#I did some messy things admittedly and I wish I could have done better but we never really talked about it and stayed friends for years aft

[honeysuckledreams]

That situation was also so weird. More under the cut because I am listening to my OC's playlist (which is fun and phenominal and it sucks that it is connected to the loss of an important relationship) and I'm in a sentimental mood.

I am usually the one to reach out and coordinate with my friends, (a skill I developed since a lot of people are bad at reaching out), which I genuinely don't mind at all! But with this friend, I noticed that when I reached out it wasn't really reciprocated? Like my texts would be ignored (even if they were heartfelt or asked about them) and my discord messages responded with nice, but closed messages, with no elaboration or invitation.

We only talked on the phone after I directly asked via discord and we set up a call. It was nice to catch up, and I am glad we at least got that much closure. I talked a little about how I had been feeling, and they clearly felt bad about it and reassured me. But they said that text was in fact their preferred communication, and they just stopped responding again. Like in the middle of our conversation about how I don't want them to only talk to me out of guilt or obligation, I want them to only talk with me if they really want to.

I took the hint, and stopped reaching out after that. I feel a bit embarrassed about how long it took me to read between the lines, but it was confusing because when asked they verbally reassured me. I sobbed for literally a week straight after our phone call and subsequent texting because I knew it was over, but I wanted to believe them so badly.

It was interesting to understand why some people have a hard time reaching out to friends though. It would suck if multiple of your friends acted like that. Especially since I had to cleanly read their behavior instead of their words, which is hard to do if you are anxious, have low-self esteem, or are emotionally attached, since all of those tend to distorts interpretations. But it is also hard to tell a friend you used to love that you don't want to be friends or talk anymore :/ So I don't blame them. I just miss them and I still love them and I wish they were apart of my life. But they seem really happy with their partner (who I also know and genuinely really like) so it seems like they are doing well. It's hard to find the space for everything you want in your life, so I can't really blame them for not having space for me, even if it makes me sad sometimes. And who knows! Maybe they will reach out in a few years and I'll talk to them. That doesn't feel true to me, but there is always a chance.

Anyway, I am going to cut myself off there. It is challenging for me to let go of people I love, but I am proud of myself for reading this situation and letting them go without forcing them into a dramatic confrontation. So that is cool.

[spacecasette]

Bolt the Horse — c h a p t e r o n e

@madsmilfelsen for u my angel ♡

In the summer of 2011, she wore her hair in two braids down her back, and spent a not insignificant amount of time on barstools. The air was humid as a clenched fist and humming, so the most she could do to alleviate it was with a Miller High Life in hand, shorts admittedly a touch too short for lookin', and nothing better than trouble to get done. It was in this way she found herself in a bar without a ride home in the pouring September rain.

She was not, in her 25th year, looking for any kind of trouble she could not feasibly get into on her own. She felt as if she could do enough of the fucking up by herself, thank you kindly, and did not take well to anyone who didn't seem like they could handle that.

Rust Cohle, as it turns out, could kind of handle it. At least, she notices, he can handle most things– the exceptions being exceptional humidity and obvious displays of misplaced hubris. They watch each other often; her slyly from atop her barstool, and him openly from wherever he stood behind the bar. It seemed like a lot of the time he could hardly stomach her sitting close to him at all, even when they were across the room. Once, when she was admittedly a little too drunk for a girl who was meant to be in charge of herself, she dropped a shot glass and nearly fell from her perch trying to retrieve the shattered pieces. She looked up to find his stare already fixed on her, whites showing in his eyes like a frightened dog. He was by her side in an instant, batting her hands away and calling her a "messy little thing", which she would have found insulting, if it weren't a little too accurate. But then he checked her palms for cuts and held his hand between the bar and her head when she got up, so she couldn't be too sure he didn't just feel bad for her. She would take it though, either way it was offered. She would never tell him to his face, but she was getting lonely out at her grandparents' house with only the coyotes for company. She liked too much being around to ever tell him to quit barking at her or rolling his eyes when she asked for a pen to do her crosswords with.

It's a Saturday night the first time she loses her grip. Condensed down to one or fifteen seconds, when she laughs loud at something another regular has said. At the sound of air pressed forcefully through Rust's nose in a poor imitation of a laugh, she looks up at him. Her glassy, liquor-slicked eyes, pupils big as the fuckin' moon, begging and begging with no end in sight. Her gaze darting over his face like she can't quite decide where best to fix it– and goddammit if that doesn't just tear him all up inside.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, girl?" He asks, and another of those half-not-laughs falls out.

"Dunno, Rust, wanna find out over dinner sometime?" she fires it back so quick it leaves him a little stunned, a fish whacked out of water. In lieu of a reply, he slides her beer away from her and sets a glass of water down in its place, though she pouts prolifically when he does.

"Prob'ly better if you get on home, little doggy, " he says, soft and condescending even with a corner of his mouth turned up the way it is.

"'M not little anymore, Rust, fuck's sake," she mumbles, taciturn and petulant even this deep in her drink.

"Go get some air, girl, I'll be out quick to drive you home," he tells her, casual like he didn't already know she'd been hoping and wishing for it all night, "and don't go pitching a fit about it. 'S fuckin' pourin' out there and you'd drown yourself in a thimble of rain if I don't."

The screen door in front slams quickly, and will catch you in the back of the head if you're not quick about getting in before it. Dani doesn't tell him this because she is very busy with falling over the threshold in a fit of giggles, bride to her own amusement at Rust having to shuffle her in like someone's feeble old grandma. He is rather short of patience at this hour, and she can feel herself dancing over top his last nerve, but she finds it honestly pretty funny so she makes a lot of stupid faces and asks twice if he'll tuck her in. She's not been sleeping in a bed in the house because they all make her feel a little too sad lately, so she makes a bee line for the couch in the center of the front room, like a rock face she's dead set to crashing on. Rust lets her fall into it– helps her, even, letting loose his grip on her arms to let her splay onto the cushions and roll her ruddy cheek down deep in the throw pillow. Her hair stuck to her face and her breathing slightly shallow, his fingers itch with the desire to check her pulse, to fret over her. Instead he keeps his hands to himself and watches, impassive, as she makes a valiant attempt at rucking her shorts down over her knees to kick them off, making no effort to help. His watching feels like something else, she thinks sluggishly, like a hot lick of fever climbing down her spine and sticking there as a burr would. When she notices him staring, she offers up her dopiest, softest smile, and slurs

"Rust. If you're gonna stand there all night, I won't stop you but first could you go grab me some sleep shorts out of the chester draws? First door on the left at the top of the stairs," she swallows, thick as honeyed night, "please."

The wiry automaton of his body clicks into action: mouth softly closing, limbs lurching into their movement, all economy and surprise.

He returns with her gray shorts, ratty things with the elastic long gone to dust, and sets them down on the coffee table. He turns around, all precious and respectful now that they're alone, and lets her put them on.

When he hears her settle and finally turns around, it's to find her already asleep, her cheeks flushed and limbs spread across the sofa like a child exhausted from the heat.

Sunday morning, she awoke neatly tucked under an afghan with a glass jar of water and two ibuprofen on the coffee table in front of her. Looking at the clock above the door, cogs clicking in the dim apartment of her skull, she realized with quite a start that if she wasn't dressed and ready in exactly 7 minutes, she was going to be rather unfashionably late for Sunday service.

Imagining the looks of misplaced pity from the faces of grandmothers and their daughters and their daughters' daughters was enough to light a decent fire under her ass. She dressed quickly, brushed her sticky teeth to rid them of the scent of stale beer and Black Velvet and was out the door toward the truck with 30 seconds to spare. Her hair, regrettably, was a mouse nest when she checked it in the rearview.

On the drive in, she remembered vaguely that Rust had brought her home late last night but had not, thankfully, stuck around quite long enough for her to embarrass herself any further than she had expected to. She had come to know herself when drinking anything harder than a Shirley temple to be rather childish, with an attitude and a neediness about her to rival some mothers' babies. She could be a sore loser when Robert would walk her like a dog in Rummy, and would play too many Mel Carter songs in a row on the jukebox. This last behavior never failed to put a very unreadable look on Rust's face, like she was leading herself to the gallows & he knew it. There was nothing to be done about her nature now, she supposed, except to apologize to whomever had to suffer it. Used to be her grandparents would correct her, sometimes sternly, but she could always weasel her way out of trouble if she put on the right pair of puppy eyes– now there was no one to set her straight over their knee and make her see sense.

Service was a fine, if a little lengthy, affair with a lot of the old biddies fanning themselves in the heat and cooing over her bruised up knees. She explained (falsely) that she had been moving some of Papa's things back in from the shed, and, arms full, had tripped up the porch steps. Feeling a little poorly about lying in church, she reasoned that telling them she'd come home drunk and tripped over her own threshold would have been inappropriate pew chatter, so it was okay for her to bend the truth into a sweeter shape once in a while.

Leaving church, she decided to stop by Hank's for groceries– mostly because she wanted something to make her feel productive, though she knew she was bound to spend her afternoon (and likely evening) walking around in the creek and reading on the porch. She was clear out of bread, and running dangerously low on the honey cereal she'd taken a liking to. Eggs, she knew, she could trade a neighbor for, so she treated herself to an orange dreamsicle in their place. When she was younger, and Mammy would take her here, she never said no to books or puzzles, but could always deny her granddaughter candy or toys. Now, it seemed, Dani had more books than she could reasonably read in years, and was of the mind that denying herself pleasure of this kind was a punishment she had not earned.

In the breakfast aisle, a feeling not dissimilar to a flight response catches her by the tail of her hair and will not let her go. She moseys slow like, taking her time to draw him out, entertaining herself with all the little barbs she might stick him with. Things like "you followin' me, mister?" or "funny meetin' you here, I thought you lived off coffee, cigarettes, and switch grass." But she didn't really have anything too smart to say when he finally sidled up next to her while she was fretting over cereal.

Her eyes darted to his hands, slung under the weight of the blue basket in his grip– sinewy, calloused– and then up to his shirt collar, chin, face, then eyes. She had to take it in little leaps else she'd get shy and find a way to leave before she'd said her piece.

"'M sorry you had to see me home last night. Didn't mean to get ornery, so. It won't happen again." It's soft, coming out her mouth, like they were the only people in the room.

"'S alright, just seems like someone oughta look after you once in a while," he says, just as quiet, as if talking to himself. The hum of the lights gets a little too loud and she can't quite think all the way, so her words come out rushed,

"How come you don't go to church?"

"I don't really fuss about with god." This surprises her, for some reason. She felt she knew his way, a little, how he looked at everything through the lens of dutiful futility. It stands to reason he wouldn't really bother with something so nebulous and unfixed, but for all she knows he's a thing flung straight down from outer space so she doesn't follow the thought too far.

"Well, me neither, except I like the singing, and Mammy always made me go. Just seems like the thing to do, I guess. Don't you got a thing you do? Just 'cause you feel like you're supposed to?"

"Unfortunately, sweetheart, everything I do is 'cause I'm supposed to."

Then they don't talk, for what feels like a whole winter but is really only a minute. She finds her prize on the shelf and quickly puts it in her basket, looking at her shoes until she finds the nerve to speak again,

"I'm trying to be your friend, Rust. Are you gonna let me, or are you gonna keep up this whole 'mysterious old man with a vendetta against fun' thing?"

He chuckles at that, but doesn't exactly answer.

"Look, I'm gonna be gone a while. Not long, should be back towards the middle of the week, but I want you to stay home. I mean that. Don't come by the bar, don't go anywhere I wouldn't know to find you, okay? You stay outta trouble and we'll talk about being friends when I get back."

She rolls her eyes at the implication that she couldn't handle life and its spinning without him herding her about.

"Fine. But when you get back, you owe me a beer and a game of rummy. And you can't pawn me off on Bob, either, I'm starting to think it's personal."

"Deal." They shake hands, and he's gone. When she finally quits looking down at her hand where he held it, she grabs her milk and butter, pays the kid at the till, and heads home.

Dani knows, for the most part, how to behave. She spent so long having so little reason to lash out that the muscle memory of trouble making had practically atrophied by the time she turned 19. She spends her first day at home reorganizing the bookshelves in the living room by genre, which eats up a good 3 hours after breakfast and fills her with a terribly pleased feeling to boot. By then, she's ready for a simple lunch of a ham and cheese sandwich with an entire sleeve of tollhouse crackers, which she eats on the porch with a can of pepsi beside her. The cicadas do their screeching song all day, and when she wanders out into the yard, she finds one of their molts clung to the trunk of a live oak. Papa's voice floats into her head, and she is thrown face-first into a memory of them gathered in the kitchen one early morning, heads bowed in little prayer to examine the bugs and moths he'd pinned to a paper towel on the counter. He'd told her about the dog day cicadas, how they sleep for 7 years and come alive to feed, breed, scream, and die. He'd pointed out the luna moth, its wings frayed and flaked where he'd handled it with a little carelessness. It had looked so graceful and serene, laying with its wings fanned and pinned apart with mammy's pearl-headed sewing pins. She remembers the sadness she'd felt when he had told her they lacked mouths, and existed only by the grace of whatever nutrients they'd ingested as caterpillars. She felt a bit like that now, catapulted into life without them in the span of a year, and with no way to cherish them except in reverse. Reduced to a thing that wanted, with no way of asking.

Dani spent the rest of the first day ambling through the trees looking for bugs and leaves and interesting bits she might save to keep the memory of summer alive when the rain came and the sun stayed away longer. At night, she ate buttered noodles and pinned her findings in a shadowbox she'd gutted, hunched over the kitchen table tweezing antennae and legs into place. When she felt herself growing sleepy, she walked the few paces to the sofa, and fell onto it with all the grace of a foal in its first hours. She dreamt that night that she'd forgotten her name, and was standing in the middle of her empty high school.

The second day passed much differently– the hours stretched their long fingers out toward the sun and took their dandy time to pass. She was restless, and it was hot, and she felt a searching inside her that could not be sated by any of the near dozen books she tried out. By 1pm she was packing a small lunch (ham and cheese again, with the last sleeve of crackers) and walking back through the trees behind the house to the creek. Toeing off her shoes and slipping off her dress, she slipped down into that cool, murky wet. She floated on her back in the middle a while, watching the canopy shiver apart to let the sunlight through in lacelike patterns on the surface of the water. Eventually, she uprighted herself and walked along the bank looking for a salamander or a frog, something alive she might find companionship with. It ended up being fruitless, which ratcheted up that irritable itch and culminated in a single misstep over an algae-slicked stone and sent her straight down backward onto her ass. Her eyes welling with frustrated tears, she laid there stunned with her tailbone throbbing something fierce for a good ten minutes. When her self pity ran dry and she remembered she was the only one around who could kiss it better, she gathered up the lunch she'd neglected to eat and went straight back to the house for a hot shower, or perhaps a nap on the sofa.

She woke around 6pm with all her bones feeling fused together at the joints, and a small puddle of drool on the throw pillow beneath her cheek. It was with a sense of delirious urgency that she climbed from her makeshift bed and upstairs to the bathroom, and upon flicking the light, noticed her hair had dried down in such a horrendous tangle she sat down on the floor and started to cry. She cried because she missed her Mammy and her Papa, because her body hurt, and because she was struck with the painfully sudden and obvious realization that she really was on her own now. She cried because she felt stupid, and small, and rather lonely here in this house she loved but felt guilty being in for some reason.

Eventually, the tide of her sobbing had slowed and she crawled over to the drawer to fish out her hairbrush, and set about making sense of the nest that had settled on her head. When it was done, and with great effort at that, she turned on the shower as boiling hot as it would go, and sat herself down to spend the better part of half an hour feeling put out and morose before she even picked up the shampoo. It was a quick affair after that, as she didn't really love having pruny fingers.

The boredom reaches a fever pitch around 10:30, untempered by two failed attempts at knitting and one batch of lemon muffins. Everything Dani has done in the last fourteen hours to restore a sense of normalcy has come spitting furiously back into her face, and she really truly feels like something in her is fixing to hatch. It's beginning to feel like an undoing, and she's uncomfortable, so she laces up her stupid shoes and walks the stupid half-mile to Doumain's. She curses Rust the whole way, scrunches up her nose and spits at his voice in her head telling her to stay put, like a dog that don't know any better than to leap out the door. She feels hot and itchy again, and she made up promises– one she did try hard to keep, but again her nature won out– and he said he'd be back by mid week. It's coming on 11 on a Tuesday, so she reckons she's close enough to compliance for fulfilling her end of a crummy deal. And anyway, she's fighting mad for nothing and wants a beer and a furious game of cards with Bob to soften up all the little hard upset parts of her.

When she arrives, it's unnaturally rowdy for a weeknight. The pool tables are full, and there isn't a spot for her at the bar until she catches Bob's eye and he makes another regular– Mason, her useless brain supplies– move out of the way to let her claim her usual spot. No crosswords tonight, she sets a deck of cards and a wad of folded ones on the bar-top between them. The other bartender is here tonight in Rust's place– she's only ever seen him once, and he wasn't all that nice, but neither is Rust, so her demeanor doesn't have to change all that much after all. She orders a tallboy of Lonestar and a shot of Black Velvet because no one will stop her, and she can't help herself, especially now. Bob gives her a sidelong look she's seen before, one that says she's skating on thin fuckin' ice, but she knocks back her shot like it owes her rent without meeting his eye. Her evening irons back out and starts to feel normal, if a little lackluster since Rust isn't around for her to pester and push. She really did think she might get away with coming here despite her instructions until one of those stupid dishwater-blond fucks– Amos or Andrew, the one with too-green eyes– comes over and starts inching in on her, thinking she won't notice. She tried out doing the right thing, angling her body away from him hoping he'd get the message and go find his luck somewhere else. He doesn't. Instead, he uses a knee to turn the seat of her seat of her barstool around to face him and says,

"What're you doin' over here all by your lonesome, baby? Come play with us, I'll buy you a fruity little drink if you want, somethin' to wet that," he looks down at her mouth, leans close and lecherous and rancid, "whistle."

"No, thank you. Bob and I are gonna play some cards, you're gonna go circle jerk with your friends, and we'll steer nice and clear of each other." Her brows and fingers knit together, holding herself in by the edges because she's honestly a little afraid she might bite him or scream or throw something. His answering smile comes, satisfied and too close for comfort that it makes something in her burn scalding and bright.

"Oh, come on, don't be such a sourpuss. Go a round with us and we'll see where the night takes us, hmm?"

Her fist connects with his left orbital socket before she even decides it should. His whole body ripples away at the impact– the desired effect– and while on his back foot she watches his eyes widen with the realization. Then he's on her, screaming and aiming for her neck. Dani feels, in this moment, a far off panic. Fights never really found her too easily, since she had a habit of keeping to herself (except, obviously, on this occasion). It's all she can do to flail about with closed fists until something lands or someone steps in to free her. And intervene, someone does: Mason, who despite having his seat stolen not twenty minutes ago comes to her rescue by pulling the kid off her by his collar like a rowdy kitten. She lies there, staring at the water stains on the ceiling, until Mason's face floats into her periphery and she's pulled to sitting. Her face feels sticky and hot all over, and her lashes are clumped together making it hard to blink up at the few faces looking down at her. She finds Bob's eyes, and the first words out of her mouth are,

"Please don't tell Rust."

He laughs, shakes his head, and offers her a hand which she takes to stand on her wobbly legs. Assuming she's being shown the door, she heads that direction only to be stopped by a hand on the crook of her elbow. She turns to face Bob, and his face is caught between a look of wonder and pity. He nods toward the back door, and she follows, head turned down towards her shoes. The soundtrack to Tuesday night clicks back to life and everyone goes back to their business as they exit the building. He fumbles with the spigot on the wall, and his hankie is removed, wetted, then used to roughly dab the drying blood off her lips and nose. Even in the bare moonlight, she sees it come away dark. She's heard Bob speak on so few occasions, she nearly misses it when he mumbles,

"Don't you go pickin' fights you don't know goddamn well how to win, missy. You're lucky Rust ain't here, he'd have probably hauled off and killed that kid." Her face burns at that, and not from the cut.

"I-I'm sorry, Bob, really. I just-he was being gross and it kinda happened before I knew any different what my hands were up to. Won't happen again, you know I'm not that type of girl."

He doesn't reply, but the "maybe you oughta think about that first next time" hangs in the air, limp and useless now.

He lets her into an apartment attached to the bar near the back door, which she sort of knew about but assumed was where he lived. There was hardly anything in it– no dishes on the sink or mess on the counters– until they got to the bedroom. The only evidence she could see that would lead her to believe it was occupied was a full-sized mattress on the floor, covered in a white flat sheet, and a pile of Louisiana history text books in the corner beneath the window.

"Sleep it off in here for tonight. There's a quilt in the hall closet if you need it, and the washroom's just next door."

He's gone out the door before she can thank him. She looks at the bed, and the moonlight coming through the blinds onto it. She could sleep, she thinks. She should. Grabbing the quilt from the hall closet– hard to miss, it was the only thing in there– she wraps it around herself, toes off her shoes, and lays down on the bed. Curled on her side, stray tears dripping across the still-bloody bridge of her nose onto the sheet, she falls asleep.

Rust gets home at 3:27AM, and Bob is waiting up for him, smoking a cigarette at the bar. It's not exactly uncommon, but he's usually back a little closer to sunrise and the time Bob usually gets up for the day, so he cocks his head to a 45° and asks,

"What're you doin up so late?"

"Just don't say I never told you nothin'."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Robert. Goodnight."

"Suit yourself," he mutters, "shitheel."

Rust rolls his eyes but goes to unlock the door to his apartment without further comment. His keys clatter on the breakfast nook, and when he pads into the bedroom he finds her there, face crusted up with snot and dried blood. He finds her there, asleep on his mattress on the floor with her hands tucked up under her chin like a pair of swans. Close together, too, as if they were in quiet conversation about the day they'd had. He sighs, deeply, and heads back out to the sofa.

[queennvirgo]

i think i’m getting better at owning my evil eye in some aspects 🧿

genuinely wishing healing and growth to the people that hurt me in the past. the hater there is fading as i invest more in myself i just dc

the jealously in my present however still go CRAZY, at least i can name it as that tho without my brain short circuiting into cognitive dissonance 🥲 i allow myself to feel it bc it’s a valid as any other feeling but do what i can to not project it.

the part that still makes me a bit hot is that i put all this extensive effort into not taking this out on the source and showing her kindness and i simply don’t receive it back. so yeah getting better but not feeling great ❤️‍🩹 let’s get into it:

this girl in particular infuriates me for a multitude of reasons. in fact her presence actually contributed to my breakup, i felt she snaked her way into this circle, took my job, and was being treated far better than i ever was in essentially the same position by my ex and said circle. this created a lot of extra tension in an already sinking relationship and i couldn’t do it, the whole situation just added insult to injury. it’s a bit messy when ur love life, social life, and job are so enmeshed. and i feel like it’s not even a learning curve for them at least not fully it was me being compromising and taken advantage of. some things that rubbed me wrong are her character yes but others make me feel like it’s just my own anger and projection of insecurities. this is something i’ve been aware of and worked on for awhile but the creative field just breeds competition, even if i don’t want it that doesn’t means other ppl aren’t constantly pitting me against fellow creatives so i have to be wary regardless and that paranoid seeps into me, man. i tell myself that she’s just a person and i could have easily done the same stuff she does when i was in a different head space, even just a couple years ago. admittedly i almost did on a few occasions. i made selfish choices bc of my own lack of self worth before and learned that at a younger age - it makes me resentful to see ppl still act carelessly and selfishly at big ages and nobody bats an eye. it feels like she’s rewarded in the exact spot i was disempowered. it’s uncomfortable at best, mostly triggering. i know a part of me wants what she has. i know i resent the treatment i perceive from the outside that she is given by her bf bc it so closely mirrors my life except my ex bf was withholding and unwilling and honestly downright stingy both in love and the work circle. while i don’t envy or agree with her relationship, how it began, or any of that it does make me resentful to see someone given the treatment i knew i deserved and fought for and was basically gaslit over. esp by someone who is the like the twin of my ex, essentially the same person, same exact job, same exact context. it’s just the slap in the face to see that yeah someone can do these things for u and not make u feel crazy for wanting them, he just wouldn’t. it’s not even alot to ask and i went thru hell in silence over it. none of these other parties are aware of my feelings, i don’t know that they’d care but it’s also not even productive to share. it’s just weighing heavy on me since July. i’ve only expressed and talked these feelings over with the ex recently (we still work together sometimes) and even he said that’s a valid way to feel. i deserve more and we both seem to know it. though acknowledging it doesn’t change much even now. i truly really was and still am asking for the bare minimum and it’s “hard to see someone living your dream” 🤪 which is dramatic and not at all the proper way to sum it up but it’ll have to do.

[hufflepuffhollander]

shirtgate: tom holland imagine

a/n | i finally did it! i wrote a thing without angst! i have grown so much as a person. anyway this is my third and final (☹️) submission for @hollandsrecs​ 1k bingo event, crossing off the “accidental relationship reveal” trope square. this has been a super fun challenge and everything i’ve written for it i’ve actually been v proud of so thank you all for the continued support :)

summary | it is pretty obvious — you accidentally tell the whole world about your relationship with your costar Tom Holland.

tom x fem costar!reader | contains language, fluff, heavily suggestive dialogue | word count: 1.8k | enjoy!

“Babe, have you seen my shirt?”

A strong pair of arms snake around your waist.

“Why do you need a shirt?”

You slip around and lace your fingers behind your boyfriend’s neck, blushing at his sly smile.

“As flattered as I am, I don’t think my publicist will be very pleased seeing pictures in the papers tomorrow of me walking around naked.”

He ran his hands up and down your bare back and leaned in to kiss your neck, making you shiver in the best way.

“Ooh, I would buy the hell out of those photos.”

“You’re such a weirdo, Tom.”

“You love it.”

“Maybe. Where is my shirt?!”

“Just borrow one of mine,” he said, going to his closet and pulling one of his favorite spider-man t-shirts from the back. You draped it over you and reveled in being enveloped in his scent while Tom frowned at the loose cotton now hanging over you.

You walked over to him sitting on the edge of his bed and straddled his hips, lazily putting your arms on either one of his shoulders. The smell of your perfume mixed with his laundry detergent blissfully dizzied him, and he couldn’t stop thinking about how the only thing between your bare bodies was a thin piece of fabric- but his pout stayed put.

You noticed the drop in his mood. “What, I don’t look good in gray?”

“You look amazing in it, darling. I just wish you didn’t have to leave,” he exaggerated his expression, toying with the bottom hem of the shirt, exposing a few inches of your bare belly. You kissed his nose and pushed him back on the mattress, leaning over and propping yourself up on your hands. His eyes continued to roll over you, the sunshine filtering in through the slats in his blinds casting a glowing sheen across you that he couldn’t peel his eyes away from.

“I’ll be back later,” you said, dragging one finger slowly down his chest. “And you can take it off again then.” You finished your sentence with a smirk and a boop to the nose, got up, and went to finish getting dressed. Tom stayed there with his jaw slacked, cursing his better judgement for not tackling you and using his charm to convince you to stay.

“Oh, you better believe I’ll be doing a lot more than that,” he huffed, swallowing hard, trying to figure out what the hell he was going to do with himself until he could get his hands on you later.

~

“...and this is the room where it happens!” you pan your camera around your bedroom to show all of the fans who were watching your live story. You had promised them a tour of your new apartment once it was all moved into, and with a fan base as big as you had, you couldn’t disappoint, even if you would’ve much preferred being tangled up with Tom right now than showing millions of strangers your throw pillows. But your relationship was to be kept completely off the books, out of the media and only inside the comfort of your own homes, with the exception of your close friends. You both knew what kind of drama it would spark if you went public this soon after your movie release, and wanted to live in your little private bubble of normalcy as long as you could. When you expose your love to the world, things just get messy- and right now, you were content with everything being divinely simple.

Feedback poured in onto your tiny screen.

“wooowww so jealous!!!”

“your house is beautiful 😍😍”

“hiiii y/n! show us more!”

You scrolled through the comments on your live-stream, laughing and responding to some questions people asked.

“Yes, my dog lives here with me!”

“Ohmygod, no, Chris Evans does not live in my basement! Did he tell you that?!”

You floated from room to room giving the tour, and eventually made your way to your impeccably organized closet, opening the doors and flipping your camera to show the live audience the inside. And right there, sticking out like a sore thumb on top of your white dresser, was one neatly folded gray spider-man shirt- normally spotted on Mr. Tom Holland. It was unmistakeable. The comments started flooding in before you could even turn the closet light off.

“wait a second- is that TOM’S SHIRT?!”

“omgomgomg-“

“yoooo i knew it, y/n and tom 😍😍”

“wtf?!? are they DATING???”

You realized what you’d just done a second too late, immediately came up with an excuse as to why you had to close the tour, and ended the livestream, heart beating out of your chest. Not even a minute later, you got a call from Tom; you almost threw your phone across the room.

“...Hello?”

“Hey, hi, y/n, uh, what did you just do?”

“Tom, I swear I didn’t mean to-“

“Baby, it’s alright. Just…what- what happened?”

“They saw. They saw it. All of them. Your stupid shirt. On my stupid fucking dresser. I’m so sorry, how do they even know what all of your shirts look like, that’s so fucking weird-“

Your mouth couldn’t keep up with your brain you were so flustered, and all you heard on the other end of the line was Tom chuckling softly, which only confused you even more.

“Are you- are you laughing? Because I’m having a heart attack,” you half-muttered, sitting down with your heavy head in your hands. It was pounding with panic and confusion and couldn’t hold itself upright any longer.

“Take a breath, y/n. The world isn’t ending-”

“Yes it is!” you teared up, feeling your phone buzzing out of control in your palm.

“Baby, no it’s not. Stay there and I’ll be over in 5.” Tom hung up the phone and you went to check your texts, every app under the sun pouring in with notifications of screenshots and callouts about what you had just revealed. When Tom finally knocked on your front door, you basically fell apart in his arms before he made it past the threshold.

“Tom, I’m freaking out, everyone is saying we’re-” he cut you off with an unexpectedly sweet kiss, this proving to be the only thing that could get you to stop panic-rambling. Your eyes fluttered shut against your mind’s wishes to keep pumping with adrenaline.

“Yes, darling, most people are speculating all over the internet that we’re an item because they saw your livestream,” he said, walking you to your couch and sitting down, guiding you to sit on his lap. “You have a much bigger following than I thought.” he grinned at you, but all you could do was frown back.

“Oh, god. I ruined everything.”

“No, you didn’t. It was about time people started knowing I was off the market,” Tom said, running a soothing hand through your hair as you continued to pout at him. 

“...Really?”

“Yes! I mean, it’s just cruel that I’ve had all this to myself-”—he gave your body a once-over—“and couldn’t show it off, y’know.”

That got you to crack a small smile, and Tom capitalized on that moment and pushed you down onto the couch to hover over you, peppering you with obnoxious kisses. Admittedly, he’d made a valiant effort to distract you, but you playfully swatted at him to get off because you were nowhere near done being dramatic about this. 

“Okay, so wait, you’re — Tom, stop that — you’re not upset?” You found your previous spot etched into his lap and settled back down, interlocking your hands and playing with his slender fingers.

“Actually, no, I’m not,” he said, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. “Thought I would be, but, honestly? It feels good, love. I don’t have to hide you anymore. I never wanted to in the first place.”

You gave him an audible awww and snuggled into his chest, wrapping your arms around him and trying your best to squeeze him until he popped. “I’m sorry it couldn’t happen on your own terms, though, it was just a dumb mistake,” you sighed into his shirt.

“Are you kidding? The fans are eating this up. They’re dubbing it ‘shirtgate’,” he laughed and shrugged again, “I don’t even know what that means.”

You giggled into his chest and brought your face back up to his, kissing his forehead, then nose, then lips. You went for a deeper kiss the second time, but he interrupted you.

“Although, I did tell you y’should’ve just stayed shirtless.”

You feigned offense at what he said and instinctively covered your chest by crossing your arms over one another.

“Well good luck getting me shirtless now, Holland.”

“Excuse me?!”

“What a horrible time to prove a point!”

You both laughed as he tried to wrestle your arms apart, but they didn’t budge. You gave an impressive fight, but Tom got the better of you, and ended up throwing you over his shoulder from the couch and carrying you upside-down into your bedroom. You seized your opportunity and pinched two handfuls of his butt, chuckling.

“Hey, I like the view.”

“Did you just grab my ass?!”

He dropped you down onto your bed and walked away, coming back in with his gray shirt and throwing it at you.

“Put it on, babe.”

You obliged all while staring at him puzzled as he twiddled away on his phone. Once you were dressed, he sat down next to you, put his phone up to face you both, and turned on his instagram live.

“Tom! What are you-” you gasped but had to stop speaking as thousands of people were already tuning into his stream.

“Hey, everybody! Me and y/n here. We know there has been some buzz going around about this shirt,“ he pointed to you and you smiled awkwardly. “and wanted to set the record straight.” Tom put his arm around your shoulders and you were suddenly in the foreground of the screen.

“Yes, it is mine. And she does look amazing in gray, doesn’t she?” you started to giggle and blush incessantly as he kissed your cheek, gave a casual wave goodbye, and shut off his phone.

“Uh, what did you just do?”

“Gave ‘em something to talk about.” he flipped his phone onto silent, grinned and came back over to you, fingers already fussing with the oversized shirt, starting to tug it upwards.

“We’re so screwed.” you said eliciting a laugh from him, leaning back so he could take in more of your features that he loved oh-so much.

“So, you know me, I’m on the record as loving you in this shirt,” he said, his voice already sounding lower, softer, huskier.

“Mmhmm,” you played along.

“But I’d like it much better off again.”

[moonlitceleste]

Elevator Love (Ch. 1)

A/N: Welcome to my first multi-chaptered fic! This was supposed to be a one-shot but I kept writing and here we are. I’m not super happy with this, so I’m probably going to rewrite it eventually. Staring at my document hasn’t seemed to help so far, so I’m probably gonna take a break on this and work on requests. For now, just sit back and enjoy :D

Marinette gnawed on her lip nervously as her fingers toyed with the ladybug keychain on her white crossbody purse.

Her eyes were glued to the towering Wayne Enterprises building before her. The big “W” atop it seemed to stare her down, issuing a silent challenge for her to walk past its doors.

“You got this, Marinette!”

The heroine smiled weakly at Tikki’s assurance—although she did appreciate the sentiment, Marinette wasn’t quite sure she could agree.

She was not prepared to meet Tim whatsoever.

Sure, they had been friends for nearly two years—but regardless, Marinette couldn’t help but stress.

It had all started when Tim decided to commission MDC for a few pieces, offering a large sum of money in exchange for her efforts. Despite being doubtful of whether or not he was truly who he claimed to be, Marinette accepted the request.

Soon enough, back-and-forth emails progressed to casual texting, which led to an eventual friendship. The two seemed to click naturally, which was evident in their smoothly-flowing conversations.

Tim knew everything there was to know about her (barring her identity, of course), yet they had never met in person.

He was the co-CEO of a multi-billion dollar company and she was a prominent designer that moonlighted as a superhero—finding time to video chat one another was hard enough.

But now that Marinette had finished université, she had nothing tying her down to Paris. 19 was a young age to be done with school, but her life wasn’t exactly normal.

That’s why a few weeks before graduation, Marinette decided to email Bruce Wayne.

It was a spur-of-the-moment decision; Tim had made an offhand remark about how he wished he could be there for her graduation, and the cogs in Marinette’s brain began to turn. Maybe he couldn’t come to Paris, but she could go to Gotham.

Once her mind was made up, it was only a matter of planning.

It was surprisingly easy to get ahold of Tim’s father; from then on, everything else fell into place.

Perhaps attempting to surprise someone as smart as him went against her better judgement, but it was too late to turn back now.

Marinette’s phone pinged, and she scrambled to press her thumb to its home button. Speak of the devil.

Mr. Wayne

It’s ready.

Tell your name to the receptionist at the front desk, and she’ll give you a lanyard with a pass into Tim’s office as well as a set of directions.

I apologize again for not being there to guide you; unfortunately, I have other matters to attend to.

Marinette tucked the gift box she was holding under one arm, freeing her hands to type out a response.

Marinette

Thank you so much for your generosity, M. Wayne!

I really appreciate all your help in planning this, and for allowing me to surprise Tim in the first place.

Despite your busy schedule you’ve gone through so much trouble to help me. I really can’t thank you enough!

Once she pressed send on her last message, Marinette inhaled deeply.

Her hands moved to smooth down the soft fabric of her blush pink dress.

It was an admittedly simple ensemble, but the billowy sleeves and fluttery skirt gave it a delicate flair. Her white strappy sandals, circle purse, and wavy half-up braided hairstyle tied it all together nicely.

Marinette checked herself over one last time to make sure she wasn’t forgetting anything. She tucked her phone into her purse, grabbed the box containing Tim’s gift, and turned to look at the imposing building with a burst of newfound confidence.

Here we go.

-

“To the right…” Marinette muttered. “Or was it to the left?”

The designer scrunched her nose in confusion, turning around in a circle to better survey the building.

She had already obtained the lanyard and directions, but decided to make a last-minute detour to the bathroom. It shouldn’t have been a problem since Marinette was a few minutes early, but now she was lost. Sure, the place had a fairly open floor plan, but it was enormous! She couldn’t be expected to navigate this.

In hindsight, maybe deciding to deviate from her original schedule had been a mistake.

Marinette sighed and started walking. She didn’t want to disturb anyone, so wandering aimlessly was her only other option.

Well, it wasn’t her only option—she could easily use her Ladybug magic to give herself a push in the right direction, but Tikki would disapprove. Oh, and it was wrong to use her powers for selfish gain. Marinette totally remembered that.

Turns out she didn’t even need to use her Ladybug powers, though; it only took  a few minutes of searching for her to stumble across what she was looking for.

About 10 meters away was a set of elevators lined up against the wall. A glowing “up” arrow was visible on the panel beside a pair of open steel doors.

Marinette’s eyes widened at the sight of the open elevator. She promptly broke into a jog, careful to keep her speed somewhat appropriate for the environment. The doors started to close, and Marinette’s heart raced faster. There was a shadowed figure inside, but due to the angle they likely couldn’t see her.

“Wait!” she called as loudly as she dared.

It was almost funny how similar the experience was to her lycée days.

Marinette pushed the thought to the back of her mind—she would rather not taint her day with memories of that dumpster fire.

She turned her attention back to the elevator, whose doors had retreated. Thankfully, the person inside heard her. Marinette slowed her pace as she covered the last few meters, but was mindful to not walk obnoxiously so.

As she approached her destination, it became increasingly apparent that whoever was inside was remarkably tall.

Ugh, she could practically hear Tim’s jest in her head—are you sure it’s not just because you’re short? He loved to poke fun at her height with short jokes, even though he was only 8 cm taller than her.

Anyways, despite her petite stature, Marinette was sure the person inside would be considered tall by any standards.

She prepared a friendly smile, a “thanks” on the tip of her tongue when they finally came into view.

The first thing she saw was a pair of worn black men’s work boots on what was an admittedly toned body.

Marinette didn’t let her eyes linger on the muscles there, rather opting to trace her gaze from the man’s body up to their face. And wow, was that a gorgeous face.

She wasn’t the type to fall for someone based on appearance alone, but Marinette would be crazy to think this wasn’t the most attractive person she’d ever seen.

He had messy black hair with a pure white streak in the front, tousled to perfection in a way that would make a supermodel jealous. His brilliant green eyes were pools of emerald, richer than any shade she had seen before. Marinette would gladly drown in them.

Speaking of his eyes, he was looking at her with his captivating gaze and mesmerizing face...

Marinette would forever deny swooning at the sight. She would never swoon.

(She totally did.)

Say something! she scolded.

“Uh, than-thank you.”

Oh no. It was the stutter.

Not just a stutter, but the stutter. The one that only appeared when she was nervous and/or talking to hot guys.

Marinette had long outgrown it—or at least, she thought she had—but apparently now it was back with a vengeance.

Her face heated up, and she moved forward to press the button to her designated floor before taking her place some distance away from the man. She turned her head away in embarrassment, hair shielding her face so he couldn’t see her flushed cheeks.

If she had been looking up, perhaps Marinette would have been prepared for the flood of incoming mass. But she was too busy cursing herself to notice the group of people entering until she felt a nudge on her right side.

Marinette squeaked at the stack of boxes that was suddenly in front of her face and looked up to see a small group of workers entering the elevator, pushing a large platform truck stacked with packages. She shuffled on instinct to make more room.

The cart seemed way too big to fit, especially with the capacity of the elevator. Someone would have to contort themselves, or at the very least they’d be squished up against one another uncomfortably. 

Marinette watched as they pushed the platform truck in all the way. It left the tiniest bit of wiggle room, just enough space for someone to squeeze past.

The designer found herself slowly edging towards her left each time another person wiggled their way past the load.

The elevator wasn’t too crowded, and the process went relatively smoothly—that is, until the last worker attempted to get inside.

He had a build somewhat similar to her Papa: tall and large, so his struggle was understandable. It took a minute of grunts and loud sighs, but he managed to slip past the obstruction and into the elevator.

His large frame, however, meant less space for everyone, and Marinette felt the sudden impact of being shoved.

She couldn’t help the soft yelp that fell out of her mouth as her feet stumbled, and before she knew it her left side was firmly pressed up against someone.

Oh god. It was Hot Guy. Of course it was him.

She pressed her lips together in mortification, arms squeezing Tim’s gift to her chest even tighter.

“Sorry.”

Marinette nearly jumped as the husky voice spoke quietly next to her ear. Her head whipped towards the direction it came from, which wasn’t exactly hard to place. There was only one person on her left side.

She turned her head to face the man with the white streak. She had to crane her neck awkwardly in order to properly see him, which really put into perspective their height difference.

His green eyes were sincere, and Marinette could see the apology in them.

The lack of space wasn’t his fault whatsoever, but it was nice to see someone care about her boundaries.

“U-um, it’s okay.”

Marinette smiled at him shyly, then diverted her eyes away. Her brief burst of courage could only take her so far.

Before she knew it, the ride was over. The elevator stopped with a ding, and coincidentally enough, everyone was headed to the same floor.

Marinette fished out the set of directions Mr. Wayne had written from her purse, skimming over them once more. Her stomach filled with butterflies at the thought of finally meeting her best friend.

She barely noticed the workers pushing out the platform truck or Hot Guy walking away, the outside world long forgotten.

Marinette’s body went on autopilot, following the instructions on the paper until she found herself stopped in front of a sleek door. She didn’t know what it was made of, but she was glad it wasn’t glass like many other things in Wayne Enterprises. That would make her surprise a lot harder to pull off.

Above the key card security system on the left was a name plate, nearly identical to others she had passed on her way here. The name Tim Drake was written in elegant silver cursive letters, the metal gleaming as if it were brand new.

Marinette’s chest tightened in anticipation as she pulled out the lanyard Mr. Wayne had given her. She took a deep breath before knocking twice.

There was a short pause before a familiar voice responded.

“Who is it?”

She scanned her card and opened the door.

“Marinette?!”

-

A/N: For reference, Marinette is 5’3” (160 cm) and Jason is 6’4” (193 cm), so there's a 13" (33 cm) difference. I tried to use French terms and measurements so it'd feel more like Marinette's perspective.

And yea, I'm not super proud of this so I'm probably gonna rewrite it in the future. I have a bunch of other WIPs to work on though, so sorry in advance for my wacky updating schedule!

-

PERMANENT TAGLIST @avengerthewarrior @enternalempires @freesportspalacesalad @h1sss @nathleigh

[obae-me]

A Taste of His Own Medicine- Satan

While it was well known among the household that the second and fourth among the brothers were ill, Lucifer banned you from contact with Satan. Mammon was now well on the mend thanks to your efforts, so you figured you would help the eldest out with Satan. Lucifer was constantly busy, not to mention the fact that his knowledgeable younger brother was expending all his strength in keeping his brothers away. It seemed like the logical choice, and rarely did Lucifer prevent you from keeping an eye on his brothers. So why now of all times?

“He’s being...unreasonable,” was Lucifer’s answer. Out of all the possible reasons, this seemed among the most pathetic. You supposed it was better than his typical “because I said so” response.

“If I remember correctly, you were also pretty unreasonable,” you stated, a smirk curling across your lips. He just scowled, glaring you up and down. He leaned back in his cushy seat in his study, placing his much too expensive pen down by the pile of work he needed to finish by tonight.

“And if I remember correctly, we agreed it would not be discussed again.” His sharp expression softened just a touch, a light shade of pink gracing his cheeks as he recalled how you took care of him in his weakened state. He brushed staggering hairs away from his forehead and sighed, folding his arms in front of his chest. “His body and mind have been weakened, therefore he has no control over his anger. He is wrath, and I shudder to think what may befall you should you try to talk to him right now.” He looked deep into your eyes, taking note of your unwavering stance and stern composition. “And yet I suspect you’re going to go see him anyway.”

He had that right. So with a look equal parts exhaustion and worry, Lucifer lifted the magical lock placed on Satan’s room, ensuring that, at the very least, Beel would be just outside should anything happen.

You took a deep breath, clutching to your chest some medicine and a hardcover book from the human world containing old fables. You knocked on the door, loudly stating your presence before entering Satan’s room. You were pleased to find that so far you were unharmed, which was admittedly a great first step.

However, you quickly found yourself awash in a sea of books. Normally, Satan had his room as neatly organized as a professional library, everything had a place, except now, it looked like a bomb had gone off. Books and scrolls were haphazardly stacked, covering the floor, basically everywhere. You couldn’t even see his bed, it was hidden somewhere in this labyrinth of tomes.

You held your breath, you didn’t even dare breathe for fear everything around you would come tumbling down. The last thing you wanted was to be crushed to death, and if the books didn’t kill you, you had a wary feeling Satan might. So you carefully weaved your way through slender passageways in the piles before you found, what you assumed, was Satan’s bed.

The reason you could only ‘assume’ is because at this juncture in time it hardly looked like a bed at all. Just a quick glance and it would’ve matched any other mess in this room. It was camouflaged with more books, torn pages, binders, etc. you had a passing thought about checking if there were any shows about demon hoarders down here.

You could see a jagged green-tipped tail dangling from beneath the bed-pile. It twitched and flicked, sending some novels skidding across the floor. You inhaled deep through your nose.

“Satan? It’s me.”

Satan’s tail whipped across the space between you and the bed, striking at one of the impossibly high stacks of books, sending it teetering and tottering threateningly before crashing down. If you hadn’t taken a few steps back, you would’ve been under that pile. You huffed to yourself. You wanted to help him and this was how he was treating you?

“Satan, please.” A book whizzed past your head and you winced, feeling a little paper cut start to sting on your cheek. The air in the room was hot. You knew these were demons. You knew they were capable of destroying you in seconds, but that didn’t stop your stubborn nature from feeling absolutely offended. And so, as if you had a death wish, you scolded him.

“Satan!” You strutted over, throwing the covers back and sending even more clutter to the floor, but at least you could look at him. But a part of you wished you couldn’t.

He looked absolutely feral. His hair was messy and untamed. His teeth were bared as his mouth formed a menacing scowl. His eyes were glowing an unnatural green, reminding you of shows where beasts eyes shone in the shadows. You could hear a deep rumble emanate from his chest, and it wasn’t till he pressed himself against the back wall, knees close to his chest that you put your fear beside yourself.

Yes, at first glance you may have been entirely convinced he was going to tear your throat out, but then you ran your gaze over him a few times. His face was covered in patches of deep red. He was only wearing a green long-sleeved shirt and stripped boxers. There was a sheet of paper skewered onto one of his horns, and he now was curled up protectively against the wall in a little ball.

“Get out,” he demanded. It would’ve maybe been threatening sounding if his lungs didn’t sound as if he swallowed a squeaky toy. He was wheezing, fingertips shaking, and his tail protectively curling up against his legs, the tip of it quivering.

To be honest you wouldn’t leave this room right now for all the Grimm in the Devildom. “I’ll leave after I’m done helping you out a bit,” you assured him, but he didn’t want that answer.

“Get out!” He clutched another book in his hand and chucked it in your direction with a shout, this time missing you by a mile. You blinked. Was he...having a tantrum?

You had to stifle your smile with a little cough. “Satan, throwing stuff at me isn’t going to make me leave any faster, so cooperate and I’ll be out of here as soon as possible.” He had no retort or nearby ammo left so he tucked his face into his knees and let you get to work. It would take you hours to clean the room, but you did what you could for the moment, tidying up the chaos surrounding his bed. How he would’ve slept with that mess on him was beyond your understanding. Or maybe that was one of the reasons why he was being so cranky.

You shook off his blankets, puffed up his pillow, and then took a hesitant look at the medicine you’d put on his nightstand. Lucifer had told you where to get it, it was a powerful medication that tasted as bad as the one taking it felt. It was also administered as a liquid, because for all their power, they hadn’t made pills a normal thing yet. You had no idea how you were going to get Satan to take it.

Maybe being sweet first. “Satan,” you cooed, sitting yourself beside him on the bed while he remained curled up in a tight angry ball. “I have some medicin-“

“No.”

That didn’t work. Maybe begging? “Satan, please, please, please, pleaaaaase take-“

“Bite me.”

You scoffed aloud. He was absolutely, without a doubt, being bratty and rude. You took a moment to recall how you convinced Lucifer and Mammon. Lucifer was only won over when you stood your ground and told him what to do for a change, challenging his pride. Mammon, you gave him exactly what he wanted to hear. With wrath...did you?

“Satan, I swear to God above and Diavolo below, if you don’t quit moping around and refusing to take care of yourself, I’m going to shove this entire freaking thing down your throat till it’s the only thing you can taste for decades!” You raised your voice, shouting at him with a fury in your chest you’d never used before, ever. Especially not against Satan. You didn’t want to die that badly. But you were alive, and instead of smoke coming out of his ears, Satan looked up at you from behind messy bangs. He looked shocked beyond belief, his mouth slightly ajar. He uncurled himself from his position and sat up slowly, his head looking down.

“Tch.” He puffed air through his teeth, giving in finally. It was like you had won the lottery. You hummed to yourself in success taking the cap off the bottle and pouring in the medicine. It smelt awful, and you felt for him, but if it was going to make him feel better, he needed it. You held it up to his lips. He growled in frustration but then parted his mouth to let you pour in the foul mixture.

He looked like he was going to be sick. He slumped his posture and began to release shuddering coughs. You instinctively put a hand on his back and rubbed up and down. Once he was done with the episode, he sat back up, swaying in his seat back and forth until you held onto him, gently bringing him back down onto his pillow. You moved the hair out of his eyes and sighed in relief. Thanks to whatever magic Devildom medicine had, his redness had already gone drastically down, and he looked fairly calm for now.

His eyelids couldn’t tell if they wanted to be open or shut, like he was struggling to fight sleep. You got up off his bed and pulled the covers tighter around him, urging him to go to bed. You told him you’d finally leave him alone, and picked up the book you had forgotten you’d brought with you. He grabbed your wrist before you could even attempt to leave, he sleepily read the cover before letting his hand drop back onto the mattress.

“I bought that...for you,” he mumbled. With a grin, you nodded. He had bought it for you during the adventure to London. It was filled with old fairytales and fables, the authentic gruesome kind, not the kind human kids grew up on, which Satan had labeled as ‘disgusting dull-headed drabble’.

“I brought it here for you, but you need sleep, besides you have plenty of other books here…” your voice trailed off as you reached for the horn that still had the paper stuck to it. You yanked it free with a light chuckle.

“Will you…” Satan started, gripping at his own sheets so tight you thought he would rip holes in them. “Read...to me?” Your heart soared so fast you almost went lightheaded. You sat back down on his bed, fussing over him just a bit more to fix his messy hair. He groaned as you did but let you do it anyway.

“Of course, I’ll read for you whenever, Satan.” You flipped the book open to the first page, reading about terribly sad events with a terribly soft voice. Every so often he’d correct you if you fumbled on a word, but eventually he went to sleep. You could see his eyeballs moving frantically under his eyelids as he slept. He’d say some incomprehensible word in his sleep while his fingers twitched in random increments.

You used the stray paper that had been on his head as a bookmark, placing it back on his nightstand for later. “I guess they all get to live happy ever after this time,” you whispered to him in his unconscious state before you pressed the back of your hand against his cheek and wished him sweet dreams.

[my-writings-and-musings]

Hey, if you're still doing those angsty oxygen scenarios, could you do one with Rumble? I know he's not a lost light bot but it would mean a lot to me

He means a lot to me too, anon. Plus as I see it, being a Lost Light bot is a state of mind.

Here's all my previous posts with this popular prompt!

Part One: Here!

Part Two: Here!

Part Three: Here!

Part Four: Here!

Part Five: Here!

Part Six: Here!

Part Seven: You are Here!

Part Eight! Here!

Part Nine: Here!

Part Ten: Here!

Part Eleven: Here!

Part Twelve: Here!

Rumble

·The story of how you both ended up on the Lost Light is a long and rather ridiculous one, but thankfully you're both quite happy now with the way things have turned out. Hanging out and playing video games is one of the more calm and non-destructive things you two do around the ship, and it's an activity he adores having someone to share with, as not too many bots share the hobby. Being absolutely tiny by Cybertronian standards but huge compared to you, he typically encourages you to sit on his lap while you game together, something he claims is only done to ensure you both can see. Being a good sport, you agree so he can keep protecting his reputation as a tough bot who never cuddles anyone, and also because you know he's secretly in need of said cuddles despite his claims otherwise. You're well in to a rather relaxed gaming session when an emergency communication pings both of you.

·Quite open about how annoyed he is, the feeling only grows when the line is barely audible, static blurring all but every other word of what sounds like a rather urgent message. Though he does try to ask for a repeat of what's said, when the feed simply dies he's quite tempted to just ignore it and keep playing games. Admittedly that sounds good to you too, but being on a gigantic alien vessel makes you far less comfortable at the prospect of things being uncertain, as what's minor to the bots can be quite dangerous for you. Initially your gentle insistence on seeing what might be going on only gets an exaggerated groan regarding how it's probably nothing and that the two of you are having fun so who cares? The pouting is something you're rather accustomed to, so you follow a strategy of gentle pushing to get him moving, which results in him growing ever more dramatic until he's lying back on his second hand couch as if getting up would be physically painful.

·A gentle kiss on his nose finally melts away his immature resistance, but only after he blushes like a lamppost and huffs to try and pretend he's not doing it because you've convinced him or anything. With one last sorrowful look at his console, he hefts you into his shoulder and moves out, not willing to wait on your tiny human legs. Though he's obviously grumpy there's still care and consideration in how he walks with you, as he's never going to risk dropping your squishy human self if he can help it.

·Repeated attempts to comm anyone for some information turn up nothing but static, and that leaves both of you quite confused, with the minibot commenting on how odd it is that no one is answering. Being near the living quarters at this time of day means there's no one around to ask, so he hurries along whilst looking for a signal, reasoning that the two of you should head to the bridge or somewhere equally important to look for answers. Knowing he has way more experience in this than you do, you happily let him take the lead, smiling softly at how your agreement makes him puff up with pride. Being a mini has made him rather unaccustomed to any kind of leadership, so even the simplest praise or deference always means the world to him.

·His ego boost is quite rudely interrupted by a sudden tremor through the ship, though he's hardly knocked off balance for long due to his unique skills. Keeping his footing solid and you secure on his shoulders, he immediately asks if you're okay once the floor steadies beneath him, knowing that it was just a little shake but worried nonetheless. You assure him that you're fine, which convinces him to hold you a little less tightly. Looking up into his visor, you're concerned to see his usual calm replaced with a much more serious expression. It's one you know to only expect when things are about to get bad. As he starts walking again, he explains that, as an expert on seismic things, he knows that the ship has just been snagged. Having an internal sensory system specifically designed to detect these things also makes him certain of the exact size of the enemy and where it hit; and what he detected isn't good.

·Despite being less than half his height, Rumble is your immediate worry as he goes on to explain more of the situation, talking more to cut through the quiet to calm his nerves. You know that you're not built for alien robot battles, but quite frankly, neither is he. Not on his own at least. Though he'll surely deny it now, he's confided in you that without his brother or a bigger bot to sync up with... fighting anything but other minis is a lot harder. Knowing that makes you press him gently on a plan; where should the two of you go to be safe?

·As expected he's immediately adamant that he's fine, but his attitude to you is another story, as is obvious by how he shifts you completely into his arms and holds you tightly. With a promise that he won't let anything touch you, he surprises you with a completely unrestrained sense of protective drive, something quite out of character for a bot that usually struggles with deep feelings. Knowing that ships always have extra guards stationed at key locations, he decides to hurry his way to the medical bay, secretly hoping not to encounter any enemies on the way. Not that he's embarrassed to be a mini or anything, but in moments like these he really wishes he could be big and strong for your sake... Pushing those thoughts deep down, he hurries along and tries to focus on how cool he looks carrying you to safety. Maybe after all this is over he'll be able to tell some awesome stories about rescuing you.

·Seeing you get a little sleepy absolutely baffles him, and he gives you a little tap to wake you up with a tease about taking poorly timed naps. Not having realized you were nodding off, you rub at your eyes in confusion, suddenly aware of sleepiness that certainly wasn't present earlier. At your continued and obvious exhaustion he's quite worried. Had he better practice at driving with an occupant he'd have given you a ride to save time, but even at the best of times previous attempts at that were disasters, so in your current state you'd probably end up getting seriously hurt... It's yet another thing to regret as he holds you closer and hurries along, secretly trying to establish communication so he can hopefully get some answers. The lack of success makes him more worried with every passing minute.

·Though Rumble is no stranger to cuddling behind closed doors and carrying you to show off his strength, this is the first time he's held you like this in public for so long, and it feels very nice. You know he's worried about you, but it's getting harder to focus on staying awake and comforting him with his arms keeping you so secure, and his little spark humming so warm and strong right next to you. Only his gentle pleading for you to keep your eyes open prevents you from nodding off, mostly because his voice is so sad as he does so, and you can't handle seeing that sweet face grow any more worried. Clearly it must be bad if he's openly showing his softer side. You're aided in staying awake by a rather unexpected visitor nearly stepping on the minibot as he enters a hallway, and in the panicked blur that follows your mind is just sharp enough to catch the towering form of a very unfriendly alien before you're laid on the ground and Rumble charges forth in a preemptive strike.

·Though he's every bit as fearless as he usually is in appearance, in his spark he's absolutely terrified as he breaks out his piledrivers, the lack of his brother or Soundwave leaving him with a sense of total helplessness that he has to force down for your sake. The alien is a kind he doesn't recognize, but it's big and clearly hates bots by the way it strikes to kill. Using his tiny size to his advantage, he hammers the legs that are too slow to kick him away in time, striking with a level of force that strains his shock absorbers to a painful limit. The hulking alien collapses as its means of support are demolished in a messy and agonizing attack, but the mini takes no chances, hopping up to the head and delivering a blow capable of creating an earthquake all on its own. He's left panting from the exertion but grateful to have proved himself. Sore from the strain, he hurries back over to you and can't help but ask if you saw what he just did?

·Tiny jubilation is crushed when he hears your weak reply. Even though you're smiling at his victory, you're obviously barely holding on, and that means whatever invisible malady is afflicting you is growing more severe. Scooping you up in bloodied servos, he tries to keep the tears welling in his visor from falling, though admittedly he's not sure why since his image matters very little in the face of losing you. Thinking fast, he breaks open a vent cover and makes use of the claustrophobic shortcut to hurry to the medical bay, ignoring his own overworked body's protests to save you at any cost. Not knowing what the problem could be, he's still tearing himself apart inside over every tiny delay that could now result in the difference between life and death. If only he hadn't hesitated to stop gaming, or had been paying enough attention to avoid that alien... How like him, to prove unworthy of something by ruining it.

·You'd been physically incapable of staying awake as he'd closed in on the part of the ship where help would hopefully be found. Though you had tried so hard and been so heartbroken by his struggles, exhaustion unlike anything had ultimately forced you to rest, with his protective grip on you making it hard to worry as you slipped under. Tears had started to fall without restraint the moment you went quiet. It had made quite a scene when he'd burst into the medical bay, ploughing through a vent cover and startling multiple bots on guard as he yelled for someone to help you, nearly getting shot until he was recognized with you in his arms. Nearby medics had been quick to explain the breakdown of the atmospheric generators and the loss of oxygen, but he brushes all that aside with a single question; will you be okay?!

·Every bot present is immensely surprised by his demeanor. He's known as a troublemaker and a prankster, so even with your relationship to him being taken into consideration, his agony over your condition is not something they could have ever predicted. The loyalty to you is unshakable and obvious even after you receive the care you need, as he refuses medical attention for himself and doesn't care in the slightest when the alien ambush is declared defeated. Not even the prospect of free drinks at Swerve's to celebrate can make him leave you for a second. All he wants is for you to wake up, and to hopefully not be mad once you wake up and learn what happened, which he believes he made worse by being irresponsible and wasting time... Though it isn't allowed, he crawls into your berth with you to snuggle when no one is present.

·You awaken to a much clearer head and the warmth of a bigger body huddled closely around you, and as soon as you open your eyes a familiar frame welcomes you back to consciousness. Whispering a greeting, you're shocked when the mini suddenly clings to you and begins pleading for your forgiveness while also recounting what happened to make you "sick", confusing you beyond all belief at first. Why would the bot you remembered saving you need to apologize? It's only by listening that you realize his misplaced blame is likely motivated by fear, as his hot tears pattering against the berth suggest a bot recently scared out of his wits. The poor mini is blaming himself for his lack of action, in full belief he could have moved faster and should have the moment something was wrong, and sounding quite convinced of his role in your injurey before you shush him as gently but audibly as you can.

·Wiping away heavy tears on his cheeks, you speak clearly through the oxygen mask still secured to your face, reassuring him that he did nothing wrong and had no reason to believe things would play out as they did. When he tries to miserably reply that he's still should have jumped at the first sign of trouble, you remind him that he jumped into action when it counted, taking down an enemy several times his size without anything but his own fists as weapons. Perking up to hear you remember his burst of bravery, he asks a little more confidently if you recall how he punched the alien so hard the hallway shook from the force, and you smile while you assure him that you saw every heroic moment. Hearing himself be referred to as a hero seems to reassure him in ways he didn't know he needed, and the rush of his own gratitude is enough that he hugs you tight without a hint of bashful hesitation. Just being here and safe with you makes it hard to be worried about anything at all.

[fascination-street-writing]

For Make Believe and Not So | Part II of II | La Squadra x Reader

To wake up to the sight of your messy hair and eyes softened by sleep is a lovely pleasure in life, but one not granted to him nearly enough. Tonight, however, you will stay and dream of an impossible future together. Tonight, you will save the heartbreak for your better selves.

Link to Part I

Content Warnings: N-SFW Sexual Content

The faux leather of the booth seating creaks with each jostle of laughter and lunge across the table for another shot of liquor. You suppose – after weighing the throbbing of your knees to the disoriented thrum of your head – that you have drank far too much. But you do not care, for you know that you are indeed with good company. Never mind that you had agreed to work opening shift tomorrow, because that is not your trouble now.

Though the music from the speakers blares through the tight space of the bar and patrons shout in jovial cheer to one another, you could not be bothered by the distractions. After all, the game of briscola before you is far more enticing – that, and your team is winning.

Formaggio nudges you in the ribs and discretely flashes you his cards before playing his turn for the both of you. Melone throws his cards down with a groan, withdrawing from the game. If not for Formaggio, you might have done the same; you are lost – utterly and completely lost. Perhaps you would have done better for yourself if you were not currently so intoxicated.

You reach for your ears to twirl your earrings out of habit, only to be met with air. Your silver earrings sit discarded on the table. You remember now; something about Illuso using the reflection to cheat, and Formaggio begging you to take them out. You did so with a shrug, though not entirely certain that your partner’s whim was so embedded in truth. Your earrings were not that shiny.

In the end, the two of you finish the game victorious. The waiter sets down a tray full of cinnamon whiskey shots. A cloud of cigarette smoke engulfs the table as Prosciutto takes a drag and sighs, accepting his defeat. Seated beside him, a look of mortification sweeps across Pesci’s face. “Do I have to?” he asks, eyeing the amber-colored liquid with hesitation.

“You lost, ragazzo,” Formaggio sneers with a smirk. He slides the tray towards the younger man.

“Mhm, losers have to drink up,” you say with a giggle. “You knew the rules.”

Pesci bites his lip. “It’s just – Well I . . . Uh . . .”

Prosciutto rolls his eyes. “Gesù Cristo, Pesci,” he mutters. “If you want to salvage your dignity, then drink.”

The green-haired man turns red in the face. “It isn’t bad, Pesci,” you insist, reaching across the table to tap his knuckles in an attempt of reassurance. “I promise.”

It is enough to goad him, but begrudgingly so. Liquor held at eye level, he swallows his spit before downing it in two – no, three – sips. He sputters and coughs as the whiskey burns his throat. The others laugh, yet he feels as if he has conquered the world, though only for a moment. The way you praise him, like hailing some accolade of his, makes him want to try again. Just to hear you speak so fondly of him.

Alas, the night drones on. Formaggio leaves the booth to chat up the bartender, and Melone wastes no time in claiming the newly vacated space beside you. You do not mind the change in scenery and the way he practically dangles off you, or the comments he throws your way regarding just how much he admires the style of your hair tonight – or, about the way your outfit perfectly accentuates your birthing hips (“That dress was made for you, bella-bella”). It is not until he asks about your blood type that Risotto promptly hoists you from your seat and ushers you to sit betwixt he and Prosciutto. You never had the chance to protest.

“What’s this?” Formaggio asks when he returns with two drinks clutched in his hands – one for you, no doubt. “How the hell are the rest of us supposed to shoot our shot with [Y/N] when she’s sitting between you two?”

His words fly over your head. Your attention is instead trained on the purple concoction he holds. “Speak for yourselves,” Ghiaccio scoffs. “You should have better things to worry about than getting your dick wet.”

“Hey, hey – I never said I didn’t have important things on my mind, but she’s one of them!”

“Wait, what?” you suddenly ask, your interest piqued after receiving your drink.

“Formaggio’s trying to fuck you,” Ghiaccio says with disinterest.

You shake your head and chuckle, chewing on your straw. “Of all the people at this table – no, in this bar – you’re the last person I’d sleep with, Maggi.”

Those cat-like eyes glisten and his jaw drops. The others erupt, and you can only hope that you have not wounded his pride too much. It is all just fun and games, after all. Formaggio points an accusatory finger towards Pesci. “You’d even pick testa di ananas here over me?”

“I said what I said.”

“Mio dio!”

At the end of the night, it is Ghiaccio who agrees to drive you back to your apartment – and reluctantly so. You stumble out to his maroon Alpina with little help from him. You think that he must like watching you trip over the bits of loose cobblestone masonry that line the pathway to the parking lot; even more, you suspect that he does not care for you very much. Or at least, not nearly to the same extent that the others do. It is no matter, for you have learned that you cannot win the favor of everyone. It is one of life’s many daunting natures.

The soft lights of Napoli flash by in a whirl as the car speeds down the road. Admittedly, he drives a bit too fast for comfort – or perhaps it is his attempt at furthering the wedge between you two. When he nearly swerves into oncoming traffic, undoubtedly distracted by something, you wonder if it is his vendetta to get you killed tonight. You suppose he would not risk the insurance claim on his car, however. The thought quells you. But it does not change the matter of your non-existent comradery to the man driving.

He is intelligent – one of most intelligent people whom you have ever met. Yet, his fixating rampages over the most miniscule of things is startling. Frightening, even. More often than not, however, it is he who is the subject of his own rage.

“Ghiaccio, can I tell you something?” you ask, though you know he will tell you to be quiet. You do not give him the chance to say so. “I think that deep down, you’re a nice guy. You just don’t want the others to see it, for whatever reason.”

He tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

“I had a good time tonight, and I hope you did too. It was nice seeing you let loose a bit.”

To say that he ‘let loose’ is a gross understatement. He refused to join the game of briscola, insisting that it would not be a fair match, and that the lights were too dim to even see the cards properly. He had refused every beverage offered to him – even water. Ghiaccio merely sulked the entire night, making it clear enough that he would rather have been elsewhere.

“It would be nice to do it again, and I –“

“Just, stop,” he hisses, throwing out his fingers in frustration, without releasing the wheel. “Stop talking.”

You huff and look away. The air within the car turns cold. It makes you shiver. “I know you’re just trying to get me to take back what I said, but I won’t. Why can’t you just let me say something nice to you? Why can’t you let me try to be cordial? I’m not asking you to like me or anything. You don’t have to be so hostile, especially when I’ve done nothing wrong to you.”

The car rolls to a halt in front of the townhouse that you share with several other university schoolmates. You expected an attempt at some semblance of an apology, but you were simply hoping for too much from the man beside you. Grabbing your purse, you wrench the door open, failing to notice the ice chips that have formed around the seal. They crackle and shatter on the pavement.

“I’m sorry.”

You thought too soon, it seems. He does not look at you – in fact, he refuses to tear his gaze from the road ahead of him. Stiffly, his jaw juts out in vexation, and you can practically see the gears churning in his mind. He does not know what to say next, yet you have heard all you need.

With a glimmer of a smile, you bid him adieu: “Goodnight, Ghiaccio. Thank you for the ride.”

He watches you hobble up the steps, supposing that he ought to have at least offered to help you inside. But why should he force himself into your servitude when you were the one who chose to drink tonight? Shaking his head, he at least waits until you vanish behind the front door – though not because he wishes you well.  

Certainly not.

Behind closed doors, you have taken a lover. You do not dwell in childish games with one another. In front of the others, you spare the fleeting looks of longing – of insatiable adoration to the man who succeeded in swaying your affection in his favor, and he to yours. You suspect that they must know of the affair, but he insists that your secret has been kept. It is better this way, for all parties involved. Better than souring hearts or making enemies of those who have become your closest of friends.

You suppose that you might feel remorse with each passing of his fingers over the supple perks of your breasts – but guilt does not make your belly swell with anticipation. With a content sigh and a lopsided smile, laced with ardor, he leans over your sprawled form and brushes his lips to yours. He thinks you look like a goddess, naked and tangled in the mess of bedsheets; and perhaps you are, for he has never met a woman as beautiful as you. He pulls away, only to kiss you again, as if to prove to himself that you are real. Goddess or not, you are corporeal.

Do not ask him to say that he loves you, because he will not admit it. And yet, under his gaze, you swear that you have become a daisy flower, potted on a windowsill, and he the preening blue jay, just beyond the reach of the glass. You wish to feel this way forever.

“Do that again,” you command, a nymph-like grin on your face. You reach out a hand to cup his cheek and sweep your thumb over the moon of his cheek.

Illuminated by high-spirits and spent desire, he cocks an eyebrow. “Do what, cara?”

“Kiss me.”

Who is he to deny you? At the peak of your own satisfaction, his lips move to your neck, savoring the warmth of fresh love-bites. You turn your head to give him ample space. You will surely parish in the heat tomorrow, in what will be your decision to wear a turtleneck to cover the blemishes, but that is a problem for your future self. The gentle rumble of a stifled chuckle sends a vibration through you. You bury your fingers in his hair, holding him close – as if he might slip away if only you let go.

“You look pretty like this,” he says without pulling away. You quiver as wetness pools between your thighs. “Sei così bella.”

“And only for you,” you tell him.

He shifts until his trail of kisses have led him to your glistening folds. “Only for me.”

You wait in your own delirium for his mouth to work you open. And he does, until he has had his fill of your balm and saccharine sweetness. You writhe and buckle into his lips. Just before you reach your limit, he stops and beckons you to stand. You do so on shaking legs. He settles against the headboard and you follow suit, straddling his hips and sinking yourself down on his stiffened member. Arms coiled around his neck, you stretch around his shaft and sigh in delight as you contort to his hardness, as if already molded into memory. His hands clasp your hips, urging you along with each jostle of your body.

It is euphoric. Even when you throw your head back in ecstasy and cry out his name, reaching your fill and gifting to him your release, his eyes never leave your face. To wake up to the sight of your messy hair and eyes softened by sleep is a lovely pleasure in life, but one not granted to him nearly enough. Tonight, however, you will stay and dream of an impossible future together.

Tonight, you will save the heartbreak for your better selves.

When a neatly packaged box addressed to the men of La Squadra di Esecuzione arrives on the front doorstep of their hideout – via express mail, no less – Risotto is the one to bring it into the living room, though not because he wants to. He recognizes the penmanship of the scrawled address. He has seen it on dossiers, files, letters of grievances and recommendations, and of course, thirty-six wrapped formalin frames. As always, there is never a return address. But he knows who it is from, even before Formaggio slices through the tape that welds the box shut.

Photographs spill onto the coffee table. Far too many to count, admittedly. And all of them, pictures of you. The first that Melone pulls from the pile is one of you caught in motion, a textbook clutched in your arm and your cellphone held up to your ear – heading to a class amidst the bustle of your university campus, no doubt. A look of exasperation sweeps your face, frozen in an eye roll and a scoff. The next is a photograph of you at work, in mid-conversation with Formaggio, who leans over the front counter. Your hand hovers over the cash register, ready to punch in the total for his order. What the camera did not capture was the smile upon his face as he beamed up at you. He takes the picture from Illuso’s grasp.

The analog lettering in the corner is dated to the very same day that the green-eyed man first visited you at the pizza shop. “Unbelievable,” he hisses. “Unbe-fucking-lievable!”

There is a photograph of you sharing a cigarette with Risotto in a park near your apartment – something that has become an unspoken pastime between you two. There is a photograph of you sitting in Ghiaccio’s car the night of the bar trip; his scowl has been immortalized for the others to see, and for a moment, a twinge of regret eggs him. Another of you in the bar with everyone else, taken through the cloudy glass of the front window, earlier that same night. When the photograph of you and your lover is turned over, all eyes fall to the man – accusatory gazes laden with what might perhaps be anger. But it is not the time to dwell in jealousy and betrayal, because he will lose you soon enough.

“He’s been watching us, all this time.”

Melone begins to flip the photographs over. Despite the tension of the room, something has caught his attention. “Some of these have letters on the back,” he says as he shows the evidence to his squadmates. “This one’s an L. Here’s a P. And an A.”

It is Illuso who understands the intention, though only after finding an E and an I. Lei – she, in reference of course to you. “It’s a message,” he insists.

No one argues. Not even Ghiaccio makes the effort to refute the permissibility of Illuso’s discovery. By the time the code is finally pieced together, the room has grown heavy and odorous of cigarette smoke. Two spent packs litter the floor, but Prosciutto will worry about sweeping the ashes later. He can bear the mess a bit longer, for there is another – far more pressing – that needs tended to. In that tantalizing cursive, the ever-elusive Don of Passione speaks: “Lei è la prossima.”            

She’s next.

No one speaks. How could you, their fondest friend – a woman who delivers pizza to fund her way through her studies – have fallen into Passione’s snare? “It wasn’t enough that he killed Sorbet and Gelato,” Illuso sneers. “Now this? Now her?”

Risotto is quick to shut him down. “I told you to forget about them,” he reminds the men. “I told you to – ”

“How are we supposed to do that when this shows up at our doorstep?” It is Melone who interrupts. Risotto stiffens. “How are any of us supposed to forget about Sorbet and Gelato when the situation is about to repeat itself? We can’t, and you can’t expect us to.”

“I can, and I will. And I expect the same to be done of her.” The man with black sclerae cannot even utter your name. Even the thought of it makes his chest tighten. “From this point on, I am prohibiting all of you from seeing her. If not for your sakes, then hers.”

Truly, each man in the room already knew the daunting solution – they simply did not wish to hear it uttered aloud. Your safety and well-being are important to them; it just so happened that the bond you share has put your life in jeopardy. They will not be the reason for your death. “So, who’s going to tell her?” Pesci asks.

“Why bother?” Ghiaccio huffs. “What part of ‘forget about her’ don’t you understand, mammoni?”

Pesci casts his gaze downward to avert the glare of the hot-tempered man. No man in the room volunteers. Their leader supposes that it ought to be his duty – to assume the responsibility, considering that it was his insistence. But, despite the stoicism, he never has been good at saying farewell.

“I’ll do it.”

Prosciutto steps forward, and the others are grateful for it. “It seems that, in the Don’s attempt to herd us like sheep – to weaken us into subordination – he’s instead succeeded in creating enemies for himself.”

He releases a puff of cigarette smoke. Perhaps he should have held it in for a bit longer, until his lungs swelled, and his head grew dizzy – because in the end, he feels nothing.

Aprile in Napoli is, you think, the loveliest time of the year. The pavement is slick with afternoon rain, but it does not trouble you in the slightest. In truth, you enjoy the smell of rain – it is purity and earth, and a fresh start. You peddle to a stop just before the row of graffitied townhouses at Vivo Pallonetto Santa Chiara. This time, there is no dog to gawk at you through a window. No child in rags to run past you with a stolen purse. No pizzas with sausage, eggplant, or porcini mushrooms, either.

Only you and your shattered heart.

You do not bother to tether your bike in place, because you will not stay long. With each step on the cracked concrete stairwell, it becomes harder to breathe, and you imagine that you are traversing your own ascension. Only, there is no heaven at the top – unless heaven is a locked door. In that case, you want little to do with her. You find the key buried within your purse, amongst gum wrappers, a bottle of vitamins, and receipts that ought to have been thrown out long ago.

You had not known what to say to the young man – no, the boy – with golden hair and turquoise eyes who met you in a black Maserati with tinted windows. You had not known what to say when he handed you an envelope with money and the key. Something of compensation for their family, he had said, to get along after their deaths. Had they even had family outside their tightly woven niche? You never knew. Your tongue grew heavy like lead: you did not thank the boy, but he did not expect you to. Instead, you sat in the backseat of his car and wept, moistening the expensive upholstery with tears.

There were no funerals. No memorial services. No solidary condolences. Only money to finish your studies, loneliness, and a key.

You begged the chauffer to pull over. You exited the car without so much as a contemplation of gratitude. There you stood, in some distant courtyard of a café, where you had met Prosciutto one last time just months ago. Or maybe it has been years. Grief has a way of making time pass slower. Perhaps you are already an old lady – or perhaps, only twenty and some more.

He greeted you with a cigarette dangling from his lips and a peculiar tiredness to his eyes. You moved to take a seat, but he held out his hand to stop you. You understood what he wanted – he wanted you to walk with him until you reached the park where too many times before you sojourned with Risotto. Only then, with Prosciutto instead, the sight of the neatly cropped grass made your stomach curl.

“Don’t make this difficult for me,” the blonde man said, all the while avoiding your furrowed brow and gaping mouth. “But you need to stop coming around. It’s better this way, for all of us and yourself.”

Do not be difficult – and so, you do not beg or cry, nor do you ask questions. You had always known that dangerous men did not make safe company. You knew, forever in your soul, that Eden did not last forever; and one day, you would have to leave. Prosciutto stubbed his spent cigarette on the heel of his shoe. You thought he meant to reach for a new one, but you did not give him the opportunity to.

He never said you could not hug him. And so, you did. Face buried in the lapel of his suit jacket, you spoke: “I know it’s not any of my business why, so I won’t ask,” you told him. His breath hitched. “It’s not my place to pry. Oh, I’ll miss you all so terribly, but, in the end, I wish you the best.”

His arms encircled your back, hesitant to return the gesture of your affection. At first, he merely hovered; yet, when you moved to pull away, he held you, tight. “I told you not to make this hard,” he mumbled into your hair. Vanilla – your hair smelled like vanilla. “Be good, bella ragazza. Stay safe for us, huh?”

“You too, Prosciutto.”

You insert the key into the lock. A part of you wishes it will not fit – that you can turn around and leave this wretched place that you love so dearly; why bother with something that will only make you wish you had not done it? Alas, the knob clicks. It is closure you seek, and you open the door. You could have prayed for a nasty little prank. That, sitting on the couch, Formaggio would be waiting for you, with a lopsided grin on his face, asking what took you so long?

Prosciutto might be cooking pasta and puttanesca in the kitchen, simply because he knows it is your favorite. Pesci might be watching a game of soccer on the television, glad for a new spectator to endorse his commentary. Illuso might be standing there, offering you a glass of wine to share with his own – a toast to the end of an arduous week, or just because he feels like it. Melone might beckon you to sit on the floor so that he can give you a back massage after your long night of running around Napoli. Risotto might be brooding in silence, though his demeaner brightens whenever you enter the room; and already, his fingers will begin to itch at the anticipation of slipping away for a cigarette with you. And Ghiaccio . . . Well, maybe Ghiaccio might scoff at your intrusion, but you would welcome it all the same.

But it is only you and your thoughts. With a shudder and a sigh, you sit down on the couch. The springs contort beneath your weight. Cobwebs adorn the walls like autumn decorations. Dust collects on the furniture. Everything has been left out as if they all might walk through the door at any moment and resume their allotted daily leisure.  A tear trickles down your cheek. You wipe it away and hold your breath until your eyes dry and you cannot cry. They would not want to see you like this, and you know that it is best to just move on with your life. To reach for the opportunities that were never permitted to them.

Your cellphone vibrates – a phone call from a schoolmate. Against your better judgement, you flip the screen open and accept. “Hey, [Y/N]!” she says to you. “We’re still meeting up to study tonight, right?”

You look to your watch. You were supposed to be at the library twenty minutes ago – this little detour of yours has not come without consequences. “Um, yeah,” you tell her. Your voice echoes in the dark space of the room. It makes you wince. “Sorry, I just lost track of the time. I’ll be there in a bit.”

“Well, if you’re going to keep me waiting, I’ll get us some coffees. Addio!”

You toss the key on the coffee table, atop a stack of over-turned photographs that you cannot be bothered to look at. It is none of your business, anyways. Or at least, that is what you told Prosciutto. At the door, you turn the lock, prepared to seal it all away. In the hue of the setting sun, you cast one final longing gaze into the living room. With the shaking of your head, you shut the door behind you and take your first step forward, though not before uttering to vacancy of that which was once irrefutable happiness.  

“Arrivederci, amici miei.”

| 4364 Words | Epilogue |

[boop-le-snoot]

PARTY FAVOURS | CHAPTER 19

First time reader click here

Summary+TWs: We're talking serious feelings here, okay? Reader, you're literally emotionally illiterate. You also have PTSD, which is finally addressed - kinda. Bruce does his best. And he also knows how to kiss... But y'all know that if you read my ramblings about lucid dreaming/shifting/whatever... Chile-, anyways...

My phone kept buzzing and I ignored it until Bruce declared it was time to take a break and review the results. Whilst the man was typing up the data on a nearby StarkPad, I fought the sudden influx of messages that I received from haters and supporters alike after Tony decided on tweeting a reply that could be interpreted in an alarming variety of ways. It was a smart move, I'll admit, but a fucking bother for me nonetheless.

Disabling my DMs and dealing with a follower increase in the thousands wasn't hard; I didn't consider myself a problematic asshole and didn't need to be afraid of "exposure". The parties I went to - I doubted there was any blackmail material in there and the few nudes I'd sent over the years were always face-less. As a gen Z, I knew my internet safety.

The trolls didn't bother me either. It was more sad than annoying, people shitting on others for clout. Iron Man stans were witty, at least, if jealous. I must admit I've never considered the influx of popularity I would experience should I publicly out myself as a friend of Tony's. Girlfriend? Intern? Science child? Whatever cover story he was going to feed the press worked for me, as long as I still got the hugs, the kisses, the dick and the attention.

"Tony..." Bruce groaned, evidently done with the data processing, had to have opened his social media to see his own skyrocketing popularity.

"Yeah, our Tony is being a Tony again," I chuckled, having reset my social media settings so my phone wouldn't constantly beep, vibrate and bother me. School was going to be fun.

Bruce shook his head, fond, coming over to my side of the lab after removing his own hazmat suit. His eyes shiny with newfound knowledge and hair turned adorably fluffy in the confines of the head covering. He was smiling softly. "Food?"

"Sure."

We chewed our sandwiches in silence for a moment, each of us lost in our thoughts.

"I still can't believe Tony told everyone on Twitter you're his girlfriend, usually he keeps this stuff private or schedules a fancy press conference," Bruce's tone was thoughtful.

I raised an eyebrow. "Is that what it was? Seemed ambiguous to me..." I trailed off, confused.

"He worded it like that on purpose, I mean, you're still in high school," The scientist was confident in his words. "But I know Tony. I'm a hundred percent sure that he meant exactly that. Aren't you?"

Shock flooded me. Suddenly, I understood I completely misread the situation. "Um, no? I thought we were, y'know, just fucking. We never defined our relationship and we're definitely not exclusive." I said, chewing on my lip. "You make a valid argument, I'm a high school student and he's a grown ass man that does grown man stuff. Putting aside the fact that he could have anybody in the world so why would he choose me?" I was rambling, thinking out loud. Discussing my feelings has never my strong forte. "It would be stupid to impose monogamy on such a complex man like Tony. Downright idiotic to expect a genius to confine to social norms just because it suits others." I finished with a wave of my hand. Another bubble of thought that had festered within me for the longest time. I felt relieved, finally voicing it out loud. A weight had been lifted off my shoulders, a weight I wasn't previously consciously aware of.

Bruce was watching me intently, with an unreadable expression that held the tiniest bit of awe, admiration perhaps. The silence that followed was unnerving. I fidgeted with my hands, not really knowing where to put them or where to look.

"You know," He took off his glasses, fiddling them in his hands. "I'm not going to sugar coat it. For the longest time, I thought you were going to inadvertently hurt him when you get bored with whatever you've got going on. I respect you, don't misunderstand me, but you are young. Now, I've changed my mind. You've changed my mind," He punctuated his statement with his hand on mine, grasping it. "I think you managed to understand him in a way most people can't. Or don't want to. Understand and accept him in a way that some of us can't even after years of working and living side by side with him." Bruce's gentle fingers skimmed along the top of my palm.

"I don't always understand Tony but I do accept him," I agreed. "Because Tony is a great man."

"I think you're in love with him," Bruce said, absolutely having ignored my previous statement. Just like that, point blank, he pushed to the surface the very feelings I got so good at ignoring. There was no rest for me in this place.

My heart fluttered, picking up the pace. I kept my mouth shut, not trusting it whatsoever. My thoughts became akin to panicked hares, jumping and zigzagging aimlessly in my skull. I didn't see the point in defending myself because the scientist had pointed out the obvious.

Bruce looked at me, softly, warmly. "And don't think we haven't noticed the rise in team morale. The improvement not only in communication, but on the battlefield, too. It's easier to entrust your back to someone with whom you've shared a laugh and a drink the previous night. You're the glue that keeps us together."

Something warm and wet was on my cheeks. I stared at our clasped hands, his words echoing in my head over and over and over. The moment I realized I was crying, I willed myself to stop and failed spectacularly - only more salty fluid streamed down, some of it getting in my nose, on my lips. The sleepless nights were making me unstable.

It took a single sniffle for Bruce to pick me up and wrap up in his kind embrace. I didn't resist, tucking my face into the crook of his neck, holding onto the back of his lab coat, inhaling the smell of his skin and chemicals. It was familiar, calming. Minutes ticked by with me slowly leaking the tension out of my body.

"He loves you, too, maybe he just doesn't realize it yet." Bruce whispered into my hair. "I've never seen Tony so happy, even with Pepper. You are special and you are loved."

There was something unsaid, I felt it. It hung in the ear, it burned the tips of my ears, stood sharp on the tip of my tongue. "I love you too, Bwucie-bear," I whispered into the space between his ear and his jaw. His arms tightened around me.

The man placed several chaste kisses in my hair, running a palm over my back. In moments like these, the crush for him, the very crush that got out of control, blossomed fully into a deep sense of respect and admiration. He made me feel safe. He said all the right words at the right time.

Drowsiness overtook me. As usual, any worries and anxieties I had evaporated, once Banner had his arms around me, shielding me from the world. I didn't forbid myself this time: delicately, my hand slipped through the man's soft messy curls, eliciting a contented sigh.

"You haven't been sleeping well," He more stated than asked.

I had no choice but to nod. "Clint keeps dying in my dreams. Or even worse, he doesn't, he just suffers, endlessly, painfully." I admitted.

Bruce flinched under me, tensing. My face was in between his hands in a second, the scientist sternly looking into my eyes. "Why didn't you say anything? All of us assumed you were okay after what happened." He looked - angry. Not Hulk-out pissed but Bruce-pissed, which equalled a kicked-puppy look seasoned with a great pinch of disappointment.

"I am okay." I lied, shamelessly. "It's getting better. That's why I want to have a party - relax a little, dance, socialize. I don't think Tony would let me go on my own so I figured I can convince him to throw one here." I looked away. It was better for everyone if I dealt with my own problems - they were superheroes, not babysitters.

Bruce frowned. "Why wouldn't Tony let you go?"

"Because of that one time I snorted coke," I rolled my eyes at Bruce's naiveté, leaving the less obvious parts unsaid. Tony knew exactly what I was going to do once I got free reign, he considered it destructive and told me so himself. Admittedly, he had a point but still... I wished I'd been given a choice.

"I'll talk to him," Bruce nodded firmly. "That's not acceptable. He can't forbid you from making mistakes and learning from them."

He was met with my shrug. No excitement came from me regarding this particular turn of conversation. I was drained, limbs like jello, thoughts sluggish. My face was drooping.

"Let's get you to bed," Banner stood up with me wrapped around him. "You need a nap."

"No," I protested. If I went to sleep now, only Satan knew at what ungodly hour I would wake up.

"Yes, Princess," Bruce smirked. I wiggled uncomfortably - when he went all caretaker like, my ovaries wreaked havoc on my body and brain. My thoughts weren't appropriate if Bruce wanted me to see him as a father figure. The signals he was sending were mixed. People around me did that a lot and I wasn't sure how to act so I usually just went with the flow. I decided to do the very same thing in that particular moment.

Curiosity sparked within me, tightly interwoven with the deep longing that settled below my collarbones whenever Tony or one of the others wasn't sitting next to me or talking my ear off. I've almost forgotten how it was to be alone with my thoughts. The maze of my very own self was becoming unfamiliar territory. Alarming.

I allowed Bruce to help me shed my shoes and outer layer of clothing, shivering in the coolness of my room. Despite being a frequent visitor, I still had a 'guest' room in the tower - I mostly stayed at Tony's or Wanda's anyways. During our sleepovers neither me nor the witch minded sharing her enormous bed, to be fair, we could have fit at least two more people in it besides us. Tony took care of his own - all the tower's residents had their apartments furnished with the best stuff.

"Sleep now, Princess," Bruce chastised, tucking a blanket around me, having noticed an earbud in my ear and my smartphone in my hand. I had hoped to kill some time online, damn well knowing sleep wouldn't come easy.

"I don't think I can fall asleep, Bruce," I admitted, looking away. There was just so much going on. My brain wouldn't shut up and if I couldn't drown out the cacophony by being productive, I'd troll the internet, as usual.

Banner sighed, coming to sit next to me, leaning against the headboard. Gently running his fingers through my hair, brushing the outside of his palm against my cheek. "How do you usually deal with this?"

Involuntarily, my eyelashes fluttered. "Tony does most of the work," I admitted coyly. The engineer had a whole arsenal of tricks up his sleeve - sexy and exhausting tricks.

"I see," Bruce muttered, thoughtfully.

I opened my eyes to see him looking down at me with a look I haven't seen before. The usual mildly absent, slightly anxious face he wore was replaced by something I could only describe as hurt envy, like a kid looking at their schoolmate who had all the newest, coolest toys. I used to be on the receiving end of that look far too often and I hated it.

I hid my face against his leg, rubbing my cheek on the raspy corduroy fabric of his pants. "Got any good ideas of your own?" I wondered lowly, thinking about what in the world possessed Bruce to wear corduroy trousers on a semi-casual day, in the twenty-first century.

"Only bad ideas," He replied in a matching low tone. His soft fingertips relocated to my nape, goosebumps rising down my back.

"Humour me," I grinned against his leg.

Bruce was quiet for a moment, the sound of his thinking screaming louder than any words could have done. Knowing the scientist so closely, I found out he was full of surprises - bolder than he appeared outwardly and competitive to a boot. He thought he had a lot to prove to himself and by extension, to others. The unknown, the mystery dangling in front of my nose was exhilarating, trepidation addictive. It took me away from the chaos in my mind.

A gentle grasp on my chin had me turning to look upwards, Bruce's face flushed and focused on my own, open and trusting. He needed to see the obvious, that I trusted him to take care of me. He pulled and I followed, sitting up on my elbows, coming up to his shoulder level, our faces inches apart, enveloped in the unique, intense scent of his herbal tea. It was a tart, strong smell and it suited his quiet but passionate character.

Once, twice, I caught my eyes sliding to his plump lips. They looked far too appealing in this position. I usually strategically stayed away from positions so compromising, fearing the very thing that I'd already let happen, however this time the atmosphere was different. We stood on ambiguous grounds, waiting for Bruce to make a decision.

The man wasn't stupid, he saw the way I looked at him. The nightmares and inability to take a break from life put a significant dent in my resolve to keep a distance between us, romantically - I could have settled even for a pity kiss, a pity fuck. Anything to put my brain on pause.

His lips were softer than I had imagined. Skilled, too, he easily steered the kiss into the shallow waters of our combined longing.

With Tony, it was like an avalanche. Tony ran hot like Peterbilt engines, hard and fast, almost angry in his race for satisfaction. Tony was a man that was used to getting whatever he wanted and it became plainly obvious when we fucked.

Bruce was the opposite. He savoured the kiss, losing himself in a way that could almost be described as delicate. Bruce was humming, softly, as we tasted each other, holding the left side of my face with careful fingertips. Almost as if he was afraid to break me. The feel of his skin on mine was soothing in a way that made me sigh and relax even further.

"Wanna make you feel good." His voice had dropped, gone husky, but his breathing held even. He must know all about self-control.

"Yeah," I was ready to agree with whatever the fuck he was offering. My eyelids remained shut.

THE TAG LIST IS NOW OPEN! @another-stark-sub ​ @mostly-marvel-musings  @vozit ​ @littlegasps ​ @pilloclock ​ @shereadsinquiet @downeyreads ​ @hermione-grangers-wife ​ @individualistfem ​ @sleep-i-ness @capbrie @lillsxd @agustdowney @dee-vn @justanotherblonde23 @fanngirl19 @persephonehemingway @softie-socks @schemefrenzy @letsby @cutenessloading @romeo-the-cactus @jelly-fishy-babie

PS. Letsby, please don't combust. The underwear is coming off in the next chapter. 😶

[danyka-fendyr]

Back Up Baby

“Hi could you write a like angsty fluff with spencer were they broken up and the reader is pregnant then spencer finds out end they get back together? Sry if it it too specific”

Not too specific at all! Thank you so much for sending in this ask and being so patient while I wrote this. I hope you like it and that it’s kind of what you were hoping for.

Wordcount: 1.4k

Warnings: Angst, pregnancy

You let out a shaky breath, the grooves in the frigid tiles of your bathroom floor digging into your skin, leaving neat little lines. You wished your life was that neat, but alas, it was not. At the moment, everything was falling apart.

When you had broken up with Spencer 2 months ago, it had made sense. He had no idea you were pregnant, and you had no intentions of telling him. His job meant that he had to travel a lot, and he was under a lot of pressure, but you knew that he loved it. He lived for his work, to help people, and you would never want to take that away from him. So when you had found out you were pregnant, it seemed like a no-brainer. You would break up with him and he would move on and be happy.

What you hadn’t anticipated was that you would not move on and be happy. You didn’t realize just how much you had relied on Spencer until you were 4 months pregnant, starting to show, and definitely starting to feel the hormones.

Which brought you to now, lying on your bathroom floor, sobbing. You had just finished packing up the last of Spencer’s things that he had left at your apartment, and you were definitely not ready to give them all back to him. In truth, some naïve part of you was still hoping that he would just forget or decide they weren’t worth coming back for and leave you here to cry yourself to sleep curled up with the box of his belongings.

The knock on your apartment door startled you out of your funk, and you shook your head, telling yourself it was just hormones.

You cleaned yourself up quickly before heading over to open your door. You expected it to be some poor delivery worker needing you to sign for another 3 AM $30 candle purchase. You heaved the strap of your camisole further up your shoulder, as though it would cover your bra strap better, before giving up. The delivery guy wouldn’t care about your messy hair, baby bump or sweats. He could see it all for all you cared.

You immediately regretted that philosophy when you opened the door to Dr. Spencer Reid.

You froze as he took you in, scanning you from head to toe. You watched his eyes widen as he made it past your tearstained face to your mid-riff. Right about where-

“You’re pregnant.”

He said it breathlessly, more air than words, like his clever mouth couldn’t support the conclusion his brain had so easily come to. In the back of your mind you catalogued that you hoped this baby had his mouth, if it was a boy. You had refused to find out the gender, not wanting to know without Spencer.

“Maybe you should come inside.”

Great. You had defaulted to hostess mode. Maybe that was a totally normal thing to do when confronting your ex who also happened to be your baby daddy. You didn’t really have a frame of reference for this particular situation.

He seemed too shocked to disagree with you, numbly coming inside. You knew his quiet wouldn’t last for long. Spencer was a fast thinker, and you could see him thinking faster than ever now, eyes bright like the well-polished gears turning in his mind. You waited for him to process, but then realized there was one question he would definitely have that you had to answer. He deserved to know the truth about that at least. For all of your mistakes you weren’t that bad of a person.

“It’s yours,” you said quietly, wrapping your arms around what was, admittedly, not much, but kind of a lot to you.

“How…how long have you known?” He choked out, running a hand through his hair.

He stared up at you with wet eyes, and for a moment you were deeply afraid he was angry. You weren’t really sure what he felt, but anger would certainly be a reasonable reaction.

“2 weeks before I broke up with you,” you admitted.

It sounded even worse when you said it out loud.

“You knew? You knew and you still…”

Now you could tell exactly what he was feeling. Hurt. That was definitely hurt. You felt it too, tears pricking at your own eyes, these ones having nothing to do with hormones.

“You were…you were so involved with your job, and I knew you loved it. If I was pregnant, I knew you would pull back, do less. I couldn’t do that to you, Spence, I couldn’t. And I was…a part of me was afraid that you couldn’t do that to yourself. That you wouldn’t want this.” It was a quiet admission, shameful in its assumptions but true all the same.

You found it in yourself to meet his eyes after a long moment, and it was just as bad as you thought it would be. He looked betrayed, and it was worse knowing that he had a right to be betrayed. He had every right to be betrayed, his brown eyes disbelieving that you could even do something that terrible. You could hardly believe you had done it, and you knew there was no way he could want you now. If he had been on the fence between you and his job before, you had sealed the deal by lying to him like this.

“I’ll just get your things,” you said, swallowing back your tears. It felt like swallowing knives. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this. I’m sorry for lying to you. I understand you don’t want anything to do with me now-”

“How could you think that?”

Pain dripped off every syllable, and you shut your eyes to it.

“I know what I did, Spencer. I wouldn’t want me around after that either.” You refused to look at him, picking up the box of his things.

He yanked it out of your arms, setting it back down on your couch.

“How could you think I wouldn’t want this? That I don’t want this? If you know what you did then why try to make decisions for me again? Because that was the problem the first time. The lies were bad enough, but making my choices for me? That’s the worst part.”

You couldn’t help it, and you blamed it on the pregnancy hormones. You started crying in earnest, and Spencer, good, kind, sweet Spencer caught you in his arms.

“I was just so scared,” you admitted. “And I know that’s not an excuse, and I’m so sorry Spence. I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” he whispered, his anger washing away with your tears. “We’re going to figure this out, okay?”

“We?” you asked.

“Yeah. You think I would make you do this alone?”

You pulled back to look at his face, the face you loved so much.

“It’s what I deserve.”

“What you deserve is support and love. You were absolutely wrong to make my decision for me, and not just because my decision would have been to stay. Not just because my decision still is to stay. I played a part in this too though. I should never have put you in a place where you thought my work was more important to me than you, or that I would leave you because of this. If you want me back, I’m here. As a boyfriend or just to support you. I’d like to be involved in whatever way you’d allow me.”

You laughed a little bit in relief. “Do you still have all those pregnancy books from when JJ was having Henry?”

“Memorized.” He tapped his head.

“I do want you back. I’ve wanted you back since the moment you walked out. I missed you every second, and it never got better. I’m so in love with you Spencer. I don’t want to do this with anybody else but you.”

“I love you,” he said, kissing your forehead before moving down your face to your lips.

He folded you into his arms, and you rested your head on his shoulder. For the first time in months, you could relax. You didn’t have to do this alone. For all the terrible things your pregnancy had brought you, you had a feeling your future was bright. For the first time in a long time, you felt good. Finally, everything was right with your world.

[hamliet]

If there's anyone who must read those scientific studies on the alterations on people who were abused, it's Hori! See the way he's trying to make ende*vor "sympathetic" at cost of Touya portrayed as an unstable child by "his" choice. Just, sometimes I wonder if hori is a smart man or a stupid man who play with people's feelings, especially who mirror in Touya, because they're abuse victims too (just like me)

Firstly, I’m so very sorry you went through that, Anon. You did not deserve it. <3

I think firstly, we need to wait for the chapter before we say that’s really what he’s trying to portray. I do think he wants us to love and sympathize with Touya: Shouto directly says “he’s me,” so I am not sure what else that could mean.

However, I also think there are valid critiques to be had. I’m not addressing this chapter but instead common criticisms (and rebuttals to those critiques) I’ve seen over the past arc. Imo the critiques of this chapter are pretty similar to the ones that have gone before lol so take it as you will, but we’ll see once it’s out!

One thing I see commonly praised is that the Todoroki subplot showcases  different perspectives and unreliable narrators. In theory, I agree. However, in practice, I find the execution of this... messy. This is my opinion and not fact, but I’ll explain why I think it’s bumbling at best within the narrative.

It comes across as wishy-washy instead of hammering home a narrative theme of different perspectives. The narrative theme might be hammered home in the end (see the next paragraph) but for the time being it’s confusing. Different narrator/nuance/perspectives work best when the rest of the story is full of that to emphasize it, but frankly in BNHA the rest of the story is... not like that. Hence, having to change tone, reading, perspective for one subplot (admittedly my favorite subplot!) is a questionable writing move even if done with good intentions.

It also doesn’t work well--for me!--to have these tonal changes in a weekly manga. I’ve talked before about the struggle of serial fiction mediums being how to balance pacing and suspense when your audience gets very small increments at a time. So, while some elements of the story definitely read better when we have the full picture, when you’re giving the reader a sliver of the picture once a week and they might have to wait years for the full picture... to what extent does the tonal changes per week affect the quality of the writing? That’s a question without easy answers, but I don’t think it’s working well in a weekly manga.

Lastly, one of the messy aspects of the story since the Pro-Hero Arc is that I’m not sure Horikoshi knows who he wants to focus on in a lot of ways. Enji as the main character of the subplot--because atm he frankly is and has been for awhile--is a questionable choice. The kids have been afterthoughts for over half the manga. It seems he’s so focused on trying to persuade fans (who are never going to be persuaded) about Enji’s potential for change/that the criticisms can be answered and he’s aware of this and that and this too! that he’s struggling with the overall progression of the story. By trying to answer every criticism, the writing feels bloated and contradictory instead of tight (which can also b e contradictory but like, the themes are better reinforced).

That said, I think Horikoshi really, really cares. I don’t think he’s “stupid” (and I don’t like ableist terms!); on the contrary, I think he’s deeply emotionally invested and listening to people’s complaints. I think he doesn’t want to hurt anyone, and I think the Todoroki and Shigaraki subplots are deeply important and personal to him because of the level of care he devotes to them. But I wish he would just stick to writing what he’s gonna write instead of trying to address every possible concern. Humanity means there isn’t always time to address “well what about X?” Every story has a valid criticism of it, and no story is palatable to everyone.

I personally think the narrative is definitely heading towards reconciliation for the entire Todoroki family. I have my issues and my complaints (boy, do I) but I’m in it for that aspect (and for Shigaraki’s redemption too) even if I complain about quality all the time because critique is what we do on this here blog ;)

[writingismyhappytime]

A Little Jealousy Never Hurts

Vinny Mauro x Reader

Warnings: Language

"I'm thankful  it's almost the end of the semester and I'm still passing all my classes," you sigh as you lean back in your chair, propping your feet up on your desk. You run your fingers sleepily down your face, but considering the late hour it's no surprise you're tired.

Your boyfriend nods his head where he sits in the floor, leaning back into the bed you share as he plays video games. You know he's tired too, it's been a long semester and quite a struggle living with roommates, everyone having different schedules.

Still, it annoys you that he'd rather spend his free time playing games than talking to you. You've been together a year now, moved in with each other a few months ago to help with rent, and you feel like it's just not going quite as well now.

You like Vinny, he's cute, and really sweet when he's paying attention. Sometimes you think he can be rather childish and petty, a brat really, but that's what being an only child gets you. Sometimes you'd like nothing more than to lock the door and kick him out, throw his things dramatically out the window like you've seen on movies --- but only sometimes, the rest of the time you don't know if you can survive without him.

Now, actually, isn't one of those times.

He's getting on your nerves.

"Hey. Do you two want any takeout?" Your roommate asks, suddenly appearing in the doorway. He glances at your boyfriend, who's not even acknowledged him, before back at you where you sit resigned, feet still propped on your messy desk with an irritated expression. "(Y/N)?"

"Just order two of whatever you're getting." You tell him, forcing a smile. "I trust your judgement."

"I don't know if you should, but thanks. Oh, and here," he takes a few steps forward, stopping at the edge of your desk as he offers you a book. "This has been one of my favorite reads so far, I thought maybe you'd like it."

"Oh nice, thanks!" You brighten at the book he hands you, a little excited. Your roommate and you share a love of novels, fantasy books that take you to worlds you wish you could disappear into. You're close because of that, constantly swapping books back and forth, both of your rooms starting to pile up with them.

You flip the book open, letting your feet drop to the floor as you scan the synopsis on the back, curious. "It sounds pretty cool so far. Is there romance?"

"Among other things, yes."

"You know the romance is what I care about."

"Ahuh. There's also magic, wizards, demons, hunters who try to stop them without any parents to tell them what to do."

"They're always kids saving the world, huh? Why not someone our age, dying of sleep loss and trying to get a degree that won't help them at all?" You grumble, miffed. You're half tempted to write your own book, full of stupid, cheesy romance, about a girl struggling through college that somehow gets thrown into a supernatural fiasco that resorts in a hot, sweet, yet also badass boyfriend.

Too cliche?

Vinny glances over as you and your roommate talk, momentarily letting his controller rest in his lap. He had two exams today, his brain is fried and he just wanted to mindlessly play some video games before going straight to bed. It's the end of the semester and he's never been so stressed in his life.

Living with you makes it a little easier, you keep him straight and makes sure he doesn't screw up focusing on his studies. You're a nerd, but that's why he likes you so much, and you're cute, and nice when you're not harping at him like a mother.

You have a thing for books, which is what is causing your shared room to kind of fill up, not that he minds. If it makes you happy, you can have all you want. Your roommate is always coming in, leaving a book or taking one, the two of you chatting about it and going into your own little worlds.

Vinny gets jealous, admittedly. He wishes he could be so enthralled with something he goes all in to it, the way you and your friend do. He doesn't know the guy too well, they only talk because they live together, but he's not bad.

"What's going on?" He asks after a moment, just wanting to remind you that he's still in the room, that he's not invisible. His game is completely forgotten now, left on pause.

"Oh! He just recommended me another book to read," You reply, lifting it up slightly where it rests in your lap as you glance at him. "I'll give it back to you as soon as I'm done, Tony. Might take me a couple days, I still have some exams to study for."

"Don't worry about it. Just hand it back before the month is up so I can return it to the library."

Vinny frowns, crossing his arms across his chest.

You two talk so casually, and you're so relaxed with each other. He bites the inside of his cheek as he watches you interact, a tightening in his gut; this guy could so easily steal you away from him, you have more interests that match up. You both love fantasy worlds and books, talking about them, going to writing club and signings, whereas he could care less about all of that stuff. Fictional adventures with wizards and shadow hunters don't excite him like it does you guys.

Since the moment Tony moved in, he's watched the two of you grow closer and closer, and though sometimes he's quite sure Tony isn't interested in women, he still gets worried. He can't help the twisting, anxious feeling in his gut he tries to ignore all the time when he sees you together; he knows he's not perfect, he has his moments where he's a dick or a screwup, but he tries to make up for it.

"How's your last exam?" You ask your roommate, letting the book rest of your desk. "Do you think you passed?"

"Probably. I did enough cramming all I was thinking was equations, they haunted my dreams." The roommate shudders. "You?"

"Well, it's sink or swim, I guess. I was so nervous I couldn't sit still. I do not want to take that class over again."

"Let's hope you don't have too then."

"Hey, weren't you going to order food?" Vinny suddenly asks, interrupting the conversation before it goes too far. "Do you need my card or anything?"

"Oh no, I got you guys." The roommate hesitates, seeing Vinny's huffy look. "I'll go ahead and get something ordered, though. Anything you guys want in particular?"

"No." Vinny's reply is short. "Just whatever."

You send him a sharp look he ignores as he turns off the TV, getting to his feet. Your roommate purses his lips, merely nodding before taking a few steps out of the room, closing the door behind him.

"Vinny! What's with the attitude?" You scowl at him, annoyed. He's always such a jerk to your roommate, who you're starting to like more than your boyfriend. You don't know why he's always so snappy and short lately, it's getting on your nerves; so uncalled for!

"I don't have one," your boyfriend replies, sitting down on the edge of your shared bed, leaning down to grab his untied sneakers, jerking them on.

"You say with a bitchy tone." You grumble, slouching in your chair as you cross your arms. You eyeball him cautiously. "But seriously, what's your problem with Tony? He's a great roommate, he even orders us food when he's getting some, and lends me books. You borrow his toothpaste all the time since you're too cheap to buy your own."

It's not that Vinny is too cheap, he just keeps forgetting.

Vinny sighs. "I don't have an issue with Tony, alright? He's cool."

"Then what's wrong?" You genuinely don't understand.

"I just... you don't talk about stuff that way with me."

"I don't what?"

"When you and Tony talk about books, you're just --- so animated, I guess. You don't talk to me that way." he shrugs his shoulders, looking down as he fumbles with his laces. You get such bright eyes when you talk about books or the plot of them, the characters, you're so into it. It's like you immerse yourself in that world, leaving him out of it.

"I didn't think you were interested in listening to me talk about fantasy worlds." You reply, gazing at him. Is he jealous or something? "You've never seemed to be. It's just nice to have someone to share books and talk about them with, you've nothing to worry about. Tony is gay as hell anyway; you'd stand a better chance hooking up with him than I would."

Vinny rolls his eyes, his cheeks starting to get warm; he knows being jealous is stupid, he just can't help it. He really likes you, and he keeps worrying things are going to go wrong. He's never moved in with a girl before, and it seems like stuff is going fast with you.

"Are you going to answer me or ignore me?" You stare at him, irritated. You hate it when you say something or ask a question and he just doesn't respond to you, it drives you crazy!

"Er, sorry. I just, I dunno --- I wish I could be into like you are, but I'm not." he shrugs his shoulders. "I'm not much of a reader, and I can't get into it."

"We all have our different interests."

"I know."

"We both like Chinese food, and we both like to watch Gordon Ramsey yell at people. That's two things we share that I don't with anyone else," you say after a moment, wanting to make him feel better. "We talk about how annoying the patriarchy is, and we both want to move to Montana and start a cafe."

"Actually that last part is yours."

"Well, you never disagreed, figured we were on the same page."

Vinny's lips twitch, and finally he looks at you, seeing you're just gazing at him, leaning back comfortably in your chair.

"I know I shouldn't be jealous, it's dumb. I just can't help it."

"You're an only child, you just don't like sharing." You tease him, trying to lighten the mood a little. He smiles slightly, and you reach over, curling your fingers through his; the room is small, you can take on step and be on the bed beside him, so you're not too far away. "Well, we're not always going to like the same things, and  that's okay. I'm definitely not going to run off with our gay roommate. Does that make you feel better?"

"A little."

"Good." You squeeze his cold fingers. "Now let's go make sure he doesn't want to move out because he's unloved."

"I don't want to."

"Oh, come on," you get to your feet and pull, forcing him to follow suit. "Feel a little better about it now?"

"Only if you kiss me."

"Kiss you? Why would I do that?" You scoff, even as you're turning to face him, your fingers threading through his as you smile. You lean forward, pressing a soft kiss against his lips, feeling him sigh into you. His hand rises, cupping your cheek as he deepens the kiss, just holding onto you for a few moments.

This is one of the reasons you're with him. You can have a disagreement, but he's so easy to talk too, to work it out with. He listens, he thinks about it, and he's sometimes pretty reasonable about it. Plus you love it when he ends up making up with a kiss, it's always so sweet, so cheesy it makes you melt on the inside.

You suppose a little jealousy never hurts when you end up getting kisses like this.

[azurevi]

on land where we can touch the moon (2/?)

PART 1 PART 3

A quick note- this is pretty messy. I'm planning as I write, so there'll be information scattered across the words, and it may be overwhelming...kinda. I have added a little note about what happened in this chapter in the end. This series is also up on ao3.

There is, naturally, a reason Azul was stuck with the name 'The Sea Merchant'.

It wasn't a bad name, and there was no hint of degradation in it. It just wasn't particularly suiting. Azul wasn't a merchant. He wasn't even a shopkeeper. He was just invested in a little magic, and this hobby of his got leaked out somehow. 

His magic was certainly something. It's A Deal allowed him to confiscate another person's valued quality in exchange for their wish. Anything could come to life as long as the deal was equal.

Only the drunk and people in desperate need of help ever went to him for help. After Azul had started mastering his magic, he reckoned that it hadn't been used to its full potential. If the person on the other side of the deal failed to meet the requirement, Azul could take even more from them without suffering any loss. 

And so he sugarcoated and exaggerated his words, put up the most professional smile he could manage. For a few weeks all was well. He'd gained himself a melodious voice, splendid flexibility and a ton of unique magics, but nothing great ever lasted. He was soon exposed as a scammer and his notoriety was whispered among the streets, passed on and on until every family warned their kids not to ever run into him. And Azul, with his fame and prosperity wilting under the gossip and points of fingers, was forced into giving up his success.

He had been in hiding ever since.

He could never understand how something as atrocious could happen to him. If it hadn't been for the sneers and isolation in the entirety of his childhood, he wouldn't have grown up hating everything and everyone around him that called him ugly, unwanted, repulsive. It should've justified his desire for revenge.

Instead, God decided that his suffering was not anywhere close to enough and kicked him down the cliff where he was crying for help.

That being said, Azul was grateful to have Jade and Leech sticking around after everything. The two of them were also unpopular among others, so they eventually got close as a tight-knitted trio.

"No you didn't," Jade said firmly. 

"I did, Jade. I did," Azul sighed, "They were dying, Jade, I couldn't just let them die,"

"Well, you should've."

"Don't be so uptight. Azul was doing the right thing, wasn't he?" Floyd winked. "So. Were they good-looking?"

"What?"

"The human. You must've saved them for a reason,"

Azul hated how Floyd's words implied that he would never do good unless there was something in it for him, but one could never lie in the face of truth. 

"I just didn't want to let them die. It was their birthday,"

"What does that have to do with everything?" Jade asked. "You went above the water. You saved a human. You were almost caught. You could've died up there, you know. How did you even manage to breathe?"

"I just… did." Azul said, twirling his tentacles in nervousness. Jade was entirely disapproving of his actions, while Floyd on the contrary seemed to be mildly intrigued. 

Everything still felt like a fever dream. All the fireworks and cheering and explosion were still vividly scorched into his mind as if they'd been put on repeat. The splendid colors, light giggles and- 

And those beautiful eyes of yours. The way your hair flowed in the night sky with ease, how you laughed like tomorrow was promised and your life had been planned out before you, a clear and untainted path to success. Azul couldn't decide on whether he was jealous or amazed.

"Well, you better hope they didn't really see you, or that they forgot about it. If the humans come down here to hunt us down-" Jade couldn't even bear to finish the imagination. He simply shook his head in dismay.

"I swear I saw someone! I couldn't have just been washed ashore!"

"Apparently, you were," Jack said, stroding with large steps that had you panting to keep up. "Near-death experiences do things to our mind, your majesty,"

"That may be the case for others, but I'm sure I was conscious," you retorted. "I woke up to a pair of pale, azure eyes, then in a blink they were behind the rock. If it hadn't been for you-"

"I apologize for worrying about you, your majesty."

You bit your tongue. Fighting with Jack always ended with him being passive-aggressive and you stepping back reluctantly. Plus he was as stern as a rock. Almost nothing could move his belief.

Shouting and grunting could be heard from inside the medical room where Ace, Deuce and Grim were being tended to.

Jack flung open the door, and the three stumbled to get into the blankets and put on a excruciated expression.

"I see you're all healed up," Jack said. Ace hummed lowly and slapped his forehead with the back of his hand. 

"I'm at death's door, commander. It pains me to say this, but I might need to take more days off,"

Jack was quiet for a while, and you could almost see a drop of sweat sliding down Ace's forehead.

"And you, Deuce?" Jack challenged.

"I'm traumatized," 

"And Grim?"

You arched your brow, at which he shivered in fear. "I- I'm feeling fine already,"

"So it's just Ace and Deuce, right?" Jack said. Ace and Deuce nodded their heads so hard they could fall off.

"Alright. Your health is of utmost importance to us, so I'll contact the Raven Healer…"

"The what?!" Deuce's voice croaked.

"The Raven Healer. Surely you've heard of him. He's best known for being able to treat any diseases, both mentally and physically,"

You were sure there were sweats rolling down Ace's cheeks now. "But- but doesn't he heal by using bizzare mediciness…?"

"Oh yes. His magic is what makes him such an infallible doctor. You two seem to be in a lot of pain. I'm sure he'll free you of your suffering."

You turned sharply towards the door and stifled a laughter. 

"That's… not very necessary…" Deuce's voice faltered word by word. He was fully aware that he'd already lost. "You know what, commander? I think I can dive back into work right this instant!"

Jack smirked smugly. "Splendid. And you, Ace?"

The two of them stared at each other so intensely there seemed to be sparkles between them. Finally, Ace gave in. "I'll start work tomorrow,"

They didn't even wait for Jack to walk completely out of the door to whine. They looked fully healthy, even more energized than you.

"Anyways, did you find your saviour?"

You sighed. Ace and Deuce were still skeptical about your 'story', which you'd corrected to 'experience', but at least they were open-minded. 

"No clues. I've had guards patrolling about every two hours. Nothing has yet to happen,"

They eyed each other uneasily, then back at you with a worried face. Before they could make assumptions, you defended yourself. "No, I'm not sick. My head's not concussed,"

"Well," Grim scurried to your lap. "Perhaps your saviour doesn't wish to be found?"

That'd be unwanted. You would wish for anything but to create troubles for your lifesaver. Nonetheless, you knew you wouldn't be able to sleep without sending your gratitude. 

Alright, there might be a selfish motif. You were admittedly curious about those light, pensive eyes and silvery, gleaming hair under sunlight. All these unknown were like a gravity pool, pulling you deeper and deeper into the mystery.

"Well, you ought not to lose hope," Ace patted your shoulder casually, like you weren't the princette of the kingdom he was serving for. "Maybe you'll actually run into him. Fate has a weird habit for setting unexpected traps."

It wasn't so much love as a tender curiosity, but the line segregating them was so flimsy that one's got to mix them up at some point.

Azul found himself in such a dilemma. He couldn't decide whether it was attraction or nosiness that he was feeling. Either way, it's got him hooked like a drug. Something beautiful had finally entered his life like light piercing through a thick fog of ink, and it was possessive. Azul had a feeling that it wouldn't go away until it had drained him of his mind.

The door to his room was thrown open and Azul had to hide the peeled petals and green stem in a jumble. He had been chanting 'they love me, they love me not' for the past hour. To his luck, Jade and Leech didn't seem to have noticed his haste expression. They were both panting when they swam inside.

"What's wrong?" Azul's first instinct was that something had gone south.

"There-" Floyd wheezed. "There's a sta-"

"There's a fallen statue in the Coral Maze," Jade finished the sentence. "People are fussing over it,"

"Okay," Azul eased back into his bed. He'd already lost interest at 'Coral Maze'. It was at the centre of where the majority of sea creatures inhabited. Nothing could make him go anywhere near civilization and its hubristic aesthetic again.

Or so he thought.

"No- you don't get it. It's a statue of a human that sank along with wreckages of a big ship, and it's made of gold,"

A statue made of gold.

He recalled it now. It was supposed to be your birthday present. The consternation of what followed the present revelation had been so intense that it'd washed the memory of the statue out.

"We just thought that it could be the statue you mentioned in your story, you know? It looked really grand…" Floyd sighed.

Azul wanted to get up and swim over right there, right then, but he knew he couldn't. What would others say to him the moment they saw the shadows of their tentacles crawling on their pure and oh-so royal ground? What accusations would they throw his way? How many children will be led away from him like he was some man-eating, brutal abomination?

Not to mention the unforgiving rage he'd evoked in trying to scam them in the past. Dishonesty was highly criticised in their high-class society. It was as if they were saints that had never done one thing wrong. Bet they'd never even stayed up past midnight.

"You ought to come take a look!" Floyd suggested. A casual, friendly proposal.

"No," Azul snapped. "No, no. I'm not going there,"

"They're planning to use the gold," Jade said. "You know how they are. They see one thing from the ground and start screeching in pain,"

They were going to use your statue. The statue that was perhaps the only thing that was related to you, the one way to never have to forget about you again in case that you never met again.

And to imagine the effect it'd add to his collections! A big gold statue in the centre of his grotto, accentuated by the sparkling of other jewelries. It'd be complete.

"I'll sit on it," Azul decided. He was not to act rashly, lest he walked one step wrong and brought upon himself misery and misfortune. If he really was to pay a visit, he would act in secret. Perhaps in the veil of the night. 

"Just don't act alone, okay?" Jade said. Azul nodded despite not paying any mind to him.

In the dead of the night Azul decided to sneak out. Alone. It was a mistake, really. Azul couldn't stop thinking about your statue, and by the time he realized how absurd it was, he'd already gone to the Coral Maze.

There was nary a shadow except his own. Still, it was much lighter than where he lived even at night. The distorted image of the moon waved from above as Azul made his way through the many identical corals. Then he finally found your majestic statue standing solemnly in the centre. The only beauty in the water.

It was a sight for sore eyes. White, pure light reflected off the gold and created streams of gleams onto the ground. That someone would ever find it to be disgraceful was incomprehensible to Azul. Something like this deserved to be put on display in the museum for all to see.

There was no radiance on your face and no splendid colors in your eyes. It was merely a fraction of what you were. Nonetheless, it was enough for Azul.

"Who's roaming there?" an alerted voice asked. When Azul turned, he saw a silhouette looming from outside the Coral Maze, holding two anglerfishes in hands and waving them in the water.

Panic was the only thing Azul felt as he hid behind the statue, struggling to keep his tentacles out of sight. The light stayed right in front of him for a while before skimming away.

Azul grabbed the statue and swam, pushing his tentacles through the water as hard as he could. 

"Wait there- oh goodness!" 

There were several voices now, mumbling and inquiring. Then light was casted upon his flitting figure and there were bemused gasps before someone yelled, "Seize him!"

Azul was out of breath. He wished he excelled in fitness but instead he was stuck with incongruous tentacles that would never cooperate at the most needed times.

A hand grasped the end of his tentacle but slipped off. He kept the statue tight in his arms, as if his life depended on it. He could tell that they were near now, and was trying very hard not to imagine the gruesome outcomes.

Someone grabbed his tentacles. He faltered and was pulled back despite protests.

"Keep him in place!" another person yelled as the crowd moved to keep Azul fenced in.

Azul couldn't see anything. Everything was a poor mixture of shadow and distaste and sneers. He was probably going to die right there.

"I can't believe you have the guts to come back, Ashengrotto. After all the things you've done!" someone spoke up.

"Yeah! How shameless of you!”

"And he's stealing our properties now! Imagine how desperate he is,"

"You guys don't even want it!" Azul said.

Some guy lurched forward. Azul cowered backwards.

"It's disgusting, yes, but it's still gold." he said as if it was a completely just thing to do. "It landed on our ground, so it belongs to us. On the contrary, you don't have the rights to lay your filthy hands on it. What more do you want to steal from us?"

"I'm taking this because none of you understand the beauty of it!"

This evoked a negative reaction from the crowd, but words could never be taken back. Azul could feel his heart pounding like a prisoner hellbent on escaping. He had to escape. No more of this degrading gazes. No more of the points of fingers.

"Beauty?" the guy scoffed, and for a moment his face scrunched up and he was ready to spit out rage, but then it softened into a smug smirk. "I guess only ugly understands ugly, huh?"

Azul's head throbbed.

"It doesn't justify your actions, ink-blasting thief. Hand that piece of trash over right- uff!"

He was flung deep into the water until he disappeared into nothing but a black dot. People around Azul immediately made way as they fled in screams and wails. His tentacle was still tingling with the impact, but he couldn't quite feel it. Even if he did, he couldn't care less as he skyrocketed to the surface of the water. He blinked and blinked, but his eyes were still blurred by what would be mixed into the seawater eventually. 

He'd had enough. Heard enough, seen enough. If he'd spent one more second down there he would have suffocated to death.

The familiar freshness of air welcomed him the moment he broke through the water's persistence. The land wasn't far ahead. He swam towards it as if it was his sanctuary. 

There was a man sitting on the rock, face hidden under the hood. Azul considered retreating. He had no idea what would happen to him if he was spotted, but nothing better would happen if he were to go back. So he continued swimming and crawled onto the cool soft sand, only letting his head be seen by the man as he hid behind yet another rock where he placed the much valued statue.

He seemed to be asleep, chest heaving up and down at a steady pace. Just as Azul started sliding out, the man raised his head and looked straight at Azul.

They were a pair of humming, white circles, seemingly void of any sentiments. The man had a mask on that shielded his face except for his tightly shut lips. Two crows were staring right at him with the same uncanny manner.

"You've finally arrived," the man said.

Probably the humans had been searching for him. Azul decided to keep his mouth shut.

"I've been hearing your calls…" he tilted his head. "You can come out. I know what you are,"

Azul still hesitated. But he was much closer to the ocean than to the guy, so he slowly let his tentacles into light.

The man remained calm, not a bit taken back by the revelation.

"Well, I've been hearing your calls…" he resumed.

"I never called out to any humans,"

"Not literally. But you have been calling out a lot," he smiled amiably. "You have to know that it's especially hard for me to hear from creatures undersea, so if your wishes managed to reach me, it means you're pretty desperate,"

"I think you have the wrong person," Azul said and started retreating.

The guy sprang up and his crows curled up together beside him. "Wait- I should introduce myself first. I'm the Raven Healer,"

Azul pondered for a while. "That doesn't explain anything except for the crows,"

"You lots haven't heard of me?" he frowned so deep that his brows and eyes were a cluster. "You guys are really secluded,"

That was when Azul finally realized that he knew about them. About all the lives and creatures that inhabited the deep sea.

"And I mean no harm to your realm. My only target is you," he smiled again, this time at an ominous angle.

"Well, I'm quite famous in this realm. I heal people for a living, whether it be physical or emotional needs. Anything you need, I can grant you,"

That's not very different from Azul's magic. 

"Sometimes, when someone is really desperate for a change, their thoughts can be heard by my crows. And you, Azul Ashengrotto…" his smile dropped a bit and his eyes drooped. "is particularly distressed,"

"Alright. It was nice meeting you," Azul nodded respectfully. The man didn't seem to be harmful. If he fled right now, he could probably throw him off.

The Raven Healer stilled, then burst into piles of blatant laughter. "No, no. I've been looking for you, don't you get it? I'm here to grant your wish!"

I'm here to grant your wish. Like how Azul'd promoted his business as the Sea Merchant.

"I understand that you've been suffering quite a lot, and that you want a change. But nothing ever comes without a cost… I'm sure you can understand,"

The healer stood up, the material of his greatcoat fluttering in the wind. He made his way freely to Azul, who could only freeze up as he inspected the statue with great interest.

"The heir to the throne! I see why you're desperate now. They're a real catch," the healer then looked down at the outstretched tentacles without a word. Azul prayed in his mind that he would turn away from them.

"Well, here are my terms. I will grant you a pair of legs in exchange for your magic,"

Wait, what?

Azul was pretty sure the Raven Healer was just imitating him now. A great figure appearing out of the blue to answer your hopes. The catch was that the figure would always take away your most important thing. It was never a fair deal, Azul was aware.

"I don't think you need my magic," Azul breathed.

"Why, I do!" he exclaimed. "Collecting magic is a splendid hobby of mine! It is because of all these magic that I am such a renowned magician,"

He was obviously lying. His smile couldn't reach his eyes, and the orbs where his eyes were supposed to be were humming like a hazard label.

"I think I'll be just fine," Azul hurriedly brought the statue to his chest and started sliding away.

"...How are you going to survive?"

"What?" Azul swiveled, exhausted.

"Up here. With your…" the healer wiggled his fingers.

"I'll find a way,"

"No you won't," the healer protested. Azul looked up to the sky, took a deep breath and decided to entertain him. 

"Why so?"

"You're gonna cause ruckus. Chaos. People are not especially used to seeing half-man half-octopuses roaming their land," he said honestly. 

Despite knowing all this, Azul still considered his word rude. There was a thin line between blunt and disrespectful, and he'd just crossed it. 

"There won't be anyone dealing with you, will there?"

"...I suppose not-"

"Exactly! I am your only hope!" he exclaimed once again, throwing his hands up in the air like a dramatist. "Unless you want to go back?"

Azul glanced at the serene water. He knew that down there, the mermaids and mermen must be panicking over what'd just happened.

"You can't hold onto that statue forever. If you really wish to stay here-"

"I just came, Mr. Healer. I'm not going to stay,"

"Yet. Come on now," he groaned, as if he was the one exasperated. "I know you want it. You need it. So what are you waiting for? You're never going to see all the beauties in this world in this state!"

He was right. Agonizingly right. He couldn't just walk around as an octopus. It would be like a stain on a quaint painting. Moreover, now that he was here, he couldn't just give up the chance to find you again. It's not like the ocean would welcome him anyways.

As if hearing his thoughts, the Raven Healer reached his hand out, "Deal? Your magic for a pair of legs. It's a fantastic trade if you think about it,"

One second. Two second. Azul didn't wait until the third to act on it. The moment their skin touched, Azul felt a stream of warmth coursing through him, rushing to his throat, where he choked up a luminous blue orb. It was within the healer's fingers within seconds.

"And your legs," he rummaged inside his pocket. There seemed to be numerous tiny objects inside as he dug around. Finally, he pulled up a thumb-size bottle and handed it to Azul.

He downed the slimy liquid inside under the healer's encouraging nods, and almost gagged at the sensation. "Guh! What the hell is-"

His tentacles started glowing a bright yellow, bright enough to attract people in this dead of the night. They started to shrink until they completely disappeared, and a pair of human legs replaced them.

He couldn't believe his eyes as he stretched around and surveyed the changes on his body. It took him quite some time to adjust to it, but he was surprisingly good at it. The fabric of the pants that came with the gift fluttered against his 'flesh' like a mother's caress. He felt normal, for once. Not some ugly monster that preyed on innocent kids. Not a marginalized criminal. Not even a wicked fraud. He was just a human wanting to explore the world.

"Three days," the Raven Healer said.

"What?" Azul was too joyous to pay real mind.

"If you can't find the most beautiful thing after three days, you will dissolve into sea bubbles,"

Azul stilled as he comprehended his words, then he started to chant no in his mind. He'd fallen for his trap.

"You didn't mention it at all!" Azul yelled. "Refund! You're scamming me!"

"The pot's calling the kettle black now. How comical," the healer giggled. Azul's heart dropped to the bottom.

"Consider this your own medicine. It's not like you're completely at loss over here!"

"Wait!" Azul reached out to grasp his fainting figure, which had become an opaque vision. 

"We shall reunite in three days. Until then, enjoy."

All that was left was the crashing of the waves and songs of the crickets. Bathed in the glow of the moon, Azul finally came to the conclusion that he'd fucked up.

Life never stopped to give him a break. There were haste footsteps nearing from behind. Azul instinctively retracted his tentacles, but forgot about their absence and tripped instead.

"Yikes! That was a nasty fall. Are you okay?" 

Looking up, two formally looking men were standing above him, one with crimson hair and another navy. There was a sword attached to each of their sides.

"Yeah. I-I'm fine," Azul cleared his throat and stood up.

"Are you homeless?" The redhead asked and was immediately hit by his companion.

"You can't go around asking people whether they are homeless!" he scolded, then turned to Azul brightly. "You must be in search of shelter! Please follow us!"

"That isn't any better," 

"Shut up," the blue-haired snapped with the same polite smile. "Come on, Mr…?"

"A-Azul. Azul Ashengrotto,"

"Yes, Mr. Ashengrotto. We can't have you catching a cold out here,"

Despite his friendly facade, Azul could see underlying motives lurking beneath. But clueless that he was, he didn't have a choice but to follow suit towards the castle-like building in the far distance.

"Your majesty will be pleased to see you," the redhead murmured, but Azul couldn't quite catch that.

"What was that?" he asked.

"It's nothing," was all that he received. "Just that you'll surely love the place."

Conclusion : Azul had once gone around scamming others with his unique magic but was busted and had been further criticised since. The Raven Healer is obviously Crowley, and his magic will be further explained in next chapter.

[gallavictorious]

Do you think Mickey feels he got closure with terry?

Short answer and based on what we’ve seen so far: not really, no. Or rather: not yet.

Long (and I do mean really quite long) answer below.

Admittedly, writing on this topic now, before we’ve seen how Mickey deals with the aftermath of Terry’s death in the next episode, strikes me as a bit of a fool’s errand, because what we get on Sunday will (probably, hopefully) offer us more insight into how he feels about his dad and their relationship now. But I am fascinated with the subject, so I’m going to go ahead and indulge in rambling, though with the proviso that everything below is a tentative analysis that might well need to be revised once 11x09 has aired. As always, I’m glad of other people’s input, because I suspect I’m nowhere near done forming my opinion on this.

Before we start, I’d like to note that this post solely and specifically addresses how Mickey reacts to his dad and trauma on the show; it’s not a statement on how actual live trauma victims should or should not relate to their abusers. That really, really isn’t for me to say. Okay?

All right, then. Let’s get to it:

Following 10x12 I thought that Mickey was pretty much done with Terry; as far as he was concerned, that bridge was burned once Terry burned down The Bamboo Lotus, and even though they must have reached some sort of unspoken cold war type of truce (ie not actively trying to kill one another) Mickey seemed content to ignore his dad. No more asking for advice; no more helping out with various “jobs”; no more attempts at some semblance of a relationship, be it a cordial one or a murderous one. What we got in 11x06 didn’t really change that: seeing Terry thus weakened understandably stirred a lot of emotion in Mickey but both his choice not to kill his dad and his choice to eventually help him have arguably less to do with Terry or Mickey’s relationship to him, and more to do with what sort of person Mickey wants to be. At that point, he chooses to be a man stepping away from his father’s hateful legacy, wanting to be better than that. (And by God, Mickey dearest, you are so much better than that.) And that could have been the end of it, you know? That could have been closure of a sort – not in the sense that it in any way healed the wounds of the past, but in the sense that it signified Mickey finding a way to live with the hurt that allows him to move forward.

Now, we knew (from the episode descriptions) this wasn’t the end of their story, but I was still surprised by Mickey’s overt preoccupation with Terry in 11x08. This isn’t just someone doing the (more than) decent thing to be a decent person, this is genuine concern for Terry’s welfare – and while part of it might be tied to the ingrained idea that “family is family” and while Mickey is still very much aware of the fact that Terry is an utter piece of shit, it’s very hard not to read this as Mickey – once more, and probably without fully acknowledging it– being driven by a latent wish for his father’s approval, that need for connection. (As I’ve argued before, I think that’s why Ian’s not necessarily very enthusiastic about Mickey’s dedication, even though he thinks everyone should receive aid and even though he probably is quite taken with Mickey being so caring.)

But while I didn’t really see it coming, I do like it. I get why you’d rather have him finally and vocally and possibly violently denounce his dad; it’d be cathartic, surely, for a lot of people to see that. But to me, what we get feels truer to the complex push and pull of their fractured bond and is quite frankly more interesting to me because it is messy and complicated and unfinished. Terry is a nightmare; he’s still Mickey’s dad; the relationship between an abusive parent and a child is often highly complex, and I think the show has done a consistently good job of showing that. 11x08 is no exception. You might think Mickey should tell his dad to fuck of once and for all because Terry doesn’t deserve Mickey’s time or devotion (I mean, he really doesn’t), but I find it highly realistic that Mickey would opt for this instead now that it’s a possibility. (It’s relevant to note, I think, that Mickey only allows himself to approach Terry again when Terry is helpless and not in a position to actually harm him; Mickey’s ultimately in control here, and I think that’s very important.)

So yeah, I think Mickey is searching for something from his dad still, but I don’t think he quite gets it. Can’t get it, really.

See, I believe that Terry, to some small degree at least, regrets not having a better relationship with Mickey: that’s how I read “you’d probably have made a half-decent son”. However, his regret isn’t tied to any notions of “I wish I’d been better and given another chance I’d try to do things differently” but instead an expression of “yeah, it suck’s that you’re gay so I had to hate you”. It’s not an acceptance of responsibility or even a vague hint of being willing to change or to accept Mickey for who he is, and because of that – because Terry is not willing or able to change and because Mickey will no longer accept anything less – Mickey’s potential but unvoiced dreams of reconciliation cannot be fulfilled. (And let’s be clear: even if Terry did repent and changed and made what amends he could that doesn’t undo or make up for the damage he has done and Mickey has zero obligation to forgive him or spend even another second in his company.)

So it’s not enough – what could be? – but it is something. A grudging acknowledgment of Mickey’s good qualities, an admission that he is desirable as a son – or would be, if it weren’t for that one thing. :/ It’s recognition and rejection all wrapped into one, and I really like Mickey’s response: he makes it clear that he knows that he’s not the problem here and that he’s fully aware of what an evil bastard Terry is but that he still chooses to be there; chooses to feed Terry and find him a nurse, rather than scoop his eyeballs out or piss on him or use his mouth for a fucking ashtray.

It reminds me of a passage from the Swedish novel Beartown by Fredrik Backman: “She will hold all the power in that moment, but she will spare him. She doesn’t forgive, she doesn’t pardon, she merely spares him. He will always know it.” (2017[2016]:466, my translation.)

It’s remarkable too, I find, that Mickey doesn’t try to hide his hurt here: he allows himself to be vulnerable, to let his father see the pain he has caused. And Terry doesn’t pounce on it; he doesn’t scorn Mickey’s “weakness” or argue with his denunciation; he accepts the judgement and opens his mouth to accept the food without further protest, accepting – in that moment, at least – what Mickey chooses to give him. He concedes his loss of power and his dependance on the son he tortured and disowned. (But it’s not like he gives fully either – there’s no apology, no thanks, no actually asking for help: he just opens his mouth. It’s a lot for Terry, and I think we can acknowledge that, but it doesn’t change the fact that he is an utter and total asshole – and I’m glad that the show didn’t have him do more, because that would have felt… unlikely to me.)

It’s such a small thing, and so far less than what Mickey deserves, but probably more than he expected at this point. In time I think it will be helpful to him, to have gotten even this much, but at the time of Terry’s death I’d argue that it adds to rather than lessens Mickey’s burden. Because it’s possible that this could serve as a bookend to their relationship: not a reconciliation but as much of peace as they’ll ever know – eyes lifted to momentarily meet across the abyss in one brief instance of seeing, and being seen by, one another. But going only by what we get in 11x08 I don’t think that this is quite it, and rather than Mickey (in the moment) taking this as the final word or where they stand I think that he – in spite of everything Terry has done – can’t help but think of this exchange as an opening, the potential start of something. Not sure it’s a conscious thing, or how comfortable he is with this notion, because of course he is still very angry with and hates his dad, but consider the way he keeps looking at his phone and insisting they check back in with the nurse: that’s not the actions of someone who has laid things to rest and let it go, that’s Mickey doubling down on being a concerned son and… Yeah. As things stand, I tend to think that he was hoping against hope that maybe, possibly–

And then Terry is dead and Mickey is left with all of his conflicting emotions and nothing to do with them. It’d have been easier, probably, if it hadn’t been for that tiny, tiny softening; that small flare of hope I think Mickey might be quite angry with himself for feeling, if he admits to feeling it at all. It’d be easier if he could just hate Terry, you know?

Now, we don’t know what Mickey would have done if Terry (and that’s a big fucking if) had ever indicated any actual regret. But whether Mickey would have wanted that opportunity to rekindle a relationship with his father or if he’d have used to spit in Terry’s face and spend five hours telling him why Mickey would never forgive him and felt nothing but hatred and revulsion for him, that choice was forever and finally taken from him.

However, I don’t think this means that Mickey won’t find closure; I believe he will, and I think – hope – that we’ll get to see some of that in the next episode. Because the thing about Terry not being willing or able to change means that he would never have been able to give Mickey what he truly needed anyway (and as mentioned, even if he did change there’s no undoing his crimes). It was always going to come down to Mickey finding a way to live with the scars; finding a way to make some sort of peace with the past (which doesn’t have to include making peace with Terry at all) and to let it be the past. He doesn’t strictly speaking need Terry for that and given what an asshole Terry is, maybe it’s actually easier to manage it when he’s not around to fuck it up.

So yeah. It’s not likely to be sweet or neat or even very conclusive – these things rarely are and recovery is a process – but I think that Mickey will get some closure one way or another, and I believe that in the end he’ll be glad for the tiny moment they shared just before Terry’s death, even if it’s a complicating factor now.

(It should also be noted that Terry isn’t horrible just as an evil response to Mickey being gay; he was plenty horrible to him and the rest of his kids outside of that too. Consider Mickey listing the awful things Terry did when Mickey was just a kid; consider Mandy telling Debbie in season 5 that she learned how to cover up a bruise form living with Terry. The attempted murder(s) and corrective rape and disowning Mickey was a result of Terry’s virulent homophobia, but he was an awful father long before he knew Mickey was gay. So even without the homophobia, there’d be a hell of a lot to hate him for.)

There’s certainly more to say on this topic, and I think that we’ll have reason to return to it come Sunday - but for now, that’s most of my thoughts, I think.

[mc-critical]

Asking because I’ve seen you say it on here: What is it that you disliked about Mahifiruze and Aysë as characters (writing or otherwise?)

It's not a problem of sympathy alone, because while these characters have quite a few offputting qualities and have certainly done some heinous deeds, it would be unfair to judge them only by that. There are way worse people in the franchise, which turn me off way more, after all. (*cough* MCK Turhan *cough*) Sympathy-wise, I'm overally ambivalent towards both Ayşe and Mahfiruze and if we only take that into account, I can take or leave them. It's their writing, however, where things take a different turn. Almost everything went wrong there.

The critical problem I find with both of the characters is that they're engrained in one and the same character archetype the writers refuse to get them out of. That brings harm not only to their characterization and the way they're built up, but also to the sympathy we're supposed to feel for them, because, more often than not, it didn't have a ground to stand on. It's true that archetypes often risk to make a character bland and one-dimensional, but the way they went with it is strange and unfortunate, because this all could've been averted quickly.

Magnificent Century's character core is mostly built on archetypes of a soapy drama and Magnificent Century: Kösem seemed to be following that trend. I understand that choice, in a way, because well, it could've just been easier for them, they could've thought they would win their former MC audience once again, playing it "familiar" and "safe". Thing is, the whole franchise overally does pretty well with archetypes: they either subvert them, deconstruct them or break them entirely later, either (in the case of MCK where we saw many previously established MC archetypes) use them with some core conceptual changes and a different theme in mind, which, as far as writing goes, worked very well with many characters. (see: Dervish - Ibrahim; Dilruba - Mihrimah; Atike - Mihrimah; Davud - Rustem, etc.) The thing is though, the writers didn't give Ayşe and Mahfiruze any of that and their archetypes felt like they only were in the beggining line, going almost nowhere beyond that and making the characters feel very often as cardboard cutouts as a result. They're going with archetypes, but they somehow give only a single fraction of these archetypes to figures that play a relatively big role in the story.

Comparisons to other usages of the character archetype of Mahfiruze and Ayşe's help even less, because everything now not only turned out to be a bad concept, but and a shaky, underdeveloped attempt at something done way better before. Mahfiruze and Ayşe both fit in Mahidevran's early season 1 archetype - the rejected, jealous woman, previously valued and loved by the Sultan, which loses everything quickly, planning and ready to do anything to take the rival down, including petty sneers, irrational decisions and will for murder. But even at its worst, Mahidevran's characterization was balanced overall, having moments where we could sympathize or condemn her respectively and had character fleshing out come to the surface as often as the reducement to this one sole archetype, which was lacking severely in Ayşe and Mahfiruze. I'll talk about the similarities they share with Mahidevran only briefly when I analyze them, because I'm admittedly very biased when it comes to this (especially with the double standarts I encounter with the YT comments, where the same people judge Mahidevran and Ayşe by the exact same metric and yet, they love one and can trash the other all day, eh.) and I don't want that to take over the topic at hand so much.

Mahfiruze has the problems I listed above to a much lesser extent than Ayşe, but that doesn't mean they're not present at all. She has a very familiar character role and personality - she is a mother to the eldest heir of the throne and gives jabs and insults to her rival. And.. that's all there is. It's undeniable than Dilara Aksuek's Mahfiruze definetly had a tough act to follow, since the former Mahfiruz screamed potential and promise the latter character was expected to fulfill, but they did the barest possible minimum. (and I don't think Dilara's a bad actress by any means: she acted amazingly in the show Istambullu Gelin as Ipek, an arguably similar and much better written character.) It definitely felt as more of a regression than a progression, because Mahfiruze had no fleshing out or development at all. Her meanness to Kösem seemed central to her character, she barely had any interactions with the rest of the cast and what is worse, used her as a plot device for a plot-line with Ahmet's enemies and then when her role was fulfilled, they.. killed her off just like that without any warning or elaboration. She was the very definition of a one-dimensional obstacle to Kösem that seemed to exist only for the sake to be an obstacle to Kösem. It was as if she didn't matter. And when she did, it was only as a narrative instrument to stir the conflict between Kösem and Osman (which I find very interesting, but I feel it would've been way more impactful if Mahfiruze wasn't only... this.) It was as if the writers ran out of stuff to do with her, which is a very lazy copout for me, because she could've had interesting storylines, if only they just wished to "shake up" the traits of her archetype for a bit.

Ayşe's character is where this repetitive problem shines through the brightest. We can argue that the love triangle plot and Farya's Mary Sue stance ruined it all for her from the get go, but for me, the foundation of her character is what truly did. Ayşe wasn't used simply as a plot device as much, she wasn't even underutilized at all, she was put into an archetype which undermines how different she is as a character in practice and the greatly dissimilar circumstances she's under. They tried to fit Mahidevran's S01 archetype in an environment it would never do in the first place. It not only becomes a stagnant, more over exaggerated repetition of a concept and forces unnecessary drama to prop another character up, it way too often puts a sole angle of Ayşe's character into focus, making Farya the center of her writing. Not to mention that for long, we didn't have a cohesive reason to root for her, her early love for Murat being the thing that was the least fleshed out about her and could make her too obsessive and yandere at times. Her interactions are criminally underdeveloped, as well, and unlike Mahfiruze, that could honestly be cut shorter except for Osman, they were something Ayşe desperately needed. We got only hints of her relationship with Kösem, Silahtar and Gevherhan and that was far from enough. Most of her scenes were either with her maid or Farya. Her alliances with Gülbahar and Sinan respectively were... fine interarion-wise, to be honest, but writing-wise, they only enforced the fairly consistent endorsement of the soapy aspect of her character beyond any measure.

Now, I can't doubt the development in her later episodes, where the writing admittedly improved. I'll always love her scene before the death of Gevherhan and her message to Murat, because that's the Ayşe I wish I saw more often. The self-awareness she gained of how Murat screwed her over was amazing and something I wish happened more gradually and over the span of more episodes. But it was all somehow "too little, too late" for me and it didn't completely save her messy writing. And it's a crime, because Ayşe played a much bigger role than Mahfiruze in the narrative, she was basically a main character and she got robbed of a good, organic fleshing out and arc.

Ayşe was the most egregious example of the severe flawed writing of repetitive archetypes and catch me forever mad about it, because she could've been much more. It's a mistake that had no business being there at all. And it was anyway.

[notveryglittery]

misc royality #3

summary: patton and roman talk after “putting others first” words: 2k / ship: royality warnings: might come across as a little harsh towards deceit but that’s definitely the author′s bias versus how the characters feel. uh, outburst of emotions, hiding one’s feelings. lmk if there’s anything else. author’s note: BEFORE YOU READ, PLEASE UNDERSTAND THAT THIS IS UNFINISHED!! I DO NOT HAVE PLANS TO FINISH IT!! it stops at a point that can be considered a happy ending, in my opinion, or at the very least hopeful and heading towards resolution. i started writing this on may 11 and have since read too many posts about the episode/royality during or after the episode/etc to feel happy with where i was going here. it has not been beta’d. i hope you enjoy regardless <3

— — —

Okay, so that had gone… about as terribly as it could have.

To be fair! … To be fair, things had been alright for a bit. Patton had genuinely been trying not to force his opinions on anyone else, Thomas had been open to hearing from both of them, and Roman had done his best to reign in the insults. He thought he’d done a pretty good job, standing up for himself while making sure still to support Patton. It hadn’t been easy, sure, wanting to mention how attending the wedding had been a waste, and how they’d have been better off at the callback, and how he wished their court scenario had gone differently, but that… That was all water under the bridge. The bridge might have needed some work, admittedly, given that Roman could feel the heat licking at his heels, but that wasn’t something he could worry about right now.

Right now, all he could worry about was figuring out where he stood on this good versus evil scale. Heh… scale. Yeah, thinking about the reptilian rapscallion was not going to improve his mood. Roman sighed, pushing a hand through his hair, and kicking his boots off the moment he arrived in his room. They disappeared under the bed, which was going to be very annoying when he couldn’t find them tomorrow, but whatever, that was a problem for future Roman. The only problem current Roman had was trying to understand the line between right and wrong.

It was wrong to laugh at Deceit’s name, at… at Janus sharing something important and then throwing it right back in his face. It was right to be selfish, but only sometimes. It was wrong to put others before oneself, but only sometimes. It was right to lie to spare someone’s feelings…

Roman couldn’t remember that being a part of their discussion but like hell he could forget that he was no longer Thomas’ hero. He wasn’t even sure if it would have hurt less, had Thomas been honest about it.

Maybe Janus was wrong, a small traitorous part of him hoped. Maybe something got lost in translation.

Yeah, and maybe he hadn’t been tricked before. He had to keep his guard up now more than ever… Regardless of whether Patton and Thomas trusted Janus, Roman couldn’t… Not after he’d been fooled so many times already.

He’d just been considering disappearing into the Fantasy Realm for an arduous adventure, something to take his mind off of things until he could better process them, when there was a knock at the door.

“Ro, honey?”

Flinching at the simple sound of Patton’s voice was definitely something worth being concerned about, but he shoved it into the pile of things he’d deal with later. Instead, he fluffed his hair and straightened his sash and put on a smile. It stung a little bit, to do so, when all he wanted was to cry, but maybe this wouldn’t take long.

“Evening, buttercup~” Roman sang as he opened the door, “to what do I owe the pleasure?

If Patton seemed put off by his cheery attitude, he didn’t show it. “I wanted to check on you. I know I’m feeling pretty rough after all that. Are you doing okay?”

“First of all, lovebug, you’re always pretty, so jot that down.” Roman was quick to remind, “as for me, you needn’t add anymore stress to your plate by worrying over this silly old prince.”

The smile that twisted Patton’s lips at the compliment was quickly replaced with a pout. He put his hands on his hips and leaned in closer. “Now Roman, you aren’t just some silly old prince. You’re the most handsome prince in the world. I think you’re very sensible and wise.”

“Logan’s room is two doors down.”

Patton scowled. “Is that a self-deprecation in my house, mister?”

Roman pretended to check his fingernails, feigning disinterest. “Technically not your house so… no, not really.”

Patton pulled away. “Is there something you’d like to get off your chest?” His tone was sincere and Roman wanted to scream because he wasn’t sure he could believe it.

“I don’t know, maybe the suffocating weight of having to be perfect for you all? Or could it be the overwhelming guilt at constantly failing to succeed in the only thing I’m good for?” Roman ignored the way his breath hitched, curled his hands into fists to resist tugging at his hair. “It might just as well be the stifling reminder of how easy I am to manipulate! Gee, Patton, I wonder what I could possibly have to be upset about!”

“Oh.”

Roman reeled back, as if he’d been slapped. Immediately, he was sure that he’d overstepped, that he’d fucked up, and that Patton was going to reprimand him for being whiny and dramatic.

“Oh, okay. Okay, hold on.”

Before Roman could realize it was happening, Patton had stepped through the door. He was trailing his fingers through the air, using the power Roman had allowed him over the room to better suit… whatever it was he had planned.

“Forget I said anything,” Roman said, voice catching. He stayed put, gesturing back out to the hallway. “I’m sure you have much more important things to handle.”

The setting sun normally filled the room with a light that was sometimes glaring due to the wall of floor to ceiling windows, but Patton had lessened it by creating sweeping lace curtains. It seemed softer now, warm and gold, almost as if everything wasn’t actually sharp and broken.

“The only thing I care to handle right now,” Patton said, approaching him, “is you.”

He closed the door before taking Roman’s hands in his. Patton’s skin was soft against Roman’s callouses, from years and years of learning how to play instruments and how to sword fight and how to work himself to the point of pain and then to grit his teeth and keep going. He tried so damn hard, all the time. What even was the point?

“Can we have an open, honest talk, please? I want to understand what’s going on.”

Roman laughed, though there was no humor to it. He yanked his hands free. “Sure. Let’s start with that ‘we love you.’ Finding it real hard to believe there was any truth to it.”

Patton looked hurt and some tiny terrible, vindictive part of Roman thought good. He hated himself for it. He let his arms fall to his sides and brushed by Patton.

He took a seat at his desk, which usually doubled as his vanity, and tried not to look at himself in the mirror. Instead, he grabbed the nearest notebook and pen, and began writing. It didn’t matter what made it from his brain to the page, just that it did, and that he had something to do with his hands and his thoughts. It was quiet for a couple of minutes but Roman knew Patton hadn’t left, for the simple sensation that came with another side being in his room. After a little while longer, Patton moved, and Roman heard the shift of blankets. He was glad, at least, that he was being given some space.

“Feel free to stop me at any point, okay?”

Roman gave him a noncommittal shrug.

“I think I know where things got messy. I really have been blind to so much. Sweetpea, I had no idea how badly Janus had been misleading you. And for such a long time… I can’t change the past but I hope in the future, I can help to protect you from these sorts of things. You keep us safe from so much, Roman. You deserve to be kept safe, too.”

Roman’s vision blurred. With shaking hands, he wiped the tears away before they could fall. He waited until the trembling subsided before speaking. “That’s very kind, dearheart, but I don’t need protecting. I can take care of myself.”

“That doesn’t mean you should have to do it alone.”

“It’s the only way I know how,” Roman said with a hollow laugh.

He finally looked up from his notebook and into the mirror. His eyes were rimmed red and he could see Patton in the reflection, twisting his hands and frowning. The glass went black at Roman’s will and he shoved away from the desk. He turned and took in his room to see what else Patton had done with it. Along with the curtains, he’d added extra strings of fairy lights and piles of pillows on the bed. Now that he was paying attention, Roman noticed the wood floor had been swapped out for plush carpet. It was all exceedingly comfortable.

Lacking the energy to go through the whole process of undressing, Roman snapped his fingers and changed into clean pajamas. Patton smiled hesitantly and did the same. A box also appeared beside him.

“I want to show you a few things. Can we cuddle?”

Roman wasn’t sure how he’d react to being touched right now but there was only one way to find out. They situated themselves in bed, sitting up against the wall with pillows at their backs. Patton stacked the extras at their sides and under their arms; Roman brushed a hand through Patton’s hair as he placed the box on top of his legs. It was cardboard and had been colored all over, decorated with stickers and glitter. On the lid, Roman’s name was written in bubbly rounded letters, surrounded by stars and hearts.

“What’s this?”

Patton opened it and reached in, blindly taking something out. It was easily recognizable for the big font written across it. Christmas Carol. The I was dotted with a star and the O wore mouse ears. Each of the C’s hosted Santa hats and beards.

God, that looks ridiculous. What were you thinking? Roman thought. All the time he’d spent had been a waste once it had become clear how little the others cared. The blatant disregard for their parts and who all they belonged to; that wasn’t even covering how they’d torn him down for (admittedly, he understood now) Virgil’s single line.

“You worked so hard on this, remember?” Patton said, voice heavy with nostalgia. His expression was fond. “It was so much fun to sing.”

“Oh, definitely. Everyone changing the lyrics was my favorite part.” Roman snapped, taking the script and throwing it across the room. There was no noise indicating that it had landed and he assumed Patton had returned it to the box.

Undeterred, he reached in again and this time, it took Roman a moment to realize what it was. A copy of the cast list from the final high school play Thomas had been in. He’d scored the lead role. Roman had been ecstatic; he’d ridden that high for weeks afterwards. Memorizing the lines had been effortless and it’d been so easy to play their part. All of the late nights after rehearsal, 2am at Denny’s, syrupy sweet memories full of laughter and friendship. He took the paper delicately from Patton. Thomas had even gotten it laminated, so that nothing bad could ever happen to it.

“That was a really nice day,” Patton said quietly. “And every day after that. Going over the lines with you felt like such a big deal. I thought I was so clumsy but you still picked me.”

“You were so supportive.” Roman muttered, trying not to trip over the past tense.

The sound of sloshing liquid suddenly had Roman looking to Patton, confused. There was a snow globe in his hand, which he held out on his palm so they could see the scene inside. It was of Elsa and Anna, the former creating the snow flurry that would bring Olaf back to life.

“I promise you that I still am,” Patton told him, in a tone so genuine that Roman wondered how he could ever doubt it to begin with. “You create such beautiful, wonderful, amazing things. I’m proud of them all.”

He tilted the box so that Roman could see better into it. It should have been filled to the brim, with the number of trinkets inside, but it looked well organized. He couldn’t even begin to guess how many scripts, stories, and pieces of artwork Patton had collected.

“Is this a Mary Poppins bag?” He asked teasingly.

“Yes,” Patton responded seriously.

Roman watched as he stuck his hand in and passed all the visible clutter. His arm disappeared up to the elbow as he stuck his tongue out in concentration. Roman found it utterly adorable. When Patton apparently found what he was looking for, he gave a victorious cheer and yanked hard. Somehow, nothing else was jostled; it all sat safely, nestled together with the utmost care.

In Patton’s palm now was a sunset pink orb. It shimmered regardless of light or motion and despite not holding it himself, Roman felt warm from its presence alone.

“What’s that?” He spoke quietly without realizing it, as if any loud noise would shatter the moment.

“I have one of these for every Occasion. They aren’t always this pretty.” Patton’s smile went a little sad before he continued. “It’s important to remember, regardless. Sometimes, it’s just a few minutes. Other times, it’s a whole day.”