Not the twat here," Jamie says, "fever's the twat."

[brzatto]

I just wanted to say I love your Carmy/Richie fic.

The way Carmy just feel so safe and grounded when Richie has him wrecks me.

I just love the idea of Carmy having a hard day or knowing he's going to have a breakdown, finding Richie, and just clinging to him. Head buried in Richie's neck, fingers desperately grabbing at handfuls of shirt, and maybe even siting in his lap. Because I really need that or them finally sleeping all tangled up together.

I haven't started the second season so maybe it gets addressed more but also, I like the idea of Richie hovering protectively or even nervously over Carmy a lot. We know that boy is not handling life well and I just think part of Richie wants to hide him away from the world and make sure he's safe and happy.

I hope you continue with the fic and also tight more because the fandom needs stories like yours.

Sorry for the rambling. I just wanted to send some love and let you know I can't wait for the next chapter!

aww don’t apologize this is so sweet!!! thank you so much 🤍🤍 if you didn’t notice already i’m a big sucker for tenderness and emotional vulnerability + intimacy in writing whether it be subtle or not and i think carmy and richie are both desperately in need of Tenderness in their lives so i try to include as much as possible in my own.

for me i actually think of richie being the clingier (or probably handsier is the better word) of the two..? richie’s more open and personable and better with people so in my head he’s never had a complicated relationship with physical contact, it comes easy to him and he doesn’t overthink it and probably doesn’t even realize how big of an impact it can have on someone who isn’t as used to receiving it. in contrast since carmy’s always been reserved and socially awkward he isn’t as well versed in it and won’t initiate it but he does genuinely enjoy it and will let himself reciprocate if he feels comfortable enough. s2 gave us a glimpse of just how dysfunctional his family life was growing up but i don’t think he was touch starved as a child at all—i think he grew up absolutely showered in physical contact from all his relatives during family gatherings and especially from nat and mikey at home, i can see the berzatto siblings being really open and physically affectionate with one another growing up but as carmy grew older + started distancing himself from his family once he started pursuing a professional culinary career he never really developed close enough relationships (platonic or otherwise) to receive that sort of physical contact anymore so for years he just didn’t have it. he definitely craves it but it isn’t something he realizes he misses (or at least not just how much) until he gets it again from someone who he actually trusts and wants it from, and i think richie’s good for him in the sense that he’s pretty unreserved (read: annoying) about that stuff. in my head richie’s the one who greets carmy with back hugs and drapes casual arms over his waist when they lay in bed together and shoves his cold hands underneath carmy’s shirt. in the self indulgent alternate universe where carmy’s less emotionally unavailable i love the idea of him being clingy but don’t worry knowing me there’s a lot more physical intimacy in store between them in the future for this fic so you’ll still get your wish <3

i’m actually obsessed with richie’s protectiveness of carmy it’s the type of protectiveness that comes alongside a lot of insults and a slap upside the head rather than the conventional mother henning (although i def think richie’s that way with eva) it’s there nonetheless. i have lots of fun of writing richie taking care of carmy in bcm and trying to keep it as close to canon as possible as well but carmy also has that stubbornness to him about getting taken care of/accepting other people’s help that manages to make him come off as bratty lol

[silvfyre-writings]

I'm not crushing, yes you are (BSD Fanfic)

I bring, the final fic of my hoard because I can't resist myself so yeah, here you all go, some more Bramran!!!

Nothing but softness and cuteness here!

Enjoy!!!

Ranpo was crushing, and crushing hard.

The world had almost ended, and everyone at the Agency—including himself—had been injured in some way, shape, or form, and here he was, crushing on the enemy.

Well, former enemy, really, since in the end, Bram had helped them to win.

Not that that changed the way that the rest of Agency often stared at Bram like he was going to come for them in his sleep, a natural reaction considering everything that’d happened, but it was a stupid one all the same. As if Ranpo would just allow anyone to set foot into the Agency after everything—not that he’d really had a choice in the beginning, what with him taking an unexpected nap after the adrenaline had worn off, so he’d woken up to his newest ally sitting beside his bed with his head against his chest as he slept, and the friend that had allowed him to even have the time and space to plan to begin with, on the other.

That’d certainly been quite a sight to wake up to, but the moment that Poe had realised he was awake, he’d pulled Ranpo into his arms, muttering something about being glad that he’d survived and that his plan had worked, whilst also muttering apologies about needing to leave him to go and see how Fitzgerald was doing. Ranpo had been far too stunned at the display of affection to do anything other than nod—although he did recall that Fitzgerald had almost been killed in the chaos, so he couldn’t fault Poe for wanting to leave—since his mind still slow from waking up after sleeping for four days straight, and soon enough, it was just him and Bram left in the room.

Well, them and the several other occupants of Yosano’s infirmary, but Ranpo wasn’t focused on them in the slightest.

No, he was far too focused on the very attractive ability user—was it wrong to call Bram a vampire, if his ability turned people into vampires?—sitting by his bedside like he was a dying lover, which was a bit dramatic to say, and Ranpo wholeheartedly blamed the concussion for those thoughts to even be considered. Especially the part where he apparently thought Bram attractive.

It wasn’t like Ranpo had never experienced a crush before in his life, because he had, for a variety of reasons, whether it be attraction or appreciation, or some other reason. Emotions were complicated after all, and Ranpo often didn’t bother with trying to decipher them. Sometimes he looked at a person and thought them good looking—the guy from a rainy day over four years ago—and others he liked because he could get reactions from them that pleased him greatly; said reactions often varied from him getting punched—Minoura—to becoming tangled in someone’s sheets—also Minoura.

And then there was that one crush of appreciation that’d been Poe, because as one of the only people to be able to keep up with him intellectually, how could he not appreciate the man? Not that he’d ever acted on that crush or made it known, because first of all, Poe was nothing more than a friend, and second of all, the writer was already in a committed relationship with his boss, it was as simple as that.

So, yes, Ranpo was familiar with the feelings that came with a crush, and the worst part of having a crush on Bram of all people, was that the man was about as forthcoming with his thoughts as a rock—Ranpo truly felt like he’d been shouting at a wall when he’d been passionately negotiating with Bram—and that he was also as single as they came.

A terrible combination when combined with being attractive, really.

Ranpo had continued to watch Bram for a while, just studying the other now that he had the time to actually do so. Bram was slouching in the chair, his position causing his coat to ride up and hide the lower part of his face from view—not that Ranpo could see considering Bram’s head was currently pointed towards the ground in the first place. He was pale, and the scars on his cheeks stood out against the skin; Ranpo was sure that there was some kind of story, perhaps even a mystery, to those scars, and he wanted to unravel it. There were also the marks underneath Bram’s eyes that did nothing but make Bram even more attractive, and that was when Ranpo had to turn away, lest his feelings and thoughts became obvious to whoever it was that was about to walk into the room. And since Bram was sleeping, and still would be for some time, Ranpo thought it best that he do the same.

Maybe he was still tired, and that was why his thoughts had strayed down this path. Maybe they would go away if he just slept and ignored them.

Just maybe.

Unfortunately for Ranpo, after being cleared by Yosano to return to work, and finally leaving the infirmary behind after a week of bedrest, the feelings were there; in fact, they were almost stronger than before, and it absolutely did not help that Bram took to hanging around the office, not really doing anything other than entertain Aya, who had also turned to hanging around the office—more specifically, Kunikida—and to also sleep on one of the Agency couches.

Honestly, Ranpo was just a little impressed by how much Bram seemed to sleep, it was almost as if he were a cat.

Because right now, it was the middle of the day, and from his desk, Ranpo could see Bram, curled up on the couch, and asleep. And all he could think about was joining him there. Which was annoying, because he was supposed to be working—not that he could work much right now anyway—paperwork was more Kunikida’s thing, not his.

“You’re thinking hard.” Yosano’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts, and he turned to see her watching him with a faintly concerned look—she always wore such a look these days. “Hand. Is everything alright?”

Ranpo lifted his injured hand, and watched as Yosano began to unravel the bandages, waiting until they had dropped onto his desk to answer her question. “Everything’s fine. Just observing our newest decorative piece.”

Yosano’s eyes flitted over towards Bram, and he cursed her in that moment for understanding him so well, cursing her even more when her lips twitched into a knowing smile as she returned to checking his hand. “You certainly seem to have a type, that’s for sure.”

“I do not.”

“Tall? Dark? Mysterious? I can name so many people that have fallen under those categories, so don’t try and fool me into believing you don’t have a crush on someone that hits all three.”

There was nothing that he could say to that that wouldn’t just shove him straight into the hole that Yosano was digging underneath him, not that he needed to say anything because her laughter and his burning cheeks said more than words ever could. Really, he did hate how easily Yosano could read him; it made keeping his conflicted feelings from her all the more harder. Ranpo let out a huff. “I’m not crushing on him.”

“I’ll believe that when you stop staring at him like he’s going to disappear.” Yosano shrugged, returning her attention to his hand, prodding the slowly healing wound and watching Ranpo’s reaction to it, and after she’d satisfied herself, wrapped it in fresh bandages. “And before you even try to say you’re not, you are, it’s starting to become kind of obvious, so why don’t you just talk to him?”

Another huff. “I don’t know how to.”

“You’re telling me you can sweet talk people into your bed—”

“Please don’t word it like that.”

“—but you can’t go up to them and say hello?” Yosano continued, raising a brow in a very much unimpressed way that did nothing but make Ranpo turn away from his oldest friend, and mutter something under his breath. “What was that?”

Ranpo sighed and turned back to face her. “I said, that it’s a lot easier when your dick is involved.”

“You’re impossible sometimes. But I suppose we’d have you no other way.” Yosano reached out to ruffle his hair through his hat, ignoring his disgruntled groans of protest. Ranpo slapped her hands away, fixing up his hat where it had slipped down his face; Yosano just smiled. “Just take him with you next time you go and buy sweets or something. But I’d do something fast before Dazai notices and starts trying to play matchmaker again.”

Ranpo shuddered at the thought of Dazai trying to talk to Bram on his behalf, and was left with a terrible, coiling sensation in his gut. Jealousy, an ugly emotion that Ranpo wanted nothing to do with, yet couldn’t help but feel, because try as he might to deny it to his friends, he was crushing, and crushing bad. And since this feeling wasn’t going anywhere until he did something about it, he decided to take Yosano’s suggestion seriously; for once. “I’m going to get sweets.”

“Good luck.” Yosano waved as she disappeared back into the infirmary, and the few co-workers that had overheard her—not Dazai thankfully, because he and Kunikida were currently out on a case together with Atsushi—looked towards him quizzically. He narrowed his eyes at them, satisfied when they met his gaze, jumped, and jumped right back into their work.

Ranpo waited until they were completely focused before he stood and crept over towards the couches; he wasn’t sure if Bram was a light sleeper or not, and he was kind of holding out on him not being one, so he kept his steps light until he was standing over Bram’s head, staring down at the sleeping man’s face, studying how smooth it was, even in sleep. Not that Bram’s face was anything but, since he never seemed to wear kind of emotion other than a deadpan, making him very hard to read at times—and Ranpo prided himself on being able to read the people around him.

Of course, there were a persons eyes, but Brams eyes were as emotionless as his face and said eyes were currently staring right at him—wait a minute, staring? Ranpo blinked once, staring down at Bram in the same way that he was staring up. Neither of them said anything, not that Ranpo really knew what to say in the first place, not when his heart started to pound inside of his chest, threatening to escape. Was it too late for Ranpo to throw himself out the window and pretend he hadn’t just been watching someone sleep?

Apparently so, because Bram chose then to speak. “What do you want?”

“Who says I want anything?”

“Because I’m sure you don’t just stare at people while they sleep. Unless you do, then I might be inclined to call you a little strange.” Bram said before letting out a massive yawn—and boy, didn’t the sight of those fangs make Ranpo’s already pounding heart, pound even faster—before he sat up, and stretched.

Yeah, he had it bad this time.

Ranpo shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m out of snacks, and no one else can take me to get more. So that’s your job now.”

Bram’s eyes narrowed a little, and only just a little, in annoyance. “My job? I don’t think so.”

“Wow, aren’t you cruel, letting the one who lets you sleep and laze about here starve because he ran out of snacks.” Ranpo threw himself over the arm of the couch, landing where Bram’s head had been resting earlier, his hair brushing the others thigh. The close proximity did nothing for his heart either, yet getting up now just wasn’t something that he wanted to do. Which was fine, because sitting here, like this, was actually quite nice.

At least, it was until Bram decided to pat Ranpo’s hair.

“They told me you were bad with directions; I did not think it was true.” Bram’s gaze looked towards the main area before his eyes flitted back to focus on Ranpo. “If you really need snacks that bad, I can take you, but later. First, you must rest.”

Ranpo blinked, and then blinked again. Where did that come from? “And why must I rest?”

“That doctor of yours was talking to you before, and then you came over here to where I was resting, so I gathered that she had told you to take a break.”

“That’s not—” Ranpo started, with the intention of clearing up the obvious misunderstanding, because he most certainly didn’t need to rest—Bram had literally been there when he’d been given the all clear to go back to work—but then he looked into the other mans eyes; eyes that so openly believed that what he’d observed was the truth, that Ranpo just sighed. “Yeah, yeah, I’m taking a break. Is that so bad of me to do? It’s hard work being a genius detective after all!”

The hand in his hair moved from petting to stroking, and Ranpo was forced to bite back a noise at how good it felt. For as long as he’d been alive, he’d been a sucker for his hair being played with, and many times he’d been likened to a cat by those who were privileged enough to be allowed to even touch his hair. Which of course meant that Bram was one of those people, not that the man knew it… yet.

Maybe when he woke up, he’d mention it, or he’d conveniently forget about it and these feelings of his.

Maybe…

Ranpo became aware at some point, realizing in just a second that he was no longer on the couch, and that he was being carried on someone’s back. Not Fukuzawa’s, it was too narrow, although he could hear his former guardian speaking quietly close by. An occasional hum that Ranpo could feel right in his ear would sound after each of Fukuzawa’s sentences, and the sound was familiar, although his brain was still working far too slow for him to deduce who it was that was carrying him.

But whoever it was that was carrying him was warm and strong, and Ranpo felt comfortable being where he was, enough that he shifted closer and allowed himself to drift off a little; he didn’t fall asleep entirely, because his curiosity was piqued, and he could never sleep when his mind started thinking like it did, so he just listened to words he was too tired to understand.

The last thing he remembered was being placed back into his own bed, and being tucked under the covers.

When Ranpo woke the next morning, he blinked, taking a moment to question how he’d gotten from the Agency couch to his bed, having forgotten that brief moment when he’d woken. He sat up, and blinked again when a coat that very much did not belong to him, fell off his shoulders. The coat was black, heavy, and warm—everything that Ranpo enjoyed in clothes that didn’t belong to him, although he was confused as to who the coat belonged to. It was familiar somehow, yet he couldn’t quite place where he recognised it from. Perhaps Fukuzawa would know. Ranpo crawled from his bed and bundled the coat into his arms before leaving his room behind, following the smell of cooking to the kitchen where Fukuzawa stood, cooking.

Even after years of being an adult, and for the most part, independent, Ranpo had never really considered the idea of moving into his own place. He had thought about it once or twice, after Yosano had moved out to be on her own, but never followed through with anything more. It was just easier for him to stay somewhere familiar, with someone that understood him and his habits, and Fukuzawa had never complained or tried to push him into leaving—if anything, he’d just given Ranpo a few more responsibilities and chores to do.

Which, for the most part, Ranpo did, so long as it meant he didn’t have to cook. He’d rather not burn the kitchen down, or poison someone after all, mainly himself.

“Morning, President.” Ranpo chirped, entering the room to slide into one of the chairs at the dining table.

“Good morning, Ranpo.” Fukuzawa looked over his shoulder, eyes immediately falling to the coat that he was holding. “Ah yes, Bram said you are more than welcome to return his coat when you next see each other.”

Ranpo blinked. The coat was Bram’s? How had that happened. The last thing Ranpo remembered was falling asleep on the Agency couch… the Agency couch that Bram had also been sitting on when he had fallen asleep. As Ranpo realised that, memories of the walk back trickled back, and he flushed a furious red as he recalled that Bram had been the one to carry him back home—he refused to believe that he’d been put to bed by the other man, instead choosing to believe that it’d been Fukuzawa to do so.

But then Fukuzawa chuckled, and any hope Ranpo had of his preferred option vanished, embarrassment taking over. Fukuzawa slid a plate of pancakes in front of him. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen that kind of expression on your face.”

“What expression?” Ranpo choked, not expecting Fukuzawa to say that of all things.

“That expression.” Fukuzawa sat opposite him with his own breakfast, a knowing, yet curious expression on his face. “Your ‘I have a crush’ face.”

Ranpo felt his face burn even more, which he hadn’t thought possible. He was starting to wish he’d never gotten out of bed that morning. “I do not have a face.”

Fukuzawa hummed, and smiled to himself.

“I don’t, okay?” Ranpo said again, sulking just a little. Why was everyone so annoying once they realised that he had a crush? Not that he was admitting that he did, because he didn’t, but the moment that they all thought he did, they were all in his business. It was annoying, and did nothing but frustrate him.

“I won’t press.” Fukuzawa said softly, as if he could sense Ranpo’s rapidly declining mood. “But if you do wish to pursue those feelings of yours, you won’t have any complaints from me. Bram is a very nice man.”

“Did you two bond on the walk home, then?” Ranpo shovelled the rest of his breakfast into his mouth, only glaring at the table a little.

Another hum from the older man. “We spoke, yes. Speaking of that—” Oh no. “—are you alright?”

Ranpo glared at his now empty plate. “Everything’s fine.”

“You slept the rest of your shift, and heavily too. I wasn’t able to wake you.” Fukuzawa said. “You wouldn’t let go of Bram either, so he offered to carry you so you could keep sleeping.”

Ranpo let his head thud against the table, not even attempting to hide his embarrassment this time. “Just put me out of my misery already.”

He listened as Fukuzawa stood, not saying anything until there were fingers running through his hair soothingly. “As embarrassed as you might feel right now, my advice to you is to just follow your heart, Ranpo. It might lead you to something good.”

Yeah, but what if it leads me to something bad, instead?

As it turned out, Bram wasn’t far; in fact, the vampire—Ranpo had decided by himself, that it was okay to call the other as such—was staying at the Agency dorms, sharing a dorm with that girl who migrated between Bram and Kunikida. Apparently, Bram had been staying there since the fight at the airport ended, aside from the days he’d spent by Ranpo’s bedside, and yet somehow, Ranpo had been completely unaware. A first for him, really, considering not much managed to slip by him in the first place, not that that mattered when he had to slink up the stairs to the dorms, Bram’s coat in hand, and Atsushi and Kunikida watching him after they paused their sparring session.

Yeah, like that wasn’t annoying.

Ranpo ignored them though as he finished climbing the stairs; didn’t even acknowledge them with a look as he walked down towards the room that Bram was staying in, and opened the door without knocking. Because Ranpo was a master detective, and didn’t need to knock. He walked into the dorm, noting quickly that it looked the same as the rest of them—one bedroom, one bathroom, and a living space—before he focused on trying to find Bram.

Which wasn’t hard to do, considering the man was sitting on the couch, staring at him whilst he ate some noodles—most likely the ramen from the store just down the street. Ranpo huffed and strode over, barely giving Bram enough time to shift over before he was throwing himself onto the couch as well. “You made me fall asleep.”

Bram didn’t respond until he’d finished chewing, and Ranpo couldn’t deny that he was staring at the other’s throat as he swallowed. “I did not make you do anything. You are the one that lay down and then fell asleep.”

“You were stroking my hair.”

“You did not complain.” Bram shrugged, and ate some more noodles. “Besides, you needed the rest anyway.”

Ranpo huffed, and drew his knees to his chest, the fur of Bram’s coat tickling his nose. “All I’ve done is rest—”

“No, all you’ve done is stress.” Bram interrupted, and then offered Ranpo the bowl without making eye contact. Ranpo didn’t say anything as he took the bowl into his hands and began to eat even though he’d just finished breakfast. He listened as Bram continued. “I kept watch over you and when you weren’t sleeping, you were stressing. Yesterday was the first day that you properly rested.”

Well at least Bram was admitting that he’d been keeping watch, but then again, in the short time they’d been in each other’s presence, Ranpo had easily deduced that Bram was the kind of person to be straightforward. A little roundabout with his speech patterns, but ultimately he’d speak his mind regardless of what the topic was, which was something that Ranpo could appreciate considering he was pretty much the same kind of person. But in this situation, it meant he could ask questions and get the actual answer instead of having to try and read between the lines of what someone was trying to tell him. He placed the bowl on the ground and turned to give Bram his attention.

“Why did you carry me home?”

Bram looked towards the ceiling, thoughtful. “You shifted in your sleep and latched onto my coat. You wouldn’t let go when Fukuzawa came to collect you, so I carried you. It was easier.”

“Why, though?” Ranpo pressed. He wanted to know why Bram hadn’t just pried his fingers from his coat and let Fukuzawa take him. Anyone else would’ve.

“You’re sleeping face is adorable.” Bram said, as if it was just a casual thing to admit, and before Ranpo could even think of a response, Bram went on. “I’ve been alive on this earth for some time now, so you should stop stressing so much about having a crush and finding me attractive.”

Ranpo choked on the words he’d been forming, face turning bright red like it had earlier that morning with Fukuzawa. “H—how—?”

Bram shrugged. “You learn after the first century or so what a crushing person looks like, and you are not subtle. I could feel you staring yesterday.”

Any words that Ranpo thought about speaking, flew from his mind immediately at Bram’s words. This must be how teenagers felt when their high school sweetheart admitted to knowing about their feelings the entire time. Not that Ranpo would actually know, since he’d never finished school—not in the way that normal children went to school and graduated of course. Fukuzawa had tried of course, but Ranpo had thrown a fit after the first week, so instead, Ranpo had finished his high school years with the help of online courses.

So maybe that was why Ranpo was experiencing such a situation now of all times.

The world had seen him almost die to try and save what he loved the most, and decided to give him a chance to catch up on all those things he’d missed out on after his parents had died.

Finally, he managed to get his mouth to work. “So what if I have a crush? It’ll pass eventually.”

“That may be.” Suddenly Bram’s face was right in front of Ranpo’s, with the smallest of gaps between them. “But I’m hoping it doesn’t.”

And then Bram’s lips were against his own, but not for nearly long enough. It was quick, and soft, nothing more than to show a point, but even so, Ranpo was left reeling because he hadn’t expected it. He cursed Bram for being so hard to read as he dragged the taller back in for a longer kiss. At least now, he didn’t have to try and hide those annoying feelings anymore—he had to wonder if Yosano and Fukuzawa had known something like this would happen and played their cards in such a way to help it happen. Not that they’d tell him if he asked of course.

The second kiss was still far too short for Ranpo’s liking, but with the way that Bram was looking at him like he wanted to devour him, he was sure that there would be more to come.

And he was going to welcome it.

[tobiasdrake]

So, with our cast of characters out of the way, let's get to the murder plot that this Investigation presents us with.

To be honest, I have a sneaking suspicion that this case inspired Danganronpa 2-3. There's some interesting similarities in how the two cases are set up.

So here we go with the murder and its intricacies. Once we've gathered up enough information to make some kind of picture out of it, Trucy lays out the plot succinctly.

Somebody stole Gavin's keys from his pocket, broke into his guitar case, and rigged his guitar to catch fire. The guitar caught fire onstage during his performance alongside Lamiroir and Machi, while Daryan chilled backstage. Then Gavin and Daryan went out onstage and, while they were out there, someone shot Romein with a .45 caliber revolver.

Which. Uh. As Ema points out, is no easy feat.

So our shooter needs to be someone who would have access to a bigger, meaner gun than even cops carry. They also need to be enough of a physical beeftank and experienced enough with firearms to shoot it without dramatically injuring themselves.

This would all be enough by itself to make a confounding bit of mystery. But 4-3 brings with it one more special twist to tie it all together: An artistic reproduction of the events of Gavin's song, layered out through the seemingly unrelated crimes that occurred today.

I mean. That doesn't necessarily prove anything. The lyric sheet isn't quite finished yet. There's still a little bit to--

Nope. There it is. Okay.

What a mind-bending mystery at first glance. Who? How? Why? No for real why!? With a vanishing killer someone teleporting out of the room we found the body in, just for that added spice of WTF. Where 4-2 seemed alarmingly open-shut at first and then gradually opened up to be more complex, 4-3 hits you in the face with how complex it is right from the get-go.

Nothing about this case makes any sense. Why would someone rhyme crimes to a Gavinners so--

Wait. No. Actually, it's the Gavinners, so I can see the appeal in taking one of their songs and using it as a roadmap for crime at one of their concerts. Like. I can believe someone doing that purely out of spite. That'd be a hilarious way to spite Cop Rock.

In any case this is going to be a tangled mess to unravel. Too bad we don't have any time to unravel it because international politics demand immediate retribution.

Borginia's pissed off that a Borginian national died on Japanifornian soil so we're racing to convict whoever looks closest to right. This is precisely the kind of scenario that produces horrifying miscarriages of justice.

The kind of scenario that demands an ace attorney.

(Oh my god that was so corny I do NOT apologize)

I like that Gavin personally delivers this message to us. He's here to personally request representation on behalf of the accused that he himself will prosecute in court tomorrow.

You can feel Gavin's own hesitation in rushing this case to trial so quickly. When he talks about "The powers that be are making us do it", he lacks conviction in his prosecution. His arm is being twisted by political motives and he knows it. That's why he wants someone on the opposite bench he can trust.

Because someone has to speak for the defendant.

A scared, blind, and confused 14-year-old boy who can't even speak the language to protest his innocence.

Holy shit does this investigation leave off on an ominous cliffhanger. Like. It's obvious it can't have been Machi. This child cannot have pulled the trigger on the Arm Breaking Super Gun. Twice. Are you shitting me?

But it also doesn't matter. Gavin made that point crystal clear. International politics are demanding somebody's head on a plate and they will scapegoat Machi if they must.

Investigation 1 gives us a good start into this case. Interesting characters, a bizarre and complicated mystery, and a defendant that seems much more innocent than Wocky Kitaki did yet paradoxically harder to defend all the same.

It also gives us, at the same time, a neat look into the private life of Prosecutor Klavier Gavin. We get a front-row seat to the person he is outside the courtroom; Something we only get snippets of for other prosecutors, if even that much.

Ace Attorney 4-3, Investigation 1. In keeping with Gavin being surprisingly friendly for a prosecutor, I love the way 4-3 spins directly out of our developing relationship with him specifically.

Klavier Gavin is the only prosecutor ever to voluntarily hang out with the protagonist prior to the big conclusion of their arc. Some prosecutors have showed up to hang out in future titles; In fact, Gavin does too. But this is the first time we've actually been able to get to know them before the showdown.

And you can see why, too. Gavin's not only the friendliest prosecutor. He's also the only one who. Like. Has a life outside the courtroom. Other than Edgeworth being a sentai fanboy, I guess.

This one's going to have to be in two parts.

Rockstar prosecutor Klavier Gavin is a rockstar. So we're going to set a chapter of the story at a rock concert. His rock concert. What a great idea.

OH YOU CAN BARELY TELL THAT A MAN WROTE THIS

The least believable thing in the entire Ace Attorney universe is that the Gavinners somehow have a successful rock career. Rock is a counterculture movement, giving voice to the unheard.

It is physically impossible to get any farther from counterculture than literally cops. This is it. The extreme distant end from counterculture. Who the hell would buy cop-themed rock?

The Daily Wire wishes conservative media was as well-received as the Gavinners.

It's especially bizarre when you consider that we're in the Dark Age of the Law, a period of time when the criminal justice system is so widely known to be corrupt and brutal that pop culture came up with a name for it while it was still happening. Everyone knows that the justice system is broken and exists solely to persecute the innocent but we're all gonna buy tickets to watch a bunch of cops play guitars and cheer for how cool prosecutors are.

Nonetheless, this is such an unassuming setup for a murder. Why would there be a murder? We're here to make music. We're here to make cop music. Can we have one nice evening? But no. Gavin and his guest star Lamiroir take the stage and....

It does not go well. In fact,

It goes aggressively not well. Fortunately, the victim lives long enough to tell us that Lamiroir saw him get shot.

Romein here speaking in code to give us a riddle to solve. I usually hate cryptic moments like this when characters use a short window of opportunity to speak in cryptic tongues rather than deliver useful information. But with Romein, it makes sense. The man has been shot and ours is not his first language. He's wracking his brain right now to find correct enough words to use.

In any case, this sets up our crime for chapter 4-3. A classic Whodunit in an enclosed space - complete with a vanishing killer who somehow teleported out of the room despite us breaking in through the only exit moments after the gunshots were heard.

A limited number of people have access to this backstage area and half of them are cops. One of them shot Romein LeTouse. Which means now would be a good time to talk about the cast of characters involved in this case.

We have two sets of characters here. First is the guest singer Lamiroir and her entourage.

The mysterious and lovely Lamiroir, a famous international singer who is probably the real reason all those people are here. Come for the legendary international celebrity but also cheer for the fucking cops so they don't get mad and shoot tear gas into the crowd.

Siren of the Ballad Lamiroir is easily our most interesting character in this case. Not originally from her "home country" of Borginia, her entire persona is a manufactured illusion.

As well as her manager and translator Romein LeTouse whose name makes me sad that our local salad buffet place shut down during COVID. He's one of only two people involved with this case who can interpret for Lamiroir, who speaks only a foreign language. That's a problem, seeing as he's our vic--

Oh, never mind, she can speak Japanese "English" just fine. They were doing that for publicity. Convenient!

And her blind child pianist Machi Tobaye. He and Lamiroir seem like they make for quite a pair. These two, I can believe having a famous musical career. Machi, incidentally, can "also" only speak his native language just like Lamiroir but I'm sure that won't be important.

These two characters form an inseparable performance duo from a foreign land, whose relationship with each other and their late manager will carry much of the intrigue for this case.

The other key set of characters would be our cops.

Of course we have Ema Skye, our embittered forensic scientist whose talents are wasted as a field detective. Of course, she's definitely off the suspect list on account of the fact that she was with us when the gunshots were heard.

There's Prosecutor Gavin who is having the worst day. He probably didn't dunit but then again it wouldn't be the first time, would it?

And Detective Dickhead. His hair truly must be seen to be believed. He is attempting to pull off the Japanese Thug Pompadour in a way that can only be described as, "Hello, Officer."

Just like Ema, Gavin and Daryan both have airtight alibis as well.

It's hard to get a stronger alibi than "Thousands of people saw me onstage while the murder was taking place."

AND THEN THERE'S THIS ASSHOLE

That's it. That's all we get. Glimpses of the Golden Fucko as he bazingas around dodging attention. Okay, dude. Way to not look suspicious, I guess.

That's it. That is our small cast of characters aside. It's not a lot of people to look into. In fact, Mysterious Golden Fucko aside, nobody seems capable of fitting everything we know about this mystery.

Continued in part 2.

[soleilnomoon]

requesting off anon this time- really loved the one you did already ;w; peppermint, sorbet, pastelito de guayaba, marshmallow, & cake pops. i'd like to top them off with whipped cream & poppy seeds. side menu #1 ace with female or gn reader please! thank you in advance!

hi omg 💗 i am so sry this took forever; i'm glad you enjoyed the other one, i had a lot of fun writing and suffering 😊 i love ace and i love angst, so i took my time with this one; i'm terrible with fluff and comfort, but i def tried this time (it won't hurt that much, maybe...)

1k words, fem (or gn) reader, no pronouns; sfw, 18+, mdni; hurt/comfort, fluff, and angst bc i can't help myself i am so sry (i'm not); no real warnings, just some sad boy ace vibes & a lil suggestive maybe; reader said something hurtful, but it's vague (and up to your imagination tbh, on what was said)

“i hope someday to say out loud to anyone: you touched me & touched me & touched me & i was made better for it.” — erin slaughter

there’s an imposing wall that’s erected inside of him, constructed sloppily with hundreds of weathered bricks — crumbling from time and neglect, from broken promises and insomnia-induced outbursts — made purely from his unshed tears, obsessive thoughts, and years of him miserably combing through painful memories. there’s never been an appropriate time to say i told you so, but eventually those words flit about in the air, circulating late at night, stealthily crawling in between the floorboards, an unsettling feeling pulsing through his veins. it’s aggressive and perilous; an intricate web of complicated scenarios that refuse to leave him alone.

the words grow loud enough to gnaw at his mind, his chest an unwilling participant turned into a desolate a war zone rife with empty threats and childish wishes. the remnants of his battered heart, frayed at the edges, ribbons of silk spun from despair and solitude, wrap tightly around each one of his ribs. tight enough to constrict; bones that were once indestructible are ground into a fine powder.

penance, he reminds himself; a hefty, burdensome payment for the sin of his existence. but it’s simply not enough.

an inconsequential fight leaves him frustrated beyond reason; his inadequacies clomp around noisily, interrupting his sleep, making him pace down long, empty corridors while everyone else sleeps. more proof, he reasons— the thought remains unfinished, another discarded notion that will likely crop up again and again and again. he tugs at his hair in defeat, teeth clenched, tension shooting through his shoulders and neck.

your words play on a loop; the cadence of your voice a curse that traps him in a cowardly game of cat and mouse. if he repeats them to himself enough times, they might lose meaning, the sting will become less noticeable. tolerable. a scarlet letter that you callously brand on his heart.

it’s guilt that has your sheets tangled around your body, that plunges you into darkness — thick, unnavigable, a nightmare sitting heavily on your chest, clawing at your thoughts. when you try to scream, you’re unable to move; throat dry and scarred, the apology you’ve rehearsed for hours — words you’ve agonized over, handpicked with precision and affection — bubbling around, making it difficult to ignore your role in all of this.

is it sleep paralysis or cowardice that prevents you from fully waking up? you’re not sure. but something prompts you to get up as sweat glides down your face and onto your neck. the room is stifling, a prison of sorts, one that you intentionally sequestered yourself to for the duration of the night.

hindsight is unkind and unforgiving, your steps are hurried, bile clinging to the back of your throat; you nearly lose your nerve and slow down, breathing unevenly, hands clutching the hem of your shirt as you press your back against the wall. ace rounds the corner, sees you close your eyes and inhale deeply — it’s muscle memory, the way his legs carry him over to you, his strides swift and purposeful.

while he wants to shake you, to ask you why, why, why, he doesn’t. ace brushes his knuckles down your cheeks — round, soft, stained with dried tears — and you finally exhale.

behind the fading anger, behind the veneer of impassivity, a tenderness and adoration that you don’t deserve — his eyes hold a warmth that you will covet for the rest of your life. irony is the favorite cousin of misery, so it’s unsurprising that you both open your mouths and simultaneously say, i’m sorry.

you press your fingers against his lips, head shaking, curls frizzy, out of place — a storm, chaos, and beautiful to him all the same — you’re certain that if you let him continue, you’ll never say what you need to say.

“i…i shouldn’t have said that. it wasn’t right, and it’s not true, you know that right?”

silence is all he can offer you as he’s still reeling from your admission. the fault is not entirely yours, he knows, but he can’t seem to bring himself to stop your rambling. he used to think his feelings for you were too big, always expanding, shifting around, filling him unnecessarily — but now he knows that he’s had it all wrong. in your desperation to over-explain yourself, additional tears spill down — an overflowing well, heart swollen with vulnerability. he watches the way you cradle his hand in yours, thumbs gently kneading into his palms; a soothing massage of sorts, one that makes it difficult to stay upset.

you realize that, once again, you’ve let yourself get carried away. the sensible thing would be to properly talk things out, but you’re at your limit and can barely look him in the eyes. so you turn away and prepare to sprint back to your room; ace grabs onto your arm and holds you still.

“wait,” his voice is low, husky — a little hoarse from berating himself repeatedly — and he drops his hand so he can hold onto yours, “don’t leave.” in your haste to direct the flow of this theatrical affair, you forgot that his charm is the focal point of his magnetic persona. he kisses your palm once, twice; you start to lose count when he presses a lingering kiss on the inside of your wrist, and if he wasn’t already holding onto, your legs would’ve betrayed you terribly. still, you hardly feel any shame over it, instead allowing ace to bring you to his room.

under thick blankets, you curl into him. your fingers trace shapes on his broad chest, pausing when he inhales sharply — fingertips ghosting his skin as you craft another, more intimate, apology. your lips are soft against his — kisses even more so — and when fatigue makes its rounds again, you both struggle to stay awake. but it’s your hands rubbing small circles on his back that demolishes a significant portion of that wall, making it easier for him to breathe, sleep wrapping its long, spindly arms around him. it takes you a little longer, but you don’t mind it — not at all. you’re much too content enjoying this brief respite, hopeful that all of this might spill over into the morning.

[beetsandskzreads]

silent bright summer night

bang chan x gn!reader, y/n works with skz and became their friend (the ultimate dream haha)

genre: tooth-rotening fluff, slight angst with a happy ending

notes/warnings: nothing intense, this is very fluffy, there's brief mentions of cheating, long distance, y/n's exes, fear of abandonment, slight insecurities, deep talks, reader and chan are slightly wine drunk, y/n and chan are whipped, y/n makes it explicit they want to date someone very warm and caring (aka chan), i don't think that's a warning tho djsjs just saying

scenario: on a balcony, at a beach apartment on a summer night of vacation, y/n opens up to chan about their past and current lovers. what y/n doesn't know is why chan is so interested listening to it.

It was 1:01 am when chan and I found ourselves in the balcony that overlooked the city and it's bright lights on a summer night. Skz had gone to sleep right after all of us came back from a night out of lots of fun, buying stuff on stores by the beach, having ice cream, seeing the view of the city lights reflecting on the sea water, appreciating street artists...

The two of us had been talking the whole evening, we hung out as a group but mostly just spoke to each other and laughed at the members jokes, both of us having a sparkle in our eye every time we saw the group happy. There was this unspoken pleasantness, a bliss, calmness in the air but with a lot of excitement. Chan was so happy to be around the sea with "the kids" as he refers to them and being at the beach almost 24/7 this week, it was like his natural habitat, his home, a comfort place. It left you feeling even softer for him, and as you shared your love for the sea, your feelings were at a peak. You liked Chan, and you loved this place as much as he did.

The night was so great, everyone was out like a lightweight as soon as we arrived to the vacation apartment we're in. Chan and I were testing the theory that a glass of wine would help us get drowsy and help us fall asleep as well, since we both have trouble falling asleep and felt nothing but a remaining excitement from the night out. It came to me especially because of the enthusiasm of talking to him, we were connecting so well, I didn't want this to ever end.

And so we drank (one glass quickly becoming the whole bottle) and we talked for what felt like hours on end, that neither of us wanted to cease.

- My ex best friend, she never quite knew how to choose guys, she always went for the ones that would never turn her way, the ones who obviously wouldn't care about her, not because of her, but because they were really careless guys, walking red flags. - I told him, I couldn't remember where exactly the conversation started but we were talking about nice people picking shitty people to date.

- What about you? - he asked

- Me? I barely even like guys, I mean I do, but I'm really picky actually, I don't allow myself to fall for cold people, I wouldn't forgive myself if I took interest in someone rude, I try so hard to take care of myself so I either stay alone that way or I find someone who makes me feel better, who knows how to take care of me, after all we chase happiness, I think a caring person could do that, someone gentle who isn't scared of emotions or who at least is open to face that fear with me by their side.

- I get it, it's hard to get by if you don't have emotional support, a partner should be able to provide that support, yeah. Did you ever... find someone like that?

- Yeah, in the past I did and even now I do know someone more than ideal... I guess my ex partners when I was young were going through a soft phase tho... I guess everyone has an emotional limit they were scared to cross... once I found that barrier the relationship stoped evolving, reached a dead end and so there was nothing left for me anymore and I left, plus, you know, cheating, long distance, a bunch of stuff really... it wasn't meant to be and I'm okay with that.

- What about that someone right now?

Silence ruled for about 3 seconds before I knew what to say. That someone right now is him. Ever since I've known him feels like he's the only man ever, but I don't think I'd tell him that, not soon anyways.

- What about 'em?

- What's that person like? What makes you trust they're any different from your exes?

- Sometimes I fear they're not, but I set the bar really high and I reset it constantly, to make sure I'm seeing it right, sometimes they seem so perfect to me that I wonder what good have i done in my past life to deserve to be around such a bright person. Of course they make mistakes too, but even the way they deal with them is so... mature, it's so easy to just solve things communicating, it's insane to me. Then I remember it's probably because they're eventually gonna leave me too, or just not reciprocate my feelings and after they break my heart I'll probably loose all hope in love, be heart broken for two years until I decide I'm gonna focus on myself again... it's a cycle after heartbreak, but with this person I'm really scared, because they mean more. I'm way too deep in before I've even expressed my feelings, it's gonna be devastating. - I'm rambling, the wine made me do it.

- What makes you think they wouldn't like you back tho?

- I'm not sure I just... it would be too good to be true and it's complicated... he's amazing and I'm just not sure if he'd be into me, I mean, I think I'm lovable and I think I'd be a great lover, I just don't know if I'm his type or if he'd consider me. We have a bit of an age gap, I'm not someone who's typically pretty or specially good looking, I have my charms but I have no idea if that's enough for him to be in love. It's complicated with each others work too... - I notice chan's gaze on me, he has his head leaned on his hand on the table and he's looking at me with bright eyes, eyes that look tired and a little drunk but somehow, he manages to look at me in a way that makes me feel adored, I don't know why you have to make me feel so much love, Bang Chan - Why are you looking at me like that?

- You have no idea how other people perceive you, do you? - he ignored your question, probably because of his drunk-ish drowsy state - Everyone I know likes you, see, you're a naturally kind and caring person, you're attentive to people's needs, you make sure everyone feels comfortable around you... that's so appreciated by everyone. I think you're exceptional y/n, you have this charismatic way of existing, a refreshing and comfy presence everyone can feel, but to me... it feels like home. You feel like home y/n. So... I have no idea who that person is but I sure as hell know they'd be more than lucky to have you as a partner and they're definitely dumb if they let you go.

- Are you dumb? - my heart's pounding quicker as I'm about to do something I didn't plan on doing ever.

- Huh? No, why w-

- Because that person is you... I like you, Chan. In a more-than-friends way - I interrupt him quickly before I lose my newly found courage.

Chan could've sworn his heart stopped for a few seconds. Suddenly sobriety hit him like a truck. It was the alcohol that made you say that, he thought, but he wished it was true and you didn't drink enough to be lying about this kind of stuff, you had a full on conversation and you seemed pretty sober.

- Y-y/n are you sober? - he tries to navigate through the situation.

- Oh my... yeah I am, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything, it just rolled out of my tongue. I'm sorry... - you said as you panicked and tried to go back inside, regret filling up all your organs.

"I messed up" your brain keeps repeating as desperation starts entering your body, until Chan grabbed your hand, stopping you from leaving.

- Wait! You don't need to apologize, I'm glad you told me... You didn't think I'd say all that about you if I didn't like you as well, did you? - he asks suggestively.

- I don't know - you blush as you realize what he's getting at - You're just so nice to everyone, I didn't make a big deal out of it.

- Well, you should've made it a big deal, the biggest deal actually because I've been trying really hard to show you how I feel these past few days and you were so clueless I thought you were purposefully ignoring the signs because you didn't like me back.

- I'm sorry Channie, I just didn't want to assume stuff and get heartbroken if it wasn't true.

-Well it is true, so you don't need to worry anymore. I really like you too, y/n. And I've wanted to say it for a while too, I was just wondering if it was a good idea since you work with us, but I can't contain my feelings anyways... you always treat me so softly and you look after the kids really well... It just feels like you were made to be by my side, you're the embodiment of the person I've always dreamed to be with, and these past few days with the kids and you... it just felt like we were the perfect family you know? I don't think I could be without you by my side anymore... - he stops, he's been staring at your eyes the whole time and now they're starting to water.

How could you not cry when he's saying the things you thought you'd only ever hear in dreams?

- Why are you crying sweetheart? - he whispered, as he wipes a tear with his thumb, the other hand holding your hand as he stands closer every second.

- It's just... I'm so... happy - you smile through your tears - I'm so happy to hear that, you said it in such a beautiful way too... I feel exactly the same, it's like I've gained a family with you guys but you... I've grown really attached to you, feels like some parts of you are tangled in my heart in ways I couldn't tear apart if I wanted to... I'm drawn to you and when I'm with you it's comfortable, blissful, it's right. You're so good to me, it's unbelievable, but it's true, and it warms my heart. - you say as your foreheads touch and your smile grows, his eyes showing so much adoration for you, you could melt.

Suddenly you share your first kiss together, a soft yet passionate mix of sensations, and it felt like everything you ever felt around Chan but better.

You stare into each other's eyes, smiling like the little lovely goofballs you both were, noses touching, ocasional little pecks filled with giggles because you were whipped for each other.

- So this means we're exclusive lovers now, yeah? - he asks with a blushing face, a very silent giggle and a huge, uncontrollable smile.

- Definitely, yeah - you answer biting your lip until eventually you let out the largest smile you ever had.

Needless to say, you didn't leave that balcony to go to sleep that evening. In fact, you two watched the sunrise kissing and cuddling, talking about the feelings you had for each other, when they started, why you liked each other, covered by a blanket, not wanting to let go of each other now that you were openly romantic.

Han found you both sound asleep, you on chan's lap, head on his neck as his arms wrapped around you gently, on a chair in the middle of the morning. He obviously called all the members to watch you two as they assumed you two finally got together. All of them saw it coming, Chan wouldn't shut up about you and had written what could be an entire album about you.

They were happy at least you'd be around more often to cook your delicious food. And you both blushed really hard once you woke up to lot's of teasing from the kids, it was fine tho, you liked it just like this, it was home.

[dreamiesdotcom]

insomnia | h.rj

Summary: He thinks of it — eyes that look at thunderstorms in awe, hands hurriedly writing down words to describe it. Renjun can't sleep.

Word Count: 1.2k

Renjun can't sleep.

"What's so scary about being friends with me?" He remember himself asking, "What's so sca—"

You closed your book, sighing loudly as you took one glance at his face. You smiled at him sweetly, eyes glinting with something completely different. It's not a sight he's used to — you were pretty, sure, but you always looked serious, and you always looked void of emotions, but this one is too... rawly human. No masks, just skin — fragile, fragile skin, cold to the touch as if protecting itself from the world.

Renjun tried to not look as anxious as he felt — "What's so scary about having friends?"

You smiled.

"Loss."

Renjun doesn't think he's ever saw someone as lonely.

Very similar to now, he couldn't sleep that night too. He kept on wondering, he kept on dreaming awake; it's raining outside. He looked at you and knew you loved thunderstorms, and now he can't sleep through its calm; lovesick fool he was, he kept thinking of you.

"I—" a soft sigh, "I'm sorry. For brushing you off."

Renjun looked at where your hands grip at his wrist, shocked. He then laughed, "It's... it's alright. I shouldn't have been pushy."

"Take this, anyway," you said, handing him some of his favorite candy. "You were being nice. I... sorry."

Renjun never knew the reason you looked miserable that day, and he never asked.

To him, you are the brightest star — beautiful and distant, never at your reach but he wants you anyway. Harsh and tragic but very beautiful. You shined so bright it remained in his eyes.

The curtain swayed with the wind and change has come. Renjun finds growing up with you bittersweet — each and every day, this feeling in his chest remains stubborn and curious. He looks at you and everything around him doesn't exist, his chest seemingly a cage for a bird thirsting free flight. Change has come, and it came with fleeting butterflies and sweeter smiles.

It felt like being in love — not like he knew what it was, but he thought at that time, this must be what falling in love is.

Renjun hated every bit of it. He found you lovely — he didn't want to fall in love with you because oh, you're sweet. And you're haunting. You're devastatingly too good to be true, and once he fell in love with you, how can he even stop falling?

Renjun thinks that it's when you were standing under trees of autumn and they start falling in a way that could only be seen in ethereal dreams, when the sun rays seep through the auburn leaves and the wind blows ever so gently, making every movable thing dance, alongside same hearts — it's when it hits you.

That's when it hit him, at least. He remembers focusing his lens at the view in front of him and smiling a little, the perfect angle, and the perfect time; Renjun realizes that it's love, romantic more than anything else, that he feels when you smiled and turned to the camera.

"Renjun!" You squealed then, making him laugh. "I look bad!"

"No," he said softly. "You look beautiful."

Beautiful and scary, scary because loving you is an endless maze. Beautiful and terror. Beautiful and lonely. Tragic. Warm. Renjun didn't realize how much he wanted to hold you up until Lee Jeno's birthday party, the both of you swallowed by the high of winning a game that he ends up hugging you. He ends up kissing you.

You kissed him back, so he didn't think of it that much — but now, now that he knows... he thinks he should've been.

Once you step down from the euphoria, you pushed him away and ran outside.

He looked at you with pleading eyes, "Did I cross the line?"

He remembers kissing you. It was wonderful and saccharine, melancholic, confused. You felt as confused as you look with tears in both eyes.

"There —" you whispered weakly, "There is no line."

"There has to be," Renjun whispers with equal strength. The ground seems to sway and the next thing he knows, you're walking away.

You didn't talk to each other for at least two weeks. He found himself weak at the thought of you forgetting him. He found himself sorry for the things he did, but mostly he found himself regretful for the things he did not — he should've told you to stay, should've apologized, should've told you he loves you.

You call him on Friday. Renjun rushes to your home.

"Pizza sucks without you," you stated, a slight chuckle in your voice. The atmosphere remains as cold as it had been

"You mean it?"

"Of course I don't, pizza always tastes great," you even raise both slices slightly, "but yeah, I missed you."

"You... You're not mad I kissed you?"

"I... I needed time to stop. Stop being mad at you. For not telling me," it's fleeting, but you smiled, "I love you, and you hold me, and you won't let me go now, alright? I wi—"

Renjun does this one thing right — he kisses you again, and this time you don't push him away. Tonight, you let him stay. The butterflies in his stomach rise again, flying in some twisted fashion.

He couldn't fall asleep that night, too. Finally. He finally told you he loved you, and you love him back. The stars finally aligned, and for a moment, fate took his side.

Cuddled on the couch was a tangled mess of complicated roots and blossoming flowers — one, having been raised in a family that lived in a house that was never a home, another who nobody seemed to be able to look at the eyes of every year since six. An unlikely match of mismatches, misfits, ruined pasts, and bright futures. This is safe — it is safe, it's warm, feels oddly contented for two broken wholes connecting and meeting with seemingly the sole purpose of loving, of complementing, of being the courage needed to fix oneself — with each other. It was fate.

It was fate — it had to be.

"Love," you whispered. "I can't let you go,"

Please don't, he wanted to say, but instead, he asks: "Why would you want to let go of me?"

"I can't make you as happy as you were before I happened," you tried to cheekily smile, "I can't make you happy enough, and I can't let you go either."

"Don't," he whispered, and he didn't know what he meant, but it was genuine. "Don't let me go."

You looked at him with such bright eyes, innocent and charming and breaking his heart. It felt like first love, like falling once again. He gets that sinking feeling in his stomach, his heart beating erratically. He remembers how he hugged you close enough that you forget how it is to hate yourself.

And now, all he wants is to do that again.

He can't.

You two broke up months ago.

[katsukisbeatingheart]

adolebitque manet

breakups suck. and sometimes you just need to burn your ex's shit.

word count: 2573

ao3!

Ridiculous piece of crap.

You yanked the chain.

Pathetic promises.

You tore the letter.

And a long dead rose.

The stem twirled between your fingertips, and you didn't even flinch when a thorn along the spine left a gash in your index finger.

Typical.

It was however, enough for you to breathe deeply, and exhale—more over the case of everything they used to be.

Cheat.

Cheat. Cheat. Cheat. Cheat.

Liar.

Your bloody finger found the wasted tears before you did. Poetic, how they mixed and dripped over the broken pieces in front of you. A blood oath to break another blood oath.

How many years had you supported such a beguiling—bewitching feeling? All for naught, only to ruin by such a simple measure.

It wasn't simple though. It was so complicated, it was simple; and it was so simple, it was complicated.

You sneered at the contradiction of such a fact, of such a relationship.

You'd look back on this—hopefully in months time—and laugh at yourself for the dramatic wreck you came to be. Over one person.

One person, who had meant so much to you for so many years.

It had taken you weeks to even think about believing everything you saw to be true. It took another few to agonizingly collect each and every bit of each other, and begin destroying them.

You had strong encouragement from those closest to you, and they were very patient and kind with your struggling heart. Despite your best attempts to recoil, and pay for something you realized only you were probably invested in—they wouldn't let you.

Now here you were, in the middle of your apartment, ready to gather these things up and eviscerate them; but you couldn't do it alone.

The cardboard was flimsy, but it did the job. Sturdy enough to carry the weight of such useless trinkets with heavy price, you dumped and swept in each tiny, bloody bit as roughly as you could—quickly apologizing to the box, a reminder that it wasn't to blame.

You ghosted to your door, moving in a hollow effort to dispose of their evidence.

Softly cracking the door open and angling to look out into the hallway, you peered at your neighbor's doors; ears open, eyes wide for any sign of life.

Mina, Shoji, Tokoyami, Shinso, Izuku—

Your eyes flicked up.

Kirishima, Sero, and Denki are upstairs...

You had a wonderful, wonderful support system. The friends that lived in the same building, and the ones across town—but the more you sifted through your options, the more you couldn't bring yourself to bother any of them with this. No matter how small a request.

With the umpteenth sigh of the evening, your head lolled backward. Your eyes slid closed and your fingers rubbed at the ache settled in your neck. You peeked out of the corner of your eye, glancing down the right side of the hall.

There was only one more door facing opposite yours—at a diag to the fire escape window at the end of the hall, and you.

It was impulsive, and despite everything—your best option.

The two meter walk in your cement shoes felt like pouring a jar of molasses on a winter's day. Gathering courage to actually knock felt like pouring two jars of molasses on a winter's day.

It was inevitable, you decided—especially if he opened the door to step out only to find you standing there petrified in your own grief and nerves—and two gentle taps and a third slightly harsher, more desperate rap later, crimson red eyes glowered at you in annoyance.

"Oi. Do you know what fuckin' time it i—"

His abrasiveness grated to a humbling halt in the face of a wholy distraught you. He wasn't one to gossip, or even to put any stock into useless chatter of the sort; but even he knew you were keeping life together by pins and needles. And he didn't even need to have Ashido as a neighbor to know that, because he was looking at the tangled disaster right now.

Your shoulders shook, and the barely kept together bite of your lip with vacant eyes told him he needed to close his mouth and keep it that way.

He was generally coarse, brusque, and blunt—not stupid or blind.

You steeled your regard, holding a determined glint in your eye and a placating plead beneath it.

"Bakugo I need you to do me a favor."

"What is it."

"Burn this for me."

You held the box out between the two of you, handling it with a nauseating combination of disdain and care. Bakugo quickly brushed through the contents with a quickly baleful sweep of his eyes, and you were too numb to bother wondering why the hostility. It was enough you were baring such personal trinkets—yet thoroughly clichéd banalities—to someone of his caliber. You parts trusted him to suggest a certain modicum of consideration, and tiny parts trusted yourself to be too beaten down to care otherwise.

The regret at such irresolution toward your longtime neighbor and friend, ebbed away as he looked back up to you with a certain fire in his eyes. It warmed you abruptly in ways you didn't understand at all.

Bakugo jerked his head to the side, his body following along with it as he stepped aside to invite you in. You said nothing, catching your breath in a purposeful stride, ducking past his shoulder. You strode in confidently, but faltered not far from the doormat when you noticed how long it had been since you'd been there.

The lights were off, and the far wall—ceiling to floor sliding glass doors up one step, leading to a balcony looking over the other part of the city night lights—bled with the light of the moon, illuminating a living space shaped like yours, but not at all how you remembered it being from however long ago.

There were new pieces of furniture rearranged in a way that suggested the man was open to having guests—mostly Eijiro, Denki, Sero, and Mina, you figured. Matte black couch cushions, with silver finishings along the frame; a dark wooden circular dining table in front of the bar attached to the kitchen, right by the glass doors—a rather romantic placement, especially for him, you marvelled; deep brown cabinets with lighter hardwood doors, occupying the back right hand corner where the kitchen was.

You turned to glance at the potted plant and admired how generally... homey the place felt. Either Bakugo had been invaded by a homes and gardens magazine, or he had grown quite the honeyed eye.

Your admiration melted into remorse, quicker than the fondness came. You couldn't even remember how long it had been since you'd visited.

In hindsight, you immediately knew it was because you'd spent all of your time with...

I must've been a real shitty friend.

"What was that?"

His questions were coming out more as gruff statements, any inquisitiveness overrode by the demand for an answer. It almost made you smile, before, again, you remembered why you'd missed that so much.

You didn't even know you'd spoken aloud, and were too tired to avoid it now.

"I must've been terrible to you," you whispered.

You felt the air grow stale with awkward tension. Bakugo raised a hand to run through his hair, stopping at the base of his neck. He didn't know what to say.

But you did.

"I'm so sorry, Katsuki," you breathed. "I'm so sorry—I feel like I completely neglected you, and I'm only realizing this now, after I've come to you when I need something and I can't believe it's taken me this long to—to see that. You must feel so— so—"

Used. Ignored.

Cheated.

You clenched your fists, squeezing your eyes shut in suffocating reproach.

You turned to face him head on. You were going to deal with this with dignity—completely ready for the growling consequences and the scorching anger.

The thundering shouting.

Biting rejection.

Unadulterated hatred.

None of that came. Instead, Bakugo's eyes reflected with an intense sheen of pain—as if everything you left unsaid came swinging back to him in full force. Like he'd been repressing those exact accusations the entire time.

You wanted to scream. You wanted him to scream. You wanted somebody to scream.

It wasn't a scream, but his voice was indomitable enough to be.

"Let's fucking burn this thing."

Glass shattered, the dam broke, and you moaned once—exhaling a jagged breath of relief, anguish, and extreme adoration. The tears poured and you shoved them away with the palms of your hand, laughing and crying with a silent nod. Bakugo roughly pulled the box from your hands, stalking briskly toward the glass doors. He slammed them open, and you heard them rattle. You weren't afraid, though. He wasn't mad at you.

He dropped the container on the concrete floor with a harsh bang, and you didn't miss the crack of a frame breaking with a picture of you and them. You doubt he did either.

Bakugo held out his right hand—fingers down, palm up—to the box. You watched him with something in your heart, as he ignited. It was piercing, and brought back memories of special moves you worked on in high school. You'd seen him nearly blow his arm off trying to get this kind of precision, and now you'd see him on T.V., using it for hero work as if he'd been doing it since the day he was born. You remembered gushing about how amazing he was, every single time he managed to do something new.

Yes, Bakugo had used this move to best and save many people.

In an instant, flames shot straight for the box, and suddenly you were engulfed in light. Just like fireworks, the contents popped and crackled, and just like fireworks, you were completely mesmerized. The light from your little conflagration poured warmth over everything you could feel. You were positively glowing.

You bit back tears that no longer needed to be spent on the likes of them. You were the one who wasted away in the company of someone who never really cared about you.

Since then, you'd forgotten about the ones that really and truly did.

You looked to Bakugo, watching the shadows dance menacingly across his face. The ferocity, and damn near animalistic malice singed more than the fire he made did. Your eyes widened in surprise.

As if he felt you staring, he turned.

Fully.

Fully facing you with much softer eyes and an expression you knew that came from being a hero.

It was as if to say you're safe now.

You choked and let more tears fall, feeling a combination of cold and searing in light of the fire.

"Katsuki," you whispered.

For the first time in your life, you watched him hesitate. He stepped forward, looking so vulnerable as he tried to grasp for words. The space between you came to about a hand's length, and the heavy rise and fall of his chest vibrated along your skin. Bakugo's eyes clouded, and your mouth went dry with that feeling again.

"Marshmallows."

You blinked.

"...What?" You weren't sure you heard him right.

"Here," he began, taking your hand in his as he turned around and led you back inside. Bakugo didn't let go, until he set you at one of the barstools, to move past and dig through one of his upper cabinets. After a moment of shuffling, he pulled away to reveal a family sized bag of puffy white marshmallows, and a big bar of chocolate. He tossed the bag of sweets towards you, his mouth quirking into a little smirk.

The warmth you'd been feeling more and more since you'd got here exploded in your chest, and you felt it rise to your cheeks.

"And don't think I forgot—" Bakugo bent down and pulled open a bottom drawer. He fished something out that crinkled and reflected small bits of light, and smacked it on the bar countertop, right in front of you.

The childish squeal burst out before you could think.

"Cookies!"

Bakugo rolled his eyes and desperately tried to bury his bliss beneath an annoyed click of his tongue. He really missed you.

"What a fucking dork," he mumbled not-so-quietly under his breath. He could hide it all he wanted but you caught the smile in his voice anyway.

Bakugo's eyes glazed as he watched you giggle, and he—almost tentatively—grasped your hand again, uncharacteristic gentleness as he pulled you back outside.

You stared dazedly at yours in his—but mostly his—and wondered why the sudden touchiness.

In all honestly, Bakugo couldn't figure himself; but when he did pin the feeling—he might've just been scared to see you go again.

He handed you the collection of sweets, going to bring out chairs to sit on. You touched his shoulder and shook your head, grabbing a blanket you noticed stretched out along the balcony fence. You flicked it outward, laying it as close as possible to the fire—setting the chocolate, marshmallows, and cookies in the middle.

Looking up to meet his eyes, you patted the spot next to you. For the first time—in a long time—you watched Katsuki's cheeks flush. No matter how badly you wanted to be the one to do that to him, you convinced yourself that it was nothing but the cold of the night or the heat of the flames.

The boy dropped down beside you, holding out a skewer without making eye contact.

As a pair, you silently worked marshmallows onto the sticks, and held them over the fragments of your burning relationship.

"Hope we don't get poisoned or something, doing this," you broke the silence wryly, eyeing the disfigured picture frame and the horribly burnt photo inside of it.

"Not a bad way to go, really." Katsuki too, was looking at the fire, and you did your best to not linger on the implications behind that statement.

"Death by marshmallows," you tapped your chin thoughtfully, "I'll take it."

"That's not what I meant."

You looked away from your toasting sweet, and studied him with dinner-plate eyes. The curiosity and... desire, you figured, smoldered, and you were sure he stared back with intensity rivalling yours. The silence—besides the crackling of fire and melting of sour memories—pressed down on you and you were positive you could fall into him, and get lost and it would be okay—

"You're gonna burn your s'mores, dumbass," Katsuki whispered. You were sitting shoulder to shoulder. He smelled sweet.

The smile climbing its way to your face settled in under a slightly disbelieving laugh.

"Right."

Knees hugged to your chest, you drifted not too far from him, and focused on the flames.

"Hey, Katsuki?"

"Yeah?"

Inhaling with more than enough steadiness to still the ocean, you sighed, feeling more weightless than you'd felt in the last two months.

"Thank you."

With every second that burned by, you felt a sort of resolve subside and thicken—less like the cast iron chains that held you back hours and months ago, and more like a promise.

To yourself.

To him.

Bakugo Katsuki shrugged, and as he did so he moved the tiniest bit closer. His voice was quiet when he spoke.

"I'm just glad you're back."

[popculturebuffet]

So, you feel bad that the Skydance Animation employee Disney veterans like Brad Bird (various Pixar films), Rich Moore (various WDAS films), Nathan Greno (various WDAS films), Bobs Ganaway (various DTVA shows), Shane Prigmore (co-creator of Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure), and Matt Youngberg (co-creator of DuckTales 2017) are working for a scumbag like John Lasseter?

I did not know that and while most of those names mean nothing to me, Bird and YOungberg working there saddens me. It COULD be more complicated than it seems, as with the way studios work, contracts and all that, the two MAY just not be able to quit. The reason i'm cautious on it POSSIBLY being that instead of taking two creative men who by all accounts have treated their employee's well on good faith.. is that i've been burned before. Brad Jones of the Cinema Snob Fame was one of my faviorite internet creators and someone I looked up to and was directly inspired from in my work.. and I thought him standing by Doug "The Nostlgia Critic" Walker when the allegations came out against him (for those unaware they included turning a blind eye to his finacial guy Michael Michad abusing employees, making everything about himself, having to be talked down from making a scene analogus to rape as a joke, and who didn't bother to tell ANY of his employees/fellow contributers that Justin Carmicheal was a sexual abuser (Not making it public was because at the time the person he groomed and abused didn't), so they mourned him and did tributes to him. ) was just a "oh he'll leave eventually thing' nad not betraying pretty much every other friend he has as a strikebreaker and selfish asshole.

With Matt i'm willing to give some doubt, as while he works there, he has also been critical of Lassiter and outright takes joy in the fact he's taken a real beating in the press, as I found in some tweets I discovered when looking this up to see if he'd said anything. So I think he's there under duress, but given that was when Lassiter was first hired, it coudl've changed, but i'm going with he had no choice for now as unlike the aformentioned incident, I do have SOME proof it might not be voluntary, just not enough to swing one way

Bird on the other hand.. when I looked it up he outright said "I'm so proud to be working with John lassiter" so yeah.. while I love the incredibles, the iron giant and mission impossible ghost protocol, and I STILL feel he could just be saying it for the press release thing, I have far more doubts that Brad Bird is trapped. he signed on LONG after he knew who was running the animation department.

With these guys it's hard to tell who knew what they signed up for and who is stuck with this prick. it's a matter> What IS fucking disturbing is the hollywood reporter article on the matter, where the guy who hired lasseter claimed the investigations turned up no formal complaints or payoffs

Yeah of course you didn't find anything from THE BIGGEST COMPANY IN THE WORLD. While shit no doubt happened, Disney likely wouldn't make it easy for a PI or anyone to dig up the shit they've done. It's Disney. While they can't walk two feet sometimes without falling into a manhole filled with alligators who are also sharks, sharkagators if you will, their a trillion dollar company and far from the first or the last to succesfully cover up a culture of abuse.

IT also feels like no one's really TALKING about the abuse anymore, which is an ugly trend i've found happens a lot. Now if the person was cleared of charges in a way that's clearly not just some technicality or statue of limitations, I get it, like Jim Cummings whose ex faked abuse charges to try and win an ugly custody battle. But here Lassiter clearly groped and harassed employees, gave a half hearted apology about it that said his intetions were "Misconstrued" and then is trying to act like nothing happened. I'm fine if someone can atone and move on from shitty behavior, i've done so myself. But he was a man in a position of power using it to get away with things, and I don't buy any of this.

And I have seen someone geninely apologize for abuse: Dan Harmon harassed an employee on community, turns out that's why he was fired, and when said employee came forward.. he backed the claims, didn't remotely try defending himself, At most saying he was going through some stuff but admitting that was no excuse, trying not to steal her moment and only commenting to geninely apologize, something she didn't really fully accept but did at least acknowledge he was trying to do the right thing. That's how you make up for your actions. Not trying everything to SEEM contrite just so you can get back to making money hand over fist and it's annoying NO ONE seems to give a shit about what he's done. There's a diffrence between LEARNING from being an asshole and clearl not having learned a thing and just playing pretend.