#chapter two I guess

[inkedberries]

expanding on the thought of kudou getting the call sign 'hero' and afo getting irked by it for some reason

[egophiliac]

Silver is finally here...he just took the title for the most beautiful card in TWST's history...

me five years ago: wow I really hope we get to see dragon Malleus someday! that'll be so nice and wonderful. I bet he's a big silly! :)

twst: :)

GOD. it occurred to me literally three hours before the anniversary stream that they might've been saving the reveal for then to just explode us all at once. this timing was EXTREMELY deliberate. thank you Twst. I can't even focus on all the Blazing Jewel stuff because Silver wielding the physical manifestation of his Complicated Dad Issues is busy eating my entire brain. and -- oh what's that? he duos with Lilia? I'M RUINED THANK YOU ᕕ( ᐕ )ᕗ

this is your warning that I'm going to be the most annoying person on the planet come Monday morning, thank you everybody and goodniiiiiiight

[striped-sweater-wearer]

Fighting art block with the help of art challenges and lesbians

Og image below + link ( ˙▿˙ ) 👇

[joe-spookyy]

say what you will about IT (1990) as an adaptation but i think the creative choice of changing the narrative so that eddie kaspbrak could come out as a virgin, share (unprompted) that it’s because the only people he loves enough to fuck are the members of his 80% male childhood friend group, and then immediately kick the bucket is actually the greatest thing ever. Amazing. no notes. genius work.

[pmd-explorersofspace]

Treasured Jewels

[clockworkreapers]

The calm before the storm, we always wish it would last longer.

[benevolenterrancy]

@fluffypurpleglitterdemon hey. hey. i just want to talk.

[sukunasteeth]

The Pleasure's All Mine - Chapter One

Based on this post from @winterrbluess

If Shibuya had a pulse, it would be at the rate of a hummingbird's wings.

The human race operates at a speed that oftentimes seems too quick to catch up with. It had been that way ever since you moved to the city for work about three years ago.

You came for a corporate job made up of ink black suits and pencil skirts, smiles that felt more on the side of uncanny valley than they did of genuine kindness, and handshakes from skin cold with carpal tunnel. You lived a corporate life. Everything is muted tones of tan and relies heavily on the concept of "modernizing". You wake up, go to work, go home, work on what you couldn't finish at the office, fall asleep on your colorless coffee table, and wake up to your alarm going off what feels like hours too soon. It was a cyclical cycle.

And the day you broke it, happened to be the day you met Sukuna.

~

You noticed the new shop on the end of the street maybe three weeks ago. It was so out of place, after all. The building was the only non-skyscraper to be seen on the block. It was a shriveled up little thing, built out of chipping brick that seemed to teeter on the edge of dilapidation from the inability to meet building codes. Overgrown ivy crawled up the sides of it and it still had plots of dirt in the front for planting as opposed to concrete and metal benches. 

When you had first seen the For Sale sign a few months ago, you were sure they were going to tear it down and pave over it- happy to be rid of the only spot of character left in the business district. Then a new sign appeared over the door, one that looked hand carved out of wood and haphazardly painted over so that you could make out the words "Carnation King".

It’s funny, flowers had never been much of an interest to you. You had seen them as just another task to take care of when you returned home after a long day. Even filling a vase with water always sounded like more effort than it was worth. But as the days blend together from monotony, you find yourself desperate for color.

You changed your walking route to work so that you can pass by the shop everyday. You knew nothing about flowers. You could barely tell a rose bud apart from a tulip, but that didn't stop you from ogling at the new bouquets and potted plants that lined the sidewalk every time you passed them. Signs made out of toothpicks and painters tape said words like “Butterfly Ranunculus” and “Brown-Eyed Susan” and learning their names became one of your favorite things to do. You never stepped foot inside, and yet the flower shop was now one of your happy places. 

You would meander by on your lunches and watch the butterflies play. You would walk by in the morning and smell freshly watered earth still hanging in the air. On your way home, when the sun was at its fullest shine, you would walk beneath the misters hung under the lip of the roof, and the coolness of the water droplets left behind on your skin saw you all the home. 

You hadn’t realized how important the flower shop was to your daily routine until the day it was interrupted. 

It happened to be one of the only days you had been forced by your workload to stay past sunset for overtime. You didn’t do it for the money, you did it because your boss had asked you nicely. But as you finally exit the office building for the night, you find yourself regretting staying so late. 

You hated walking home in the dark. Even though Japan was notorious for its low crime rates, that didn't mean it was an innocent city. After 9pm, your street was notorious for being a ghost town. The only signs of life were the few work martyrs left in their floor to ceiling window offices- acting as makeshift streetlights. There were only a few lights on the way home, and their solidarity only seemed to pronounce the darkness along the rest of the empty roadside. When you were just an intern, before you got better hours and were finally promoted to the shining 9-5 that everyone dreams about, you used to take your heels off and sprint back to your apartment. Always weary of what you couldn’t see. At the time, you didn’t know that the scariest people don’t have to hide in the dark. 

You hadn’t planned on walking past the shop that night. It was closed. It had to be. Normal flower shops closed well before 7 pm let alone 9. But the moment you touch the sidewalk outside your building, you see light glowing against the dense night. 

The shop at the end of the street was draped in tiny fairy lights. Every square inch of brick was twinkling slowly, glimmering like resting fireflies. It looked almost otherworldly in comparison to the towering pitch black shadows of corporate offices surrounding it. In fact, the effect of the glowing lights against the mirror windows made it look like the shop was hanging in space. 

Outside, the flowers you had walked past in the afternoon had been replaced with new pots, overflowing with buds you had never seen before. The usual delicate smell of Honeysuckle and Roses was now one of the sweetest scents you had ever experienced, so sweet, you could almost taste it on your tongue. Warm golden light floods out of the shop's window and the numerous white and yellow petals seem to gather and hold onto its dull shine. 

You didn’t even realize you had completely abandoned your original plan of taking the shortcut home until you were standing in front of the Carnation King with your eyes entranced on the display before you. One flower in particular had caught your eye, a huge luscious display of delicate tow-colored petals, tall with endless growth and reaching towards the moonlight as though it’s been waiting all day to see it. You can’t help but reach out to touch, and yet just before your fingertips make it, you feel coolness trickling onto your hand, breaking the spell that the lights and colors had placed on you. 

 "Evening Primrose." 

The suddenness of a voice beside you should have put you in fight or flight mode. It should have been a cold bucket of water to the face. Adrenaline spiking, you should be sprinting in the opposite direction. Instead, you found the tranquil trance that the flowers had put you in to have a lasting effect. 

You blink at the man who seemed to appear out of thin air standing next to you, and the first thing you notice are his eyes. Such a dark shade of golden rich hazel-brown, they were nearly shining like two cuts of Cat’s-Eye. They gleamed suspicion. 

He was much taller than you, but where most are lanky you can see strong muscles and broad shoulders. Collared sleeves rolled halfway up his arms revealed skin kissed rich and deep by prolonged sunshine. Tattoos slithered around his wrists and had made their way to his sculptured face, meticulously drawn black lines frame an annoyed expression. When you see the rest of him, you’re certainly not expecting to notice tufts from a head of true strawberry blond hair hang in his frigid gaze.

In one of his hands is a water can, still pouring trickling water onto your momentarily petrified fingertips, and in the other hand is a cigarette, only a third of the way lit. 

The sight of him takes you so far back, if the sound of his voice wasn’t still echoing in your head you might not have remembered that he had even said anything to you. 

"I'm sorry?" You pull your hand away from the water spray, drying it on your slacks.

The man takes half a drag of the cigarette before he answers you. Slow and unrushed. "They're called Evening Primrose.” He speaks through a cloud of tobacco smoke, glancing at the flowers that had caught your eye. His lip twitches slightly, "Need full sunlight but only bloom in moonlight. Fickle bastards." 

Okay. Owner. Mean owner. Unexpectedly rough-and-tumble looking for being the caretaker of a flower shop. You glance at his apron, but you don’t find a name tag. He takes a step back while you’re searching for it, but he only moves far enough to start watering the next plant on the table. 

You look back to the Evening Primrose, and even the smell of the burning cigarettes is nothing in the face of the scent that had pulled you in earlier. The two flavors mix like a tea garden on fire. You caress the petals once more, unthinkingly. 

"They smell incredible." You mutter, mostly to yourself. 

"Not them.” His voice is colder than his eyes. He flicks a bit of ash onto the cement behind him, and tilts his head in the direction of a different bush, one that’s even bigger than the healthy Primrose, with hundreds of tiny buds that flutter in the nighttime air. “That'd be her." 

"”Her”?" You repeat, wondering if you heard the man correctly. 

"Night Jasmine." He answers in return. 

As standoffish as he was, you still found yourself making mental notes of the names he had given you. When you look at the Night Jasmine directly, it’s clear that the wind was sweeping that delicious smell straight from the direction of its honey-hued petals. You’re not sure you had seen plants like this at even the most expensive hotels and events that you had been invited to. Maybe tiny cuttings, but nothing to this size and level of lush. 

"Well she's very pretty." You reply softly, letting out an airy laugh through your nose at his use of pronouns. The man doesn’t even crack a smile in return, his eyes giving you a pointed once over. 

“And invasive.” He adds, resting his gaze on yours once again. 

There’s a thick silence that follows after, during which you consider apologizing. For what? You were unsure, but somehow standing in his towering shadow and feeling his accusing eyes had you feeling like you were in the wrong for merely existing in his presence. 

Before you can think to just turn around, take off your heels, and sprint home like you had years ago, his voice demands your attention again. 

"So,” he says, “you gonna tell me why you’re stalking me, then?"

Now, surely, you were hearing things. 

"E-Excuse me?" 

He seems to take in your shock with some thought while he takes another languid puff, "You come by here every single day,” He lets the smoke go from his lungs, ”but you never buy a thing. In fact, you never even come in." The tone of his voice tilts towards annoyance. “You just stand at the window and pout like some sad puppy.” 

"I-I work in the building next door?" You offer, bewildered by the entire situation. Were you dreaming? Had you fallen asleep at your desk and given yourself some sort of stress-induced nightmare?

"Hmm," The man takes you in without breaking your gaze, tilting his head to the side while he takes another drag of his cigarette. "You don't seem like the pencil pusher type to me."

You’re not sure why that comment makes you defensive. In retrospect, it was even a compliment to you. You hated sitting at a desk all day, watching the sun rise and set over a stack of papers. But you had worked hard to get to the position you were in now and it wasn’t the first time a man had told you that you didn’t look like you belonged. Before you can catch yourself in the name of politeness you find yourself scoffing out, "Sorry, but you don't seem like much of a florist to me."

The silence returns. You watch as the disdainful glint to his eyes shatters, and is replaced with a split second of surprise. He blinks and it’s only then that you realize how much larger this man is in comparison to you. If you had seen him walking down the street, you’d probably think to yourself “I wouldn’t want to be on his bad side” and yet here you were, on his bad-getting-worse side from the moment your eyes met. 

Or so you had thought. But, as the antithesis of anger crosses his hardened features, and an unexpected bitten-back grin takes the place of his glower, you’re not sure what to think anymore. 

He snorts out a laugh, finally releasing you from the cold grasp of his unbreakable gaze. He takes another step back and focuses his attention on watering the flowers again. "Touche." 

The cigarette gets flicked from his fingertips and he smears it beneath his boot into a tiny canal of rocks separating the soil of the garden beds from the cement of the sidewalk. 

"So, you gonna buy something then? Or just stand there with that strange look on your face all night?" He tilts his head to mirror your stance, but the amused grin remains in place of your confused gape. “I close in five minutes.”

“I have to hand it to you, you’re a fantastic salesman.” You’ve never met a stranger more brash and uncaring, so you were giving it a shot in return. It only serves to further his easy smiles.

“Am I not offering the right thing?” Now apparently after confirming to himself that you weren’t a threat, his tone of voice seems almost playful. It only serves to further your confusion. “Hmm, a lock of my hair maybe?” 

“I am not a stalker!” 

“Then buy something.” 

You take a deep breath through your nose. Feeling the need to save face when you haven’t done anything wrong in the first place. Yet, the thought of turning away empty handed had embarrassment threatening to heat up your neck and cheeks. You didn't care if you had to drop a pretty penny, you just didn't want to boost this man's ego.

"Those." You point to the nearest flower, another pot of proud blossoms sprouting from a stem unseen past the abundant greenery of strong leaves. Soft moon colored petals unfurl at the top, and sprouting from the center are tiny, deep yellow pollen covered buds. 

The man follows your pointed finger and graces your choice with all of one second before he turns back to his watering. "Not those." He decides flatly. 

You’ve never made a more difficult purchase. "Why not?" 

"Casablanca Lilies need constant care. A white-collar like you couldn't keep up. And I don't raise 'em so people can kill 'em."

"I think I can take care of a plant, thank you." You retort, sarcasm oozing off your sentence. 

It seems you can only really catch this man’s attention when your tone has a touch of negativity, because suddenly he’s back to watching you. 

There’s a pregnant pause before his next words. He searches nothing but your eyes for a moment, as if to gauge. 

"Wanna bet?" He cocks a brow. 

And it angers you how handsome you find this annoying, pompous, self-entitled stranger. 

"Bet?” You repeat incredulously. “Are you making a sale or trying to fight?” 

Instantly, as if you were offering the two scenarios as possible options, his smile darkens and he takes a step forward instead of continuing his line of watering. 

That was all the reply you needed. You had seen the movies. The documentaries. Handsome men, provoking women, hungry eyes, it never added up to something good. So that was your que to keep walking straight past him and go home. 

“Right, I don’t need this.” You scoff. 

And yet, just before you're able to step aside him, like a true businessman, he says just the right thing to keep you there.

"So I'm right then?" 

The sound of the droplets from the watering can against the cement in place of your footsteps has you cringing in self-disappointment. You force your head to turn and meet his infuriating amusement. 

"What's the bet?" You grind out from clenched teeth. His eyes fall to your mouth, and he takes a pointed second to look at your bite before he steps away from you and back to the place where your interaction began. He reaches beside the huge Evening Primrose bush to reveal a small green potted sapling with the same leaf pattern. 

He holds it out to you and you reach out to take the little thing like you’re scared for its safety. 

"Come back in two weeks. If it's alive, I'll give you the lilies for free." The calmness in his tone of voice doesn't match the excitement glittering in his dark hazel-brown eyes. "And if it's dead, you owe me." He adds, rather nonchalantly. 

"Owe you what?" You squint your eyes at him, maybe then you could see the little horns that match his devilish little grin. 

He shrugs, almost too innocently, "A favor. Haven't thought of it yet." The stranger gives you one last once over, but this one leaves the strangest chill running down your spine. His eyes seem to follow it, as if he can see it rattling through you. "Should I? You're so confident you'll win, I didn't think I'd have to."

Now it was your turn to look him up and down, tattoos, scars and a face that seemed too comfortable with that murderous look he had first given you.

"...There's no way you're just a florist."

The comment is completely ignored as he leans forward, invading your airspace a little too close for comfort, and murmuring the words "Yes or no?" with a thick sugar coating. 

"You're on." You hope your own words convey your complete disdain for him… and not that tiny glimmer of attraction you feel prickling under your skin. 

A surprised laugh seems to escape him, as though he didn't expect you to make the deal. "You're either quite confident in yourself or a damn fool." 

Like a rabbit bearing tiny teeth in the face of a lion, you mirror him and lean in closer until there's only a small space between the two of you. "Maybe I just like showing up cocky men."

"Oh, and I'm gonna love a favor from such a mouthy brat." You're lucky he pulls away from you after he practically purrs his threat. There's another thoughtful pause before he reaches into his apron pocket and pulls out his pack of cigarettes again.

"Two weeks. I know where you work too now." He lights another, and examines the cherry after he takes the first drag, smiling like it just told him a joke. “Don’t forget.” 

[fratboykate]

Yelena doesn’t pack.

She sits there, fists clenched on her thighs, jaw tight, every muscle in her body screaming at her to follow Kate and fix this before it spirals further out of control.

But she’s tired. God, she’s so fucking tired.

For once, she wants to be the one walked toward instead of always being the one doing the chasing.

But the minutes stretch. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. The silence outside Kate’s office is oppressive, settling into Yelena’s bones like lead. No footsteps. No hesitation. No coming back.

And she knows...Kate’s not easing up.

That realization sends something sharp and dangerous slicing through her chest. Fine. If Kate wants to be stubborn, then Yelena can match her.

She heads to the door, grabs her keys out of the bowl, and heads out. She doesn’t rush. If Kate is listening, she wants her to hear every deliberate footstep, the soft click of the lock as she pulls the door closed behind her.

Let her know that Yelena isn’t bluffing.

She makes it as far as the car. Keys in hand, fingers curled around the driver’s side door handle. And then she just…stops.

Her pulse is a dull, steady thud in her ears. The weight of the night...the fight, the accusations, the sheer exhaustion of being caught in this cycle...presses in on her.

She should go. She said she was going. And Yelena isn’t the type to walk back on something once she’s put it out into the universe. She’s stubborn like that. Always has been.

But she's still here.

Kate is right here.

And maybe maybe this is the moment. The test.

If Yelena gets in the car and drives off, does Kate let her? Does she come outside, bang on the window, demand she come back inside? Does she call in ten minutes, or an hour, or tomorrow morning when she wakes up and realizes Yelena actually left?

Or does she do nothing?

That last thought sinks claws into Yelena’s chest. It sits there, heavy and festering, refusing to let her go.

She releases the car handle and pivots on her heel, marching back toward the garage elevator before she can talk herself out of it.

Inside, the lights in the hallway are dim. The office door is still wide open, her chair pushed back from the desk exactly how she left it. The fight sits in the air, thick and suffocating, but the house is quiet.

Uncomfortably so.

Yelena makes her way down the hall. There’s a sliver of light coming from the guest room at the end of it.

She hesitates, foot hovering over the carpet leading there, then she moves past it entirely. Instead, she veers toward the kids’ rooms. She’s not sure what she’s looking for. Some reassurance, maybe, something to anchor her in the mess of tonight.

She stops outside Alexia's door first, pressing her palm against the wood for a second before carefully pushing it open just enough to peek inside.

The room is dark, save for the faint glow of the nightlight in the corner. Alexia is curled on their side, one arm flung over the stuffed owl Kate bought her last Christmas. Yelena watches her chest rise and fall, slow and even.

She should’ve been here earlier. Should’ve said goodnight, should’ve been the one to tuck the kids in instead of leaving it to Kate again.

She shuts the door as quietly as possible and crosses the hall to the little one's room.

Maks is sprawled across the mattress in the most chaotic sleeping position imaginable, tangled in the sheets, one sock barely clinging to his foot. In the crib, Sonny is neatly tucked in, her tiny hand curled under his cheek.

Yelena lingers in the doorway for a long time.

She loves them. Of course, she does. That was never up for debate. But it still stings, the way Kate threw it at her earlier, like Yelena being a good mother was somehow optional.

Like Kate thinks she’s failing.

Like she thinks she’s failing.

She swallows hard, backing out of the room.

When she reaches the guest bedroom, the door is cracked open. A lamp is still on inside, and Yelena can just make out the shape of Kate sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked up, fingers pressed to her forehead.

She doesn’t knock, just pushes the door open wider and steps inside.

Kate doesn’t look up. Doesn’t say anything.

Yelena exhales slowly, crossing her arms.

“I didn’t leave.”

Kate snorts, the sound dry, unimpressed.

“Want a medal?”

Yelena clenches her jaw.

“I don’t want to do this anymore.”

That makes Kate lift her head. Her eyes are red, tired, but sharp.

“Do what?”

“This. Fighting. This stupid back and forth. I don’t want to keep hurting you.”

Kate watches her carefully, searching for something. Then, with a quiet scoff, she shakes her head.

“That’s nice. Really. But you don’t get to say ‘I don’t want to fight’ like that fixes everything. You did hurt me. You keep doing it.”

“I know.” It’s the only honest thing Yelena can say. She shifts on her feet. “But you’re hurting me too.”

That seems to land. Kate’s jaw tightens, and she looks away.

Yelena takes a careful step forward.

“We can’t keep doing this. I don’t want to lose you.”

Kate laughs, but it’s hollow.

“You sure about that? Because every time shit gets hard, you disappear.”

Yelena shakes her head. “I don’t...”

“Yes, you do.” Kate cuts in sharply. “Physically. Emotionally. Take your pick.” She lifts her hands, then lets them fall limply onto her lap. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to feel like you’re fucking drowning? I do. Every single day. But I don’t get to check out. I don’t get to decide it’s too much and just…step back.”

“I don’t decide to do it.” Yelena’s voice is quiet now. “It’s not…it’s not something I want.”

“But it’s what happens,” Kate mutters, shaking her head.

Silence stretches between them.

Then, Kate exhales and leans forward, pressing her face into her hands for a moment before lifting her gaze again. Her voice is softer when she speaks next.

“What are we to you?”

"What?”

“Its a simple question,” Kate says, watching her. “If this...” she gestures vaguely between them “...is something you’re only holding onto because it’s familiar, or because leaving would be too hard, then we need to stop pretending.”

Yelena doesn’t answer right away. Because wanting something and knowing how to make it work are two different things. She exhales, crossing the room until she’s close enough to kneel in front of Kate, resting her hands lightly against her knees. Kate doesn’t pull away.

“You and them are the best thing that ever happened to me. I love you,” Yelena says, voice steady. “And I don’t want to stop trying.”

Kate studies her for a long, tense moment. Then, finally, she sighs.

“We have to try differently then,” she says. “Because whatever this is? It’s not working.”

"We'll figure it out. All we have to do is choose not to give up."

///

The next morning is quiet. Too quiet.

Yelena wakes to the sound of muffled voices. The house is awake without her. The kids are up. Kate is up. And Yelena is still in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling like she’s an outsider in her own home.

She drags herself up, pulling on a sweatshirt over her sleep shirt as she pads barefoot toward the door. Their bedroom feels wrong when Kate doesn't sleep in it. Foreign. Without Kate in here, Yelena feels she’s intruding. The space between her and Kate has never felt this wide.

Hearing them out there...it feels like they're already moving on without her.

Yelena makes her way to the kitchen. Kate must have said something hilarious because she hears Alexia and Maks cackle. She turns and corner and, the second she steps inside, she knows she’s walked in on something.

Kate, who stands by the sink, tenses the moment her and Yelena make eye contact. A few feet away, Alexia sits at the table with Maks and Sonny. Sonny is in just her diaper, swinging her legs under her chair, oblivious to the tension that just thickened the air. Maks is staring down at his half-eaten cereal like it might give him an answer to whatever the hell just happened here. Alexia, however, is bristling.

“You should have woken me up,” Yelena says, voice rough with sleep.

Kate doesn't say anything.

Alexia glances up, eyes flicking between them, and suddenly, Yelena realizes what this looks like. Kate slept in the guest room. She wasn’t here when they woke up. She walked in late.

Like a stranger.

“Mama, are you living with Deda and Babu now?” Maks asks, tilting his head.

Yelena’s stomach twists. “What? No. Why would you...”

Yelena glares at Kate. Before she knows it's happening, she's crossing the kitchen and walking straight to Kate.

“What did you tell them?” Yelena asks barely above a whisper.

"The truth." Kate turns, leveling her with a stare. “What was I supposed to do? Pretend like nothing is happening? They’re not stupid.”

“They’re also kids.”

Kate scoffs, dropping a spoon into the sink with a clatter.

“Right. And what do you think is worse? Talking to them about it or letting them figure it out on their own while we keep playing house?”

“This isn’t something they should have to deal...”

“They already deal with it,” Kate snaps. “Every single time you put your work first. Every time you miss a recital or a game or a school meeting. Every time I have to make excuses for you...they already know. So maybe, just maybe, don’t act so fucking surprised.”

Alexia chair scrapes backwards and she storms off.

"Alex..." Yelena pleads after her daughter.

But she's already gone, storming down the hallway and up the stairs. Maks looks like he wants to follow, but he stays put, chewing his lip. Sonny, blissfully unaware, bangs her little hands on the high chair and gurgles.

Kate sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is exactly why I told you to fix your priorities.”

Yelena sets her jaw. “You told me? This isn’t just on me, Kate.”

“Really? Because I’m not the one who’s always gone.”

The words slam into her, harder than she’s willing to admit.

Before she can respond, Maks slides off his chair and follows after his big sister, leaving only Sonny at the table.

Kate watches them go, then turns back to the sink, gripping the edge of the counter like she’s holding herself together.

“I don’t want to fight in front of them,” Yelena mutters.

“Then don’t start shit at breakfast.”

Yelena's eyes flash. “Start shit? You told them I was going to stay with my parents.”

“That's what YOU said,” Kate hisses, stepping closer.

“I came back.”

“And you want me to give you points for that?”

“No. I want you to stop acting like I’m the only one responsible for all of this falling apart.”

Kate laughs, but it’s sharp, humorless.

“You’re really going to stand here and act like you’re not?”

“This isn’t fair...”

“What’s not fair is that I have to be the reliable one while you get to be at work. You get to show up when it’s convenient for you. You get to skip the hard parts. You get to waltz in late because you’re Yelena Belova, the brilliant scientist who’s too important and too busy to actually show up.”

“That’s not...” Yelena pauses. "Why did you call me that?"

"Call you what?"

"Yelena Belova."

"That's your name."

"It hasn't been for A LONG time."

“Don’t change the subject,” Kate warns, voice dangerously quiet. “Don’t stand there and pretend like you don’t see it. You have no idea what it’s like to be the one who has to hold it all together.”

Yelena’s chest heaves. “And what do you think I’ve been trying to do?”

“Trying isn’t enough anymore.”

There it is. The final nail in the coffin.

Yelena shakes her head, throat burning. “You’ve already decided, haven’t you?”

Kate doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze flickers, like she wants to take it back. But she doesn’t.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Kate says finally. “Not when nothing ever changes.”

A thick silence swallows the kitchen whole.

Yelena swallows around the knot in her throat. “So that’s it? You’re done?”

Kate exhales slowly, but there’s no satisfaction in it. No relief. Just exhaustion.

“I think I have to be.”

Yelena takes a step back, like she’s been hit. She doesn’t realize she’s shaking her head until Kate sighs and looks away.

“Yelena...”

“No,” Yelena breathes. “No, this isn’t...we aren’t...”She can’t finish it.

Because Kate isn’t stopping her. Kate isn’t walking it back. Kate isn’t saying 'I don’t mean it' or 'I just need space' or 'We’ll figure it out'.

She’s just standing there, watching Yelena unravel.

“When are you moving out?”

And that...That’s the moment it all falls apart.

[carpetbug]

having a wee bit of a style crisis so enjoy some little feline blue doodles while I try to get my shit together <3

[petite-phthora]

Sometimes all you need is a little trust

[DP x DC fic]

[Love at first… murder? - part 21]

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Part 1

Ao3

---

They sit there in the dark for a while, in embrace. After a moment, Danny leans back, shifting to lay his head on Jason’s shoulder. The tears on their faces slowly dry as they are ignored.

Neither knows how long they sat there in quietude before Jason breaks the silence.

“Let’s… try this again…” He takes a deep breath before speaking up next. “I told you about the Pit, how it… how when I’m under its effects, I lose control.” He runs a trembling hand through his hair.

Danny doesn’t speak, letting Jason talk.

“It’s just that, whenever I feel the Pit, it’s usually accompanied by anger and rage but… Ever since you killed the Joker, ever since we met, it’s changed.

“Instead of anger, the Pit feels calm. Instead of throwing things and beating people up, I made chocolate fudge.

“And don’t get me wrong, I don’t miss the madness. But something made it change, and I’m not sure if I can trust that change… and I think that something… has to do with you.” He ends, looking at Danny.

“Well…” Danny puts his hand to his chin as he thinks “Ghosts are beings of emotion. It’s part of how we’re formed, it’s part of our language, and it’s part of our being. While your ecto has only ever been projecting rage to you before, I think I can at least theorize the reason behind the change.” He starts.

“I think a large part of why you came back in the first place was revenge, which initially made you a revenant. But that was before you were thrown into what I can only assume is some sort of pit with corrupted ectoplasm, which is what turned you or, well, tried to turn you, from revenant to halfa.

“The ecto stitched your undead body and soul together, brought back your mind, and tried to form a core within you, but the corruption prevented it from doing so. So it was only able to give you the beginnings of a proto-core, which is what made it difficult for me to sense you until we were close enough when we kissed.

“And this is currently keeping you in a constant state of being on the verge of core formation.” Danny takes a breath before continuing to hypothesise.

“You mentioned it was the Joker that killed you, and that the change in emotions happened after he died. To me, it seems like one of the reasons, if not the reason, you crawled out of that grave in the first place was to avenge your death and kill the Joker.

“As ectoplasm is largely emotion-based, the contaminated ectoplasm you gained from that pit probably latched onto this anger and want for revenge and held on to it. The contamination is what likely increases your feelings and what makes them able to overtake your actions, as it were.

“After he died, the major driving force behind you being undead, and behind the rage, was gone. As a revenant you should have gotten peace and gone back to being fully dead, your soul finally able to move on.

“But the ectoplasm within you that was left behind must’ve fused your soul back into your body again, not letting it escape as the revenant rage left you. This, paired with the beginnings of you becoming a halfa, is probably why you stayed.

“With the revenant rage gone, the pit likely can’t hold onto that specific emotional range any longer. So instead, it latches onto any emotion you currently feel in the moment, which again, since he died, is probably more peacefulness and happiness due to being avenged. So now the corruption will amplify those feelings instead.

“The amplified feelings might also lean more towards the happier side because of me being around. Either because I was the one to avenge you, or because your ecto could have recognised me as the same as you and been calmer because of it. Though…” Danny trails off for a bit.

“I have also heard from other ghosts, I sometimes just have that effect on people as crown prince” Danny says, rubbing the back of his neck a little sheepishly.

Jason had been vaguely following along until the last comment stunned him. “You’re a fucking prince?!”

Danny waves him off unconcerned. “That is something I’ll explain later. There is a lot of other context you’ll probably need before I’ll be able to explain any of… that…”

Jason lets out a breath and runs a hand through his hair once again. “Right, yeah, sure. We’ll come back to that.” As he’s trying to make sense of what he’s been told, Jason decides to get into some of the other concerning stuff Danny mentioned before.

“So… your parents… built an artificial Lazarus Pit?” He tries instead.

“Well, I guess? It’s more of a portal. It doesn’t exactly heal or harm anyone going inside, it just brings them into the Ghost Zone.”

“Right… Where’d they even put it that their children could easily access it?”

“Their lab in the basement of the house.”

“Their lab in the basement?!—”

“Yeah… Looking back on it, I guess the house was practically one big OSHA violation, huh…”

“There was more than just the lab basement?”

“Well, yeah, and I guess the dungeon and the Emergency Ops Center that can turn into the Fenton Blimp on top of the house are another big part of it”

Jason gives him an appalled look.

“A lab and a dungeon?! Why do your parents have a dungeon in their house? I thought parents were some kind of scientists, or like … ghost biologists?! ”

“Mhmm” Danny nods in confirmation. “Technically they’re ecto-biologists, but they also just call themselves ghost hunters.”

“And you’re a ghost?”

“Half ghost. And you are too. That’s what halfa stands for”

“Right, yes. We’ll come back to that in a bit. But first, did your parents know about… “

“About me being dead? Nah, they didn’t. Well, they do now, but not back then.”

“Have they ever hurt you?”

Danny turns his gaze to the side uncomfortably as he considers the question.

“Well…”

“Danny—”

“I guess, not really? I mean yeah, they’d chase after me with guns yelling about how they were going to rip me apart molecule by molecule—”

“They what—”

“But dad’s aim is shit and after a while I began getting better at dodging mom’s shots—”

“They shot at you?!” This seems to give Jason some kind of revelation “Don’t tell me that’s why—“

“But they’re really not that bad. They’ve never actually intentionally hurt me while knowing it was me, their son. But, they’re totally fine now! 

“Like yeah, before they knew they gave me a tough time sometimes, but to be fair they really didn’t know I wasn’t some evil ghost there to hurt and destroy.

“And at least they weren’t like the GIW, you know?”

“No, Danny. I don’t know. But please tell me you know this wasn’t okay?” Jason throws him a troubled look.

Danny frowns, shifting to sit up straighter. “They didn’t know—”

“Maybe not,” Jason cuts in, “But that doesn’t mean it was right or that it didn’t hurt you anyway. The fact that they didn’t know doesn’t make it any better.”

“They never hurt me seriously enough that I couldn’t recover—” He tries to protest.

“You shouldn’t have gotten hurt by them at all! Not physically, and not emotionally,”  Jason states, giving Danny a pointed look. “You shouldn’t have had to recover.”

Danny shifts his gaze towards the ground with a frown, picking at the grass a bit with one of his hands.

“You sound like Jazz,” He responds with a small grumble.

“This Jazz sounds like a wise individual to whom you should probably listen more often.”

“She is” Danny admits with a sigh. “And you’re right, I should…”

A beat, and then “I’m sorry for shooting you”

“It’s fine! It didn’t hurt me and it’s not like I haven’t been shot at before—” Danny tries to reassure, but Jason shakes his head.

“No, Danny. It is not fine. I shouldn’t have done it. And you shouldn’t be used to it.” He says decisively.

“But—”

“Nuh-uh, nope. It is not fine. I should not have done it. Period.”

“You likely had a good reason—”

“I did it because I wasn’t sure I could trust you,” Jason replies.

“I mean, you appeared out of nowhere, basically avenged my death, affected the Pit and made it act in ways it never has before, and then finding out you might have connections to the League?

“I just, it—It scared me” Jason confesses. “And I couldn’t deal with that fear.”

“So, I used my good old Red Hood interrogation techniques to try and get answers. You know? Shoot ‘em in the calf or thigh so it’ll be painful for them without being lethal and make it harder for them to get away.

“But while those are explanations for what I did, none of that is an excuse. There is no excuse.”

“That’s not true.” Danny tries to interject with a shake of the head.

“I’m a terrible person who has done terrible things.” Jason interrupts.

“Not just to you, but others as well. I’m dangerous. I’ve hurt innocent people. I’ve hurt my family. I’ve almost killed some of them— and not all of those times were because of the Pit, either!” Tears have formed in the corners of Jason’s eyes.

“Hey, I’ve killed someone too,” Danny objects, “The Joker counts, and I don’t have a Pit.” He tries.

“Danny, you did it on accident, and if anything the Joker definitely deserv—”

“Well, then I guess I must be a terrible person too” Danny cuts in. “For liking you despite all of that”

“Danny…”

Danny ignores Jason and grabs his hands in his own before looking him back in the eye.

“Maybe you’re not good for me. Maybe I’m not good for you. Perhaps we’re not good for each other, not good together. Terrible together“ Jason opens his mouth to say something but Danny quickly continues, not letting Jason get a word in “But I’d still like to give this a try. To give us a try.”

“Maybe it’ll end in disaster. Maybe it won’t, but… I’d be willing to take that chance… together… If you’d still have me?”

“Danny, I interrogated and shot you. Not just with bullets that didn’t hurt you, but also with a ray gun that you gave me that did hurt you. If anything, I should be asking you if you’d still have me despite all of that.” Jason says, clearly distressed, a few stray tears now rolling over his cheeks.

“And I doubt you’ll pull anything like that again, will you?” Danny asks with an eyebrow raise he learnt from the countless amount of times Jazz threw it at him.

“God no—”

“Then I don’t see the problem.”

“Danny—”

“We can go to couples therapy,” Danny states resolutely.

“Danny—”

“We can each go to normal therapy as well.” He adds on.

“Danny—”

“Jason Todd.” Danny interrupts. Jason stills. “Will you be my boyfriend?”

After a beat of silence, Danny adds on “On the condition we keep up clear communication between the two of us, and perhaps look into getting some form of therapy, of course”

Jason lets out a slightly exasperated huff and wipes the tears away, before giving Danny a soft look.

“You’re too trusting.”

Danny lets out a hum.

“And you don’t trust enough. But I’ve heard opposites attract, so…” Danny pauses. “What do you say?”

Jason gives him a small smile.

“If you’d still have me?”

The response is immediate.

“I do.”

Danny places his hand on Jason’s cheek.

“May I?”

Jason nods.

They both lean in, and they kiss.

---

Jason feels the Pit stir and resolutely ignores it and whatever feeling it brings with, keeping his eyes closed and gently pulling Danny in closer.

You’re not gonna ruin this for me.

---

Taglist:

@i-always-say-yea @uraniumwizard @why-must-i-be-like-this @griffinthing @i23432i @imsotiredfanficlovertm @jaguarthecat @arkita-shadow @noideawhatshappeninghelp @jaitwin5 @apple-juice16 @mossy-bonez @harvestandhearth

[striped-sweater-wearer]

Susiezilla kill Kris Kong (tragic)

My favorite movie

[ajwalkerartblog]

i'm very obsessed with skip and loafer atm

[biggestlen]

A terribly angled image of some silly Okazaki doodles I made while I was getting up to date with TDRP...... I adore her!!!!!!

Veronika's also here on my powerbank. these freaks, they're both iconic (and also my favourites from their respective series). The larger Hanano is a sticker I have no clue where to put yet so she's instead blue tacked onto my closet for now.......

some clearer(-ish) images ↓↓↓ konkonkonkon...

Perhaps I'll make some more polished digital fanart after I'm done with all the things i need to do. so much to do and so little time...

[quesocheeso]

I’m getting close to 100 asks in my inbox (shiiiiiiiii-) so uhhhh I’ll answer #100 no matter what lmao ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[ohno-the-sun]

Hmmm thinking about writing and how hard it is

I feel like for how long it takes me to write one chapter I can use that same energy to make like 10 art pieces

I’m wondering if it’s even worth it

Like I enjoy writing but it just takes so much of my time

Should I just stop and only do art?