#so I decided to do this mashing up of occasions

[apparitionism]

Asleep 2

For the anniversary this year, I have the second “half” of my @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange story for @kla1991 : an involuntary bed-sharing situation that turns not sexy but disastrous. The first part took on Myka’s perspective; this conclusion is written from the other side of the bed. A confession: I find in-universe Helena’s head voice a somewhat difficult register to compose—because while she can’t be fully insane, she needs to teeter or list, sometimes more than a little (but without falling into histrionics). Which is to say that if you don’t entirely buy the turns of thought and/or coping mechanisms I’ve given her here, your skepticism is well-placed. Ultimately I hope it’s the case that a person can be broken but still want in a way that’s... pure? Justified? Sweet? Reciprocatable? Maybe just “vaguely recognizably human”?

Anyway, this is long, first because it extends well beyond the point at which the first part ended, but also because when a Bering and a Wells get to talking (as they at last do!), they need to work things out at their own pace...

Asleep 2

My arm is asleep.

Under normal circumstances, a person would, upon becoming aware of this, shift position so as to restore blood flow.

Under normal circumstances.

But very little is normal about the circumstances under which Helena’s arm is asleep.

She is in a hotel-room bed, in the dark of night, lying on her left side, with her left arm, her now-asleep arm, pinned beneath her. So ends the disturbingly limited “normal” portion of the situation.

Here begins the larger portion: she absolutely must not move.

Irony guts at her with that, a shiv-and-twist remembrance of bronze restriction—but that prohibition had involved a significantly different auxiliary verb: “cannot” rather than “must not.”

Grammatical particulars aside, her immobility now is barely less a torment. This is because her other arm, her alive right, terminates in an even-more alive sensate hand, one that now rests—but is in no way at rest—on Myka’s right hip.

Myka, too, is lying on her left side, a small distance in front of Helena, lying in this hotel-room bed. Such proximity in such a space might, under other circumstances, signify the fulfillment of a long-held dream... but here, now, it seems a nightmare. For Myka is Helena’s colleague and no more; they are in this bed for sleep and no more; and Myka is playing her part correctly while Helena is not, in contravention of what she has sworn to herself she would do no more.

Such drowsy sense the placing of that hand had seemed to make, when she had found herself facing Myka’s back. She had in the past regarded that length covetously, relishing the idea of touch both salacious and tender.

For all her coveting, however, she had in fact only once laid hands on that back, both hands with intention on the clothed blades of Myka’s shoulders: a terrifying embrace, one that was in the most basic physical manner right but overall searingly wrong, screaming bodily truth but surrounded by words that said nothing they should. A perversion of promise, like so much else that had happened in Boone.

Yet Helena had clung to its memory all the same.

She’d thought, here in this unexpected proximity, to supersede that, to touch once again, once again but brief, once again though brief. To erase and replace.

First she touched the right blade, light; yet her hand wanted stillness, more connection than a mere pat against cotton-clad bone. And there was Myka’s hip, a beckoning promontory jut... a place to rest. Rest, however brief.

Once placed, however, her hand had proved reluctant to retreat.

Brief, she reminded it.

No, the hand had responded. I belong here.

Helena knows this is true. She knows also that it cannot be true.

But she is no stranger to holding contradictory thoughts in her head. This has been essential to establishing and maintaining, in these new Warehouse days, a functional equilibrium. Functional. Indeed her goal, in this “reboot,” has been to function, which she has lately defined as something on the order of “to move through time nondestructively.”

This definition had come about due to her realization, pre-reboot, that her difference from others, her inability to fully perform a modern self—her arrogance about that inability, even as she attempted to hide both the inability and the arrogance—chipped at, chipped from, the good (the good nature, the good will, the goodness) of those around her. Over time, such chips accrued as wounds.

Nate. (Adelaide.) Giselle.

She had as a result finally understood that coming back to the Warehouse would mean, at the very least, that those with whom she interacted had already made a bargain, perhaps even a peace, with the inevitable violence of history: with the way the forces of the past could—would—affect, even infect, the present. Helena herself was, at her simplest, merely one more of those forces.

She did consider requesting that she be re-Bronzed, now absent any pretension of traveling through time, but rather as a way of neutralizing a dangerous, and demonstrably unstable, artifact. But then an image had come to her, possibly as an omen, possibly as only a desperate wish: Myka’s devastated face upon hearing such news.

Boone all over again.

Thus the reboot. Because the most significant entry under “function,” with additional emphasis on the “nondestructive” portion of that definition, was her resolution to spare Myka pain. In the past, Helena had been both careless and careful—surgically so—in her infliction of damage on Myka above all others. But she had sworn to herself that those days were done.

Done, but Helena knew she had not paid anything near a sufficient price.

So. To maintain distance, no matter how troublesomely ardent her wish to close it, was—had to be—part of her penance. And to do so decorously was—had to be—the gentlest approach. That was what Helena told herself in her more rational moments.

This moment, in this bed, is not one of those. If it were, she would simply remove her hand. Simply remove it, then roll over.

But her mind races, finding complication: She doesn’t know what sort of sleeper Myka is. Had Helena’s placing of hand awakened her? If she had awakened, has she now fallen asleep again? If she has, would she then be reawakened by the hand’s removal? Or would she, if still awake, draw some negative inference about the entire situation based on removal?

Ideally, Helena would maintain a facsimile of entirely blameless sleep while engaging in that removal, but can she make such a performance believable?

Never in her life has Helena been so concerned about her ability to mislead convincingly as when she has attempted to deceive Myka. That was the case in the past, even at her most nefarious, and now she worries day-to-day that her strictly disciplined disguise of near-constant wishing ache will slip and fail. A simple I am asleep should be... well... simple. But it is not, and Helena is reminded of Claudia’s tendency to observe, in situations both dire and banal, “Here we are.”

Here we are, because Myka is apparently indifferent to the idea of sharing a bed with Helena.

Here we are, because Myka is apparently indifferent to history.

Here we are, and that latter indifference is a surpassing irony, due to the fullness of—

Helena sees that she needs to divert her train of thought, as descending into unjustified anger will help absolutely nothing.

First, she entertains a fantasy of sitting up, turning on a light, and explaining to Myka that this entire situation is untenable, and that if they are going to share a bed, they should share a bed. But it’s true that Myka did not seem even to consider that as a possibility, which seems ludicrous, given the past... no, that’s back to unjustified anger, for who is Helena to resent what Myka wishes not to consider? And indeed, who is she to interpret the past in such a way as to believe she understands what Myka would have considered?

Focus on the facts, she tells herself. What actually happened in that nefarious past. And do so dispassionately.

Regrettably, the word “dispassionately” brings to mind another word: “passionately.”

Again. For she had thought that word not long after she and Myka had first entered this room, first entered it to find, as Helena’s unrestrained fantasies might have conjured, only one bed. That they were clearly intended to share. Thus her mind’s unruly leap to... an adverbial manner in which they might do so.

But Myka had said not one word about the accommodations, so Helena had held her tongue as well. She nevertheless couldn’t help but feel it an elaborate lack of remark on both their parts, the silence practically baroque in its fullness.

Baroque too had been the courtesy with which they jointly prepared for bed, a you-first-no-you stutter-choreography of politeness that ensured privacy, yes, but also reinforced the barrier between their past and their present.

Which Helena understood was necessary. It did nothing, however, to mitigate the breath-hold of preparing to lie down beside Myka.

Once she had managed that lying down, however (with a relative aplomb for which self-congratulation was not, she felt, unjustified), she hoped her torment might ease. A bit. If she could manage the additional task of pretending the body beside her was no more significant than any other human. Some flesh, recumbent.

But when they were situated thus beside, Myka spoke. “You seem a little upset,” she said.

Helena had barely been able to restrain a snort. Now Myka saw fit to comment? As if allowing this portion of the play to pass without remark would create some undue strain upon collegiality? As if their incongruous bonhomie might buckle under the weight of that silence? Oh, that was rich.

Bottling her pique, Helena questioned: “With?” To make Myka say it. Mere saying wouldn’t hurt. Would it?

“You haven’t been yourself since you put that camera in the static bag. Was it a problem, seeing it again?”

Helena held herself rigid so as to keep her body from betraying neither her disappointment at the question nor, contradictorily, her relief...

It was a reasonable question. A good question. Not one on which Helena particularly wanted to focus (although it indicated a certain attention on Myka’s part, an attention on which Helena suspected she should not dwell), but it did deserve an answer. “It closes a door, doesn’t it,” she told the ceiling, for turning her head to address the other body directly seemed an invitation to peril. “That one I opened so nefariously, long ago.”

“Or—and—maybe it closes a loop,” Myka said.

Unexpected. “A loop?”

“Right after college, I went through a self-help phase,” Myka said. She paused, and Helena found herself on relative tenterhooks regarding the applicability of this (new!) information to the current situation. Which reminded her how much she had missed talking with Myka... because of the very sound of her voice, yes, but also because her conversation could range so unanticipatedly. So rewardingly unanticipatedly. Helena had known few people who could lead her on such unpredictable, yet productive, journeys.

Was Myka’s apparent willingness to begin such a journey now indicative of... anything? A softening, perhaps, of relations between them? Not a rebooting of their once-burgeoning intimacy, for that had to remain taboo, but could it be that some restoration of their previous intellectual engagement might be, at the very least, neutral rather than harmful?

Helena had moved a tentative pawn in that direction during their conversation on the airplane. Perhaps this was Myka’s answering move?

With an exhale that seemed like resignation at what she was about to say—to reveal?—Myka said, “I felt like I needed to be someone different—someone better.”

Another pause. Helena considered that such a feeling seemed very Myka (and she heard that phrase in Claudia’s voice), but also very misguided. Of course she was not at all placed to make such judgments, and even less so to convey them to Myka. Thus she said a simple, “Did you,” to encourage without prejudice.

“So I read a lot of books,” Myka said, to which Helena had responded internally, Of course you did. “One was about how to get things done.”

“All things?” Helena asked.

“Sort of.” That was followed by yet another pause. Yet another puzzle.

All these pauses. Was Myka on the verge of sleep? Helena said, soft, thinking she might go unheard, “Perhaps I should read that book. As a help to myself.”

At that, Myka had laughed, more delay, but also soft. “I don’t think it’s any kind of help you need. The guy who wrote it had a big system, all these rules, and I love rules, but these... I admit I didn’t stick with most of them. Honestly, any. But an idea that did stick was actually a pretty minor part: open loops. Stuff you track subconsciously, all the time, because it’s incomplete. How troubling that is. And what a difference it makes when you close a loop, when you each a resolution. I mean, he was talking about stuff like answering emails.”

“Emails,” Helena echoed. So far from artifacts.

“Which this is so much bigger than,” Myka said, exhibiting, not for the first time, an uncanny ability to scoop from Helena’s thoughts. “But maybe the principle holds. You don’t have to tell me. But I hope you have fewer open loops now than you did. Before.”

“Yes. The number. Fewer,” Helena said, factually.

She of course couldn’t say out loud (but it was equally factual) that Myka herself was the loop most capaciously open. The one that gaped, superseding, never mind the number of lesser.

Indeed, however, that number was now minus-one. Oscar. Oscar and his ballad... that loop closed.

Helena had in fact, while handling the camera, begun to ideate a wish that someone (Steve? Claudia?) might be persuaded to use the camera to capture her image... for it had occurred to her that a spark of art, some production on which to concentrate, might animate this reboot... something to pursue, rather than to be pursued by...

But. Lying abed, still and strangely hopeful—a state she should have known would not endure—a realization had struck her, as an open hand to the face, a realization of why Myka had brought up loops and the closing thereof: she had somehow discerned Helena’s wish, via that scooping of thought, and was discouraging her from pursuing it.

So much for any softening. This was instead a warning: Helena should not open a loop that Myka might be obligated to close. And Helena had no trouble grasping that the warning was in no way limited to the use of a single artifact... no, it doubtless applied to any burdensome loops Helena might be thinking of opening, any new incompletions that might come to trouble Myka.

“I understand,” Helena had said, regretting that pawns could not be moved backwards.

At the same instant, Myka said, “I’m glad.”

That collision had canceled communication entirely; in its wake, Myka had turned out her light and turned away from Helena.

Leaving Helena to her thoughts.

Well, fine, had been the first of those.

Next had come an equally mulish sniff of And I will have no difficulty directing any subsequent away from this shared bed.

Whereupon she had proven herself both wrong and right, thinking about history, about the fact that, whatever Myka’s commentary or lack thereof had or hadn’t signified, the fact of Warehouse agents lodging together, sharing beds completely platonically, was certainly nothing new.

This line of thinking had enabled Helena to distract herself by recalling a mission with Steve and Claudia, one in which Steve had announced, after checking in at their hotel, “Bad news. Just a king room left, but they said they’d bring up a cot.”

He had then immediately assigned Claudia to said cot, prompting her to protest, “No way! This situation screams rock-paper-scissors tournament! Loser gets the crappy night’s sleep!”

“No way,” Steve protested back, far more mildly. “The father of science fiction gets first dibs on the lumbar support, and my back’s got a decade on yours, so I call second. If that father agrees.”

Helena had. Sharing with Steve had been fine.

Sharing with Myka should of course have been no different.

Should of course have been...

But now, here in the impossible present, as Helena’s left arm slumbers and her right hand sparks, what should have been? Isn’t isn’t isn’t.

She needs further distraction, so she casts her mind again to Claudia and Steve, to the compensations they have offered her during this strange and estranging reboot: at first Claudia, who had welcomed Helena back so unreservedly and continues to offer wholehearted allyship; and then Steve, who had quickly become an unanticipated boon companion, a partner upon whom Helena has felt increasingly, and increasingly exceptionally, lucky to be able to rely.

And yet these compensations, though Helena hopes she conveys all appropriate gratitude for them, are never sufficient, for Myka—necessary yet unreachable—is always present.

She’d been so, even during that cot-delineated retrieval. Its aftermath had (so much for distraction) involved a significantly Myka-related incident, for Helena had dared, as she, Steve, and Claudia were relaxing in the hotel lounge prior to retiring, to broach Myka as a topic of conversation. As one might do, she’d thought: speaking about a colleague.

“I have an inquiry,” she’d phrased it. To make the ensuing question sound... scientific?

Dispassionate, she jeers at her recalled self.

She jeers also at what she’d said next: a too-bald, “How is Myka?”

She had known, even at the time, that what she had truly wanted was to say that blessed name, to speak about that blessed person. She could not speak to Myka in any meaningful way, and she was starving.

Steve and Claudia had then shared what seemed an extremely charged glance, so Helena hastened to dissemble, making sure to use questions so as to prevent Steve from finding her immediately untruthful: “Given that her liaison with Pete ended? They’ve... recovered, as it were? Both faring well?”

But her tone had struck her own ears as too bright; a desperation rippled behind it, and Helena knew from experience that behind that tiptoed a still deeper threat of rupture, which required work to be kept at bay. As Helena had been instructed by her most successful therapist to do when such awareness overtook her, she began to breathe with attention.

Neither Steve nor Claudia spoke as she did so.

When the danger passed, she smiled, as best she could, to signal to them her appreciation—and to herself, her success.

Steve then said, “You’re not asking about Pete.”

Helena valued—as a personality trait—Steve’s discerning willingness to push. She did not in that moment value how he thus so easily revealed a glaring flaw in her initial approach: she should have asked about Pete; with that as her entrée, the talk might organically have turned to Myka. Foolish of her to think so unstrategically... or was her failure to do so a paradoxically positive sign?

“Give it time,” Steve said, and Helena knew he was making no reference to Myka and Pete’s recovery.

“My relationship to time,” she said, with contempt. Time: she’d taken it. Now she had to give it? A forfeit. Well, that was fair.

Claudia said to Steve, “Speaking of, we’re wasting it. Are we gonna do the thing?”

“Only if H.G.’s on board,” Steve told her. It was an unexpectedly mind-your-manners utterance.

“What is the thing?” Helena asked.

“Claudia’s trying out alcohols,” Steve said. “We can’t do it around Pete, obviously, which means retrievals are our—”

“So many questions to answer, right?” Claudia interrupted, her avidity increasing. “You know, am I über-suave James Bond with the martinis? Or a fights-against-my-general-cool-geek-vibe Carrie Bradshaw with a cosmo?”

Helena had had no idea what she was referring to, but the investigation seemed entirely fit for someone her age. “What have you determined thus far?”

“Turns out cosmos don’t work for me,” she said, “as the prophecy foretold, and Bond-wise, I like a martini all vodka, no gin; sorry, Vesper.”

“Is that all?” Helena asked.

Further avidity: “Oh god no. Vodka drinks aren’t perfect: white Russians are way too sweet. Also in the white family, the wine category pretty much bores me. Also there was this one time Steve ordered a gin drink called a white lady that I couldn’t even think about because it had an egg white in it and one look made me retch.”

“Quite the wide-ranging experiment,” Helena said, hoping to forestall further off-putting description. “Not conducted with inappropriate... ah... intensity, one hopes?”

Steve patted Claudia’s shoulder, at which she rolled her eyes. “I’m supervising,” he said. “No more than a few tries in one sitting, and we’re doing it mindfully.”

Claudia abandoned her attitude and nodded. “Paying attention to what I’m tasting. How to find, you know, notes and stuff. Except for the disgusting egg-white thing, it’s honestly been fun.”

“I’m not opposed to fun,” Helena said, and she was a bit surprised—but pleased, and pleased to be pleased—that Steve didn’t squint in response. “So, Mr. Supervisor, what’s next?”

“I’ve been pushing for the wide and wonderful world of beer, but—”

“Seems too jocktastic,” Claudia said. “You know, ‘Beer me, bro.’”

“I don’t know,” Helena said.

“Anyway that’s really not me,” Claudia continued, as if Helena hadn’t spoken. She did have a tendency to ignore Helena’s ignorance, a tendency that Helena enjoyed and found frustrating in equal measure.

“Her beer perspective is severely limited,” Steve lamented.

“I myself have always found a strong stout ale quite enjoyable,” Helena said: her contribution to Steve’s cause. It was also true, the fact of which he seemed pleased to affirm with a quirk of lip and a quiet “so you have.”

Claudia’s expression remained skeptical, but she shrugged weakly and said, “I guess I could give it a shot?”

“Oh, because H.G. says so,” Steve twitted.

To that, Claudia squared her shoulders. “Yeah. Don’t you know who she is?” she demanded.

“Who I was,” Helena hurried to emphasize, “and given that Steve assigned me the bed on that basis, he—”

“Who you are,” Claudia corrected, throwing the emphasis back.

“And who is that?” Helena asked. What distinction did Claudia imagine was relevant?

“The person who told me my destiny was glorious. You’re still that guy, right?”

Relevant indeed. Helena was taken aback, indeed taken back to that extremity, back in a novel way. She had been so mired in the Myka of it all in the intervening time, that she had lost her view of the bright salience of Claudia’s presence. Wrongly. “I am,” she said. She hoped Claudia believed her.

“Okay,” Claudia said. “So I’ve got this big-as-Pete’s-biceps incentive to hope the stuff you say is true. And by the way, one of you has to casually drop in front of him how I said that, because I want the points.”

Steve snickered and said, “I know my job. But in the meantime, I think I’d like to toast to all these sentiments, and to the agents offering them. With a strong stout ale.”

They tasted the three strongest the hotel bar had on offer, and Claudia pronounced that her favorite, one purporting to convey roasted notes of coffee, chocolate, and other darkness, was “way too complicated for your average broseph.” Which Steve seemed pleased by, as a judgment, so the overall experience scored a success.

There was no further talk of Myka, however, the avoidance of which topic seemed quite deliberate... as if Steve and Claudia had determined that Helena would not benefit from it.

Or that she did not deserve it.

For the best, Helena had concluded. Either way.

Now, in a similar “for the best either way” sense, she makes to raise her hand, with that intended overlay of feigned sleep, so as to shift away and at last regain equilibrium, restoring feeling to her sleeping arm and calming that oversensitive hand. But instead—in what she can interpret only as a stupidly id-driven attempt to bank some never-to-be-repeated sensation, to the memory of which that desperate id might cling in a touch-deprived future—she moves her hand, not away from Myka, but further down her leg.

And her worst fears are instantly realized: Myka’s body reacts violently, as if in revulsion at the very idea of Helena touching her.

It was only a hand at rest, Helena begs, with no conception of why or to whom she is rendering that supplication. That was all.

Alas, that was—is—not all, for in the next split second Myka is falling from the bed and crying out in pain.

Helena, at a loss, attempts a faux-innocent inquiry, which Myka answers unintelligibly. In trepidation, Helena ventures to the mattress-edge, then lowers herself to the floor next to Myka—and she is appalled, for the situation that confronts her is all debility, even more so than the absurd “my arm is asleep” with which this farce began: Myka’s shoulder is dislocated.

Further, Myka is now unconscious.

Spare Myka pain. How utterly unsurprising Helena finds her inability to obey such a dictum in even this most basic physical sense.

Unsurprising... worse, dispiriting, and it brings her low, such that again the incipient rupture asserts its subterranean power, urging Helena to give up, to run away and leave this broken Myka to someone else to bind up and save.

You’ve done it before.

That resounds in her head as both accusation and affirmation, and the voice pronouncing it might be Myka’s, or some deity’s, or that of any of the other personages who jockey audibly for primacy in that space, including Helena’s own.

She initiates breathing with care, even as an eddying undertow tempts her to entertain the notion that escape, too, might be rebooted, tempts her to entertain and revel in its ostentation as a response to Myka’s indifference, her rejection of history, even her revulsion.

Here is my answer to all that, a departure would declare.

Helena labors to breathe herself away from such perfidy, but the scenario creeps along, with an undertone of sinful relish, as she imagines leaving Myka to awaken alone and in pain.

But then—because her labor leads her there—she further imagines the various permutations of “someone else” who might be called upon to save the day in her absence. Whereupon the thought strikes her that moving through time nondestructively requires her to think seriously of, and to think seriously out, such knock-ons... how, for example, would Steve and Claudia respond to having to clean up this mess, knowing that Helena had made it?

Moving through time nondestructively. Interesting, here, the overlap with moving through time selfishly: selfishly, she does not want to destroy Claudia’s image of her as someone whose opinion matters. She does not want to destroy Steve’s image of her either, for it seems to have at least some positive components. Further, she does not want to destroy the fellowship they three are building.

If for no other reasons than those, she concludes that having caused this quite specific damage, she must fix it.

Because she can.

The fact of the matter is, Helena cannot fix most things. She has tried mightily to maintain the pretense that she can... but she has been forced over and over to confront the absurdity of that bravado. This very specific fix-it, however, she can perform. And while that performance—inconveniently, in the present circumstance—requires touch, here it can be functional. Perhaps in success she might in some way efface her earlier invasiveness...

Yet she can do nothing without two functional arms. She thumps her still-insensate left against the bed, hard—too hard, for Myka’s eyes open. She mumbles out something Helena decodes as “whatareyoudoing.”

“Preparing to remedy a situation,” Helena says.

“Okay.” Myka murmurs. She seems oddly comforted by the answer, to such an extent that she relaxes, losing consciousness again.

That’s fortunate, given the required manipulation.

Helena prepares herself to do it quickly, efficiently, as she has done in the past... rather dramatically on one occasion, as she recalls, for an agonized Wolcott... but she should not think of Wolcott. For the regret.

She sets that aside, preoccupying herself instead with the necessary activity. Her manipulation, determined and strong, is rewarded: what begins as a sluggish resistance resolves into a slip-pop of relocation, one that shudders a familiar path through her own bones. She then cushions Myka’s arm with a fresh towel and uses a pillowcase to fashion around it a tight sling.

Levering Myka up onto the bed would most likely cause further injury, so Helena sits beside her on the floor, ensuring periodically that she continues to breathe. The wait is calming, cleansing, its peace a renewal of a soothing activity of which Helena has been long deprived: observing Myka closely, at actual leisure. At no point since her return—so at no point in, literally, years—has she had such an opportunity.

She’s reminded, in that observation, of the true fundament: this precious person. Who could never be merely some flesh.

After a lengthy time, during which Helena is pressed to consider, to remember, to value Myka’s singularity, that precious person’s eyes flutter open.

That person tests her bound arm, a tentative physical investigation that approaches elegance in its delicacy.

But Myka’s delicacy and elegance, too, Helena should not think of. For the regret.

“I’m not in the hospital,” Myka burrs.

Reasonable, practical. This is what Helena should think of. “Not yet,” she says. “But we’ll go if necessary. If you’re in pain.”

Myka’s face contorts. “Not if. I am. Some. More than some. I’m sorry.”

“For being in pain?”

“That. But also, for changing this whole thing.”

Helena leaves the latter alone, for she cannot begin to interpret it. Focusing on functionality, she asks, “Can you dress yourself?”

Myka nods, but she winces far too much with even that motion, so Helena screws her courage to it and says, “I’ll change and then help you.”

Herself, fast, then Myka: Functional, she snarls internally as she addresses the situation, and even faster. She’s relieved to find that Myka’s trousers and boots are less complicated than she’d feared, and as it happens, preventing Myka suffering additional physical pain—even while undressing and redressing her!—is, paradoxically or not, far easier than navigating emotional shoals, or even hand-on-hip physical shoals. Focusing on Myka’s face for twists, listening for labors in breath, adjusting accordingly... it’s distractingly, satisfyingly concrete. Only the present moment matters.

Only the present moment matters. This is the mantra Helena iterates internally as they proceed to the nearest urgent care facility.

Yet as they wait there for attention, Helena finds herself increasingly unable to ignore why they are waiting there for attention. In the present moment, which matters. She begins—or does she intend it as an ending?—with, “I’m assuming you flung yourself to the floor in an attempt to escape a circumstance.”

Myka hiccups a laugh that makes her cringe in protection of the shoulder. “That’s weirdly accurate. As an assumption.”

Helena recoils at the confirmation, but she must acknowledge it. “A circumstance in which I touched you in a way that was unwelcome,” she agrees, with gloom.

“Unwelcome,” Myka echoes.

It’s so... definitive. It was one thing for Helena herself to think it, believe it, say it aloud. Quite another—though it shouldn’t have been—to hear it from Myka.

A punctuating end to what never truly began between them: there is some consolation, if only philosophical, in the idea that after so many starts that were false, they may at least enjoy a finish that is true.

“Of course it was,” Helena says, following with, “and how could it have been otherwise.” She puts the final period upon it by adding a bare, spare dig: “Given history.”

Myka closes her eyes... in acceptance of the cut? When she opens them, they are glistening. Tears? Helena is egotistically gratified by such a response, never mind that it means she has yet again failed to hold to her resolution.

“Helena,” Myka says, and now Helena is gratified simply by Myka’s low utterance of her name. Myka does not always use that deeper voice, and Helena does love (yes, love) the rare pleasure of hearing her name in it. “I’m so tired,” Myka says next.

That is less gratifying. It’s yet another utterance Helena should leave alone; of course Myka is tired. But in what she is sure is a mistake, Helena says, “Of?”

“Everything. But particularly, you.”

A dagger, that was. A cut back. Testimony to Helena’s concatenating mistakes.

“This you,” Myka adds.

The additional twist of blade leaves Helena unclear on the devastation Myka intends. “Of course” is all she can think to say.

Myka closes her eyes and exhales heavy, a near-sob. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry,” she intones, but what need has she to apologize? “That was the pain talking—or, no, I still know you well enough to know you’ll hear that wrong. What I mean is, I’m saying something I could keep holding back if the pain wasn’t cracking me open.”

The pain. Cracking her open. Which would never have happened in the absence of Helena’s stupid, thoughtless touch. Which in turn makes abundantly clear that the stupid, thoughtless person who applied that touch is the “this you” Myka means.

If Helena is to remain in this situation she must take measures, so she lengthens her inhales and exhales, entirely ashamed both at needing such a crutch and at having to exhibit that need.

After a moment of silence, Myka asks, “Are you breathing differently than you were just a second ago?”

Myka isn’t Steve. Helena could at least attempt to lie about this, to cloak her shame... but it’s effort, either way. “Yes,” she says, choosing the unpredictability of Myka’s interpretation over the unpredictability of her own performance.

“Is that good or bad?” Myka asks. “Or both?”

The questions stop Helena, stop her in the same way her at-leisure observation of Myka had. I still know you well enough, Myka had said, and it is true. This is why, Helena would say if she could. Your knowing to ask that.

But she can’t say it, and, worse, she doesn’t know what she should say. What should come next.

Apparently Myka doesn’t either. That not-knowing persists, hanging, until “next” arrives, as an intrusion from outside their suspension: medical attention is at last directed Myka’s way; she is escorted out of the waiting area and taken elsewhere.

“We’ll call you when you can see her,” Helena is told.

Alone in the waiting area—for no other human seems to have suffered damage this night—and uncomfortably situated on a hard plastic chair, she tilts her head back against a similarly unforgiving plaster wall.

She closes her eyes. She’s had no rest, no rest for so long. She is drained. Physically empty.

Philosophically as well.

She imagines trying to sleep... or rather, she imagines not trying to remain awake.

Doubtless futile, either way.

She next imagines constructing an airtight argument that could not help but persuade all who hear it—Myka in particular, but all others as well—that this entire situation is Artie’s fault.

Also futile.

This despite its being the fact of the matter, for indeed he did bring the situation about. Perhaps not in a proximate sense, but in the ultimate... the idea of which, after a moment, strikes her as both comic and tragic: Artie as the ultimate cause? Of anything, from the universe on down? Though he would doubtless like to imagine himself so... even at the Warehouse, however, he must be not even penultimate, given the bureaucracy that sits over the entire concern...

Helena thus spends the bulk of her time in the waiting area stewing about—stewing over? stewing under?—the relative positions of god, Mrs. Frederic, and various Regents in the universe. None of it, however, requires her to alter her breathing; rather, she composes in her head the opening paragraphs of several publishable monographs on these and related topics. It isn’t restful. But is evidence of something other than emptiness.

When someone does at last call her to see Myka, everything has changed.

Well. Not everything. Helena herself hasn’t, as her bureaucracy-pantheon thought may have been philosophically valid but made no difference.

Myka, however, has changed entirely: her arm is now professionally dressed, but more importantly, the knit of pain has left her face. “They medicated me,” she says, giving the word “medicated” a rapturous cast. “The X-rays said I didn’t break anything, so we’re waiting on results of a scan to see if I need surgery but in the meantime I feel better than I maybe ever have in my life and I am so happy to see you. All these doctors were like ‘why did she think she could fix you’ but I knew why and it was because it’s you. and that scan? It’ll shout out how Helena Wells relocated Myka’s shoulder so she didn’t need surgery, and they don’t know this, but actually H.G. Wells relocated Myka’s shoulder, which is even more amazing. Wait, that’s not more amazing. You’re the most amazing when you’re you than when you’re that guy. Even though I guess you are that guy. Sort of. Wait, Claudia’s been saying ‘that guy’ a lot now. And I cut and paste from her so much, but I don’t like it. The way things are.” She heaves an enormous sigh and blinks at Helena, as if she’s just re-understood that another person is present.

Is there some ideal way to answer this flood? Helena settles for an antiseptic “I’m pleased to see you out of pain.”

Myka gasps and flails wildly with her uninjured arm, which gesture eventually resolves into an index finger directed at Helena. “That’s it exactly. I’m out of pain. All out. No more pain to give. Particularly not to you. So saying I’m tired of you? I regret it, and I apologize for it, and I promise that’s the end of it. I was wishing to get something back, and you don’t want it back, and so I have to be fine. Without it. Without you.”

Without you. Helena supposes she should be impressed by how concisely Myka can foreshadow disaster. “Should I not... be here?” She braces herself for the answer.

“Of course you should. I have to be fine without how you were,” Myka says, very quietly. The collapse of her volubility gives Helena pause.

She knows it would be better not to probe; she ought to, as Claudia says, “take the win.” But “Of course you should” is only facially a win... “How was I?” she asks. To wound herself by making Myka clarify what has been lost.

“Oh, how you were...” Myka says, her words dragging. How much—any, all?—of this might be due to the varying effects of the medication? “Putting me into this story,” she continues. “It was so big, and I didn’t understand what it was, really or at all, but it felt so big. Yearning and tragedy, and there I was, still me, but in it, so in it, all in it, next to you. Bigger than life, and I... loved it? Needed it? Something to take me over. But my wishing for any of it back, when of course you don’t?” She raises that free arm, then lets it fall. Futility, it says. “So small. Only somebody little and desperate would want to make you revisit any of that.”

Medication effect or not, Helena can’t let Myka keep on with this. “Make me revisit it? Yearning and tragedy? I’m the one who inflicted that, and with malign intent; I damaged you. And I cannot imagine a scenario in which that debt is discharged.”

Myka squints. “Debt,” she says, as if articulating a new noun, but not one that names an abstraction; no, this thing is big and blunt, a dumb object that takes up space. Unfunctional furniture. That I carry on my back, Helena moods.

“Oh!” Myka then yelps, her tone shifting to excitement. “But I just damaged myself. So now we’re even!” She delivers that last bit big and broad, for all the world as if she’s the comic lead in a panto.

Helena has not spared a thought for panto in years. “That makes no sense at all,” she says, because it’s the case, but also to scorn the memory. This is no time for that past.

“Would you like me to dislocate your shoulder?” Myka asks, as if it were a reasonable proffer. Still comic, but now strangely sincere.

Helena meets this bizarrely compelling, ridiculous combination with as much severity as she can muster. “Honestly no. I would not.”

“I see,” Myka says, and she points again, this time without preambling flail. “Some prices you aren’t willing to pay.”

Helena can at the very least be honest about this. How nice it would be if Steve were here to verify. “Willing to... in the sense of volunteering to? No. In the sense of understanding that I deserve to? Certainly. So do me damage if you must. In particular, do me damage if you think it could even the score between us. It won’t, but if you think it could? Please do.”

“That’s pretty twisted,” pronounces the only arbiter who matters.

“You sound like Claudia again,” Helena observes. To push the judgment away? Yes, and she tries to make certain of it with, “Is that another cut and paste?”

“Maybe. But now that I think about it, she sees things pretty clearly a lot of the time. Don’t you think?”

“I would like to think,” Helena is compelled to admit. Hoist by her own petard.

At this point—suspending any resolution—a doctor reenters the curtained area. “Good news: no surgery,” she tells Myka.

“See, I told you she fixed it,” Myka preens.

“You did,” says the doctor. “Several times,” she adds, dry.

Helena says “I’m so sorry,” only to hear Myka say, at the same time, “Sorry not sorry!” Another echo of Claudia... this one, however, clearly heartfelt.

The doctor turns to Helena. “Don’t try anything like this again. You got ridiculously lucky.”

“That’s kind of her M.O.,” Myka says. “Except when it isn’t.”

The doctor sighs. “I’m pretty sure that’s my point. And listen, make sure to follow up with your local doc. They’ll prescribe a ton of PT, so brace yourself.”

Myka snorts. “Brace myself? Sure, but not for the PT; my boss is going to flay me alive.”

The doctor barely reacts. “Oh, maybe this one can fix that too,” she deadpans, directing an eyeroll at Helena, accompanied by a murmured, “not a suggestion.”

“Oh, she’s in for the flaying,” Myka says, with more than a little cheer. “If not for this, then for something. Eventually.”

The doctor shakes her head, eyes unfocused. “Good news for me: I don’t have to care.” She points at Myka: “You go to PT.” Now at Helena: “You don’t try to practice medicine.” At both of them, her eyes flicking back and forth with purpose: “Got it?” Helena nods; she senses Myka doing the same. “Excellent,” the doctor says. “Or whatever. I’m done with you now.”

She conveys with her rapid exit that interacting with both of them has been a most exasperating experience.

While Helena does not appreciate being chastised—and especially not for attempting to care for Myka—she does appreciate expertise. Especially when it contributes to Myka’s well-being. It’s a conundrum. “I find your doctor’s aspect strangely appealing,” she says. “Speaking of bracing.”

Myka grins. “I was totally thinking the same thing.”

“And yet I would practice that medicine again.”

“For me that’s good news.”

As they prepare to depart, Helena says, “I confess I’m curious as to what you intend to tell Artie.”

Myka offers a slight stretch of her right shoulder in the direction of her ear: the only version of a shrug available to her, bound as she is. “Maybe I should leave that to you. You’re the writer.” Forestalling Helena’s reflexive objection, she adds, “I know, I know. The research. The ideas.”

“And yet I don’t have any. I certainly don’t see a path to inventing anything that would—”

“How about I take your photo with that camera? Think that’d help?” This is accompanied by a different grin: sly.

Whither the warning? Or is this a test? Myka isn’t Steve, yet Helena goes with truth: “It might. With any number of things.”

“If only,” Myka says, inscrutably. “Anyway I intend to tell Artie that this is all his fault, because he sent us on this retrieval in the first place. Obviously I won’t say what really happened.”

While Myka bestowing such grace is not surprising, it moves Helena all the same. “Thank you,” she says.

Myka opens her mouth, then closes it. She does it again. This wait... it’s grace too. “You’re welcome,” she eventually says. “I mean I’m tempted to tell him how you saved the day—the arm—but I know I shouldn’t, because I don’t want to draw attention to the hotel charging us extra.” To Helena’s quizzical eyebrow, she says, “For the missing towels and pillowcase. Which I tried to talk the nurses into giving back to me, but they’d already tossed them as hazardous waste. Or something. Or maybe I’m just not very persuasive? Or clear in what I’m asking for?”

Helena would very much like to explain that her own answers to those questions are negative and affirmative, respectively: no, you are persuasive; but yes, you are unclear.

“On the other hand, they did medicate me,” Myka says, perking up. “I keep thinking it’ll wear off, but not yet!”

The consolations of intoxication. “To the delight of your shoulder I’m sure,” Helena says. To my delight as well, she wishes she were free to say.

Their return to the hotel room offers another “everything has changed” hinge: no longer a stage for new and awkward performances of politesse, the space is now familiar, a place they have reentered. For the next act of the play?

Myka, who has preceded Helena in, stops and sways—just a bit, but Helena instinctively steps close, taking her by the elbow of her uninjured arm with one hand, stationing the other around the curve of her waist.

She feels Myka’s breath catch at the contact; immediately, she curses herself, loosens her hold, and says a terse, “I’m sure you want to lie down.”

“More than maybe anything. Or, wait, no, not anything.” Myka turns and catches Helena’s eyes with hers, but Helena cannot use that gaze as the basis for any inference.

She backs away as Myka lowers herself onto the bed; eventually, she backs her way into the room’s one armchair. It lacks give. It also lacks arms at a height that might provide anything resembling support. Helena slumps down, trying to be grateful that it exists at all.

Long minutes pass. As in the hospital’s waiting area, Helena imagines trying not to remain awake.

Similarly futile.

She chances a glance at Myka, who meets her eyes again and says, “That looks uncomfortable. Or what I mean is, you look uncomfortable. Which honestly is pointless, unless you’re doing some hair-shirt thing, because we’ve got this big bed. Not a lot of hours before we have to leave it, but we’ve got it for now.”

“That went poorly before.”

“I think circumstances have changed. Don’t you?” Weighted.

Circumstances are always changing, Helena could say. Usually for the worse. Instead she ventures, “You’d let me lie down with you?”

“I never wouldn’t.” Myka squints. “Wait. Did that come out right? Anyway, yes.”

Medication: not yet worn off. “You’re sure?” Helena asks.

“I’m pretty sure this bed is almost as big as a field where Pete’s favorite sport happens. It’s at least as big as an ice rink anyway, and those aren’t small.”

Helena refrains from pointing out that that was no help in the previous disaster. She doesn’t, however, appreciate being able to recline. For the first while, the fact of being beside Myka is less relevant than the slow loosening of her lower back and hips.

 “Can you sleep?” Helena asks, as they are both evidently lying with eyes open to the ceiling.

“Not now,” Myka answers, and the sentiment seems clear: not after all of this. All of this with which we must deal.

The bed first, perhaps.

She turns to look at Myka, if minimally. “Did you request a cot?” she asks, because she doesn’t know. Because the answer might reveal... something?

Myka’s eyes widen. “Oh my god I should have,” she says. Stricken.

“Why didn’t you?”

“It didn’t even cross my mind.” She’s talking more to herself—or perhaps to the room at large?—than to Helena. Is this continued evidence of the medication?

“And do you know why that is?” Helena asks, hoping for that revelation, even if drug-induced.

“Honestly I think I thought I was being given an ultimatum. Like it was something I had to be fine with or else.”

“Fine with ‘or else.’” Helena means the echo as rueful agreement.

But: “Sharing a bed with you. Platonically,” Myka says, taking it instead as a request for explanation.

“Platonically,” Helena scoffs, unable to avoid the idea that agreeing to accept that adverb would, paradoxically, usher in others. (Passionately.) (Speaking of paradoxically.) “That word is so often misused.” It’s a push-off. A push-away.

“But I’m using it correctly.” Myka sounds not offended, but rather self-satisfied.

Fine. Harden the position. “You are not referring to our consciousness rising from physical to spiritual matters.”

“Well... but how about love for the idea of good? As a path to virtue?”

Myka is well-read. In this moment, that fact is not entirely pleasing. “I suppose we were both attempting to be courtly,” Helena concedes.

“I mean I’ll grant you that nobody ended up transcending the body,” Myka says. Helena is about to agree, to snap away from churlishness, to express regret and apologies, when Myka exclaims, “Hey! I just had the best idea for a joke. So you’re not a hologram anymore, right? So you know what you were trying to be? Last night, in bed?”

Jokes. They confound Helena nearly as completely as metaphors do Steve. “I have no idea.”

“A Platonic solid,” Myka declares, triumphant.

Helena is mortified to find that in this case, she “gets it.” “Myka,” she sighs.

“Too soon? But come on, it’s not bad!”

“Alas, it is.” This quality, Helena can recognize.

“Right, but the good kind.”

Helena is not made of stone. Or bronze. How much easier everything had been then, sans choice and sans reason... and most importantly, sans the near-irresistibility of this one human. “I did always enjoy the word ‘icosahedron,’” she tenders.

“See,” Myka says, now in indulgence rather than triumph. “Pretty sure you have more than twenty faces though.”

“You do as well. Some revealed only under the influence of opioids.”

“Here’s one I don’t think I’d have the guts to use otherwise: my explain-it-to-you-using-words face.”

“Explain what to me?” Helena asks. It’s a surrender. She should better have said she did not wish that face revealed, but that would never have stopped a determined Myka.

“Why I flung myself to the floor.”

“I thought that had been explained? You were attempting to escape a circumstance.”

“First, the flinging was more involuntary than an attempt. And second: your hand.”

“Perhaps you don’t remember”—a strange thing to say to Myka—“but we had this conversation previously.” Helena does not want to have it again.

“Not this conversation. In that one, you drew the wrong conclusion. Or relied on an invalid assumption. Actually both of those. Anyway, your hand.”

“Please stop saying that,” Helena requests. Begs.

“Fine, I’ll finish the sentence: Woke up every nerve in my body,” Myka says, causing Helena to cringe and wish she could this very instant construct a truly useful time machine so she could fly backward, overleaping this latest passage so as to muzzle Myka before she could say that, because she believes it but knows it leads nowhere functional. To her continued mortification, Myka carries on, “Woke them all right up.” This, she says rhapsodic. Helena feels that tone in her gut, a hot twist of something she deserves as pain, but that manifests, shamefully, as pleasure. “Then your hand moved, and it shorted out the system—my system—and I fell out of bed, and the rest is history.”

“On the contrary, the rest is quite present.” Helena tries pushing all of it away, striving for detachment. For function.

“So, your hand,” Myka says again.

Helena raises the offender. “Also present.” Detachment. Humor, even; pushing, pushing, pushing. Trying to maintain.

“No, I mean why,” Myka pushes in turn.

Helena bats back, in faux innocence, “Why is it present?”

“Why was it present. On me.” Low now, her voice, just as compelling as, and even more commanding than, when she uses it to utter Helena’s name.

“I have no excuse,” Helena says.

“I don’t need an excuse. I need a reason. Do you have one?”

“It isn’t exculpatory.”

“As long as it’s explanatory.”

No escape now. No excuse, and no escape. “Here is my reason: I wanted to touch you. So against all better judgment, I did. Intending only that, nothing more.” Myka’s response to these words is an exhale. Loud. Unlike the hospital sob, however, this is slow and controlled. Helena allows a decorous pause, but no words ensue, so she goes on. Myka deserves an explanation that is complete. “But then I found myself unable to... un-touch you. Competently. And the rest will at some point be history, upon which I will never cease to look back and berate myself.”

Waiting for whatever may come next, Helena feels exhaustion inch through her, infiltrating her eyes, limbs, brain, sapping every vestige of energy... her surrender to the creeping leach is imminent when Myka says, “I like that reason.”

All right then. Awake and aware. “You do?”

“You really can be impossible to talk to. Listen to me: if I did that—touched you—I would find myself the same. Unable to un-touch. Do you understand?”

What would be the cost of abandoning her resistance? “I don’t know...” she begins, then reverses course and begins again. Truth, never mind the cost. “Yes. I do understand. But I don’t know what to do about that.”

Myka turns her head full toward Helena, twisting her long neck. Helena turns her own head, but that isn’t enough, so she shifts onto her side—her left side, punitively aware that it will be weeks before Myka can turn in such a way.

They look at each other, Helena both knowing and fearing how her guilt must freight her gaze. Regarding Myka so close, looking now into eyes that are open, is a boon she does not deserve.

After a time, Myka says, “I know what I want to do.”

Her intent is abundantly clear. The entirely of Helena’s being balks, stranding her again in Boone: if she makes a move for the momentary better, it will most likely end worse. She cannot find the... courage? or is it foolish disregard for consequences?... to reach for that moment of joy. Neither, however, can she find the discipline to dismiss its possibility.

“But I also know I shouldn’t,” Myka says, breaking with clarity into Helena’s indecision.

Well. Helena can certainly see the wisdom of that, so perhaps at last they are approaching a real accord that will render all hopes and wishes moot, so that neither courage nor discipline features in the—

“I can tell the meds are messing with my head,” Myka says, “and if there’s one thing I want to remember in picture-perfect detail, it’s this.” She moves her right index finger near to Helena’s lips, then withdraws it.

Unable to un-touch. That withdrawal reaffirms that Myka believes what she says. “This,” Helena echoes, mesmerized.

“So I’m going to wait till tomorrow to—listen to me saying it out loud—kiss you. For the first time. I want to be all there when it happens.”

There is a practicality to Myka’s thinking, and to Myka, that Helena worships. She tries to match it with a bit of her own: “If it happens.”

Myka’s jaw drops. “Come on! I said it out loud! It’s real now!”

“It’s been real for some time, hasn’t it? But I’m being realistic about the circumstance. You might not remember that you wanted to.”

“Seriously? I’ve remembered it since we met.”

Helena has remembered it just as long. She has. Denying it is pointless. But she has a larger concern, and though this is the wrong time to address it, perhaps medicated Myka will afford an unfiltered read...

“Or you might think better of it.”

“Of kissing you? I don’t think so.”

“Of what could ensue. The possibility of a... relationship. Between us. What if it doesn’t work?”

“Relationship.” After she says the word, Myka’s lips part and close, as if the very word is savory. “What if it does?”

It is savory. However. “I’m asking as a practical matter, not philosophically. I’m constrained: I can’t leave again. That’s why I came back.” The thin strand to which she is clinging... refraining from attempting to rekindle an intimacy hasn’t been only to keep Myka safe. It has also been to keep the Warehouse safe for Helena herself to inhabit.

“Then don’t leave again.”

“But what if that means you do?” This is not philosophy either. This, too, is history.

“If I do, then I do, but I’d like to think I won’t. We’ve both had our walkaway crises, and they didn’t take. So if it doesn’t work, we put it behind us like adults. If Pete and I could, then so can you and I. But I’d rather not have to. So let’s be careful.” She pauses. “Breathe however you need to.”

The words are an embrace. A physical clasp might be more galvanizing, but right now, Myka is managing just fine with words. “If this works, it will be because you say things like that.”

“Good news, because I mean things like that. And I intend to keep saying them. Hey, speaking of saying, do me a favor and write down what I said just now, about the adults and the careful, because I want to remember it.”

Sluggishly, Helena ideates rising, going to the room’s desk, finding logo-bearing paper and pen, writing...

****

Helena and Oscar are in a salon. They are engaged in a dispute regarding choices and consequences. Helena is standing at a lectern, and Oscar is reclining on a lavishly upholstered chaise longue, kicking his right leg such that its calf bounces in a languid little rhythm against the low cushioned edge.

Kick. Kick. Kick.

“The choices that create a circumstance will not, repeated, resolve it satisfactorily,” Helena says. Is she reading from a monograph? “As we see in the case of your own Ballad of Reading Gaol, do we not? And yet injury need not lead inevitably to future debility, so clearly some choice in the matter is—”

“Helena,” Oscar says, interrupting her monologue. “Helena,” he repeats. He sounds nothing like himself, but rather someone else, and Helena is straining to connect the voice to the correct person.

Kick. Kick. Kick.

“Time to wake up,” Oscar-as-someone-else admonishes. Encourages?

“I know,” she tells him, hugely frustrated, fighting. “I’m trying.”

His impassive mien is no help. It never was.

Kick. Kick. Kick.

Trust Oscar to cast some part of himself as the pendulum of a particularly annoying clock—

“Seriously, wake up,” Helena hears, and consciousness jolts at her: Myka’s voice.

Oscar dissolves. Into laughter or tears, no doubt, as he was wont to do...

Helena’s eyes open, meeting Myka’s, and she is brought back to it all: the hotel, the bed; the shoulder, the hospital... then hotel again, bed again... and finally words, as if for the first time.

Myka is lying on her right side, facing Helena. Her eyes are bright, her gaze intense.

“Are you in pain?” Helena asks.

Myka leans forward, as if that were a signal. The signal: for Helena is the astonished, grateful, transported recipient of a kiss, a first kiss—the first kiss—one that is swift but soft, gentle, genuine. Like morning... “Better now,” Myka says when she pulls back. “I’m going to brush my teeth. Stay there.”

Better now. Not lost on Helena are all the ways that signifies, including: better that this happened now than at some point in the desperate past. Then, such a kiss would have been a tragic wish for all they would never have. Now, instead, it can stand as a reward for having survived all of that, as well as, universe willing, a mark of embarkation.

By the time Myka returns, Helena has sat up, stationing herself on the edge of the bed. She has also realized that she must apologize—for they should not embark on this new voyage with yet another of her many faults unaddressed. “You charged me with writing down part of our conversation. I didn’t. I fell asleep instead.”

Myka hesitates before joining her on the bed’s edge, clearly considering which arm should be next to Helena. She chooses the functional right. “It’s okay. Even if I don’t remember exactly what we said, I remembered what we needed to do.”

“Needed to,” Helena reprises. She could supply words of her own, but why? Myka is saying the ones that matter...

“Needed to,” Myka affirms. “So where were we?” She raises her useful hand to Helena’s cheek, cradling. Helena leans into it, saying nothing, because silence now says everything.

This is a longer kiss, more wandering, more suggestive of possibility, more likely to lead to such possibility... Helena is the one to this time pull away. “A place quite new,” she says.

“And yet I’m pretty sure we’ve been headed here all along.”

“It wasn’t inevitable,” Helena says. She is thinking now of dream-Oscar, who is slipping from her mind, dropping, like a poorly initiated painting, but he must have obstreperously been maintaining something about inevitability. He always did.

“No,” Myka agrees. “And it still isn’t. So let’s be careful.”

“You remember that part? Despite my stenographic failure?”

“Even if I didn’t—but I do—I’d know it’s important.”

Helena turns and touches her right hand to Myka’s right hip. She would certainly not be able to do this now if she had not done so in the night... the night’s ontogeny recapitulating the phylogeny of their shared history. Myka covers Helena’s hand with hers, and there is healing in the simple fact of their sitting. But eventually that is not enough, and another kiss ensues, longer still, and lips outweigh quiet hands—or no, lips add to quiet hands, but hands are not content to remain so calm, and so this continues and might continue—

Myka makes a noise that is clearly not of pleasure; she moves entirely away, her right hand pressing protectively at her left shoulder. “We’re going to need to be careful about this stupid shoulder too. I’m so, so sorry.”

“You’re sorry? I’m the one who can’t keep my hands to myself.” Ontogeny, phylogeny.

“It’s not like I’m some paragon of self-control... and I am sorry, because I’d like to be able to participate fully. But also I’d like to not have to hurry on account of catching a plane. In good news, eventually my shoulder will heal. I know we can’t stay here till then, but...”

“It would help,” Helena supplies.

“If only because we have to come up with how this supposedly happened. I still think maybe I should take your picture. Or you could take mine? Because by the way, here’s a funny thing: I was trying to write a novel.”

“You were?” More that is new... “Speaking of icosahedra,” Helena notes.

“I want to tell you about it.”

“You do?” Trying to convey her incredulity. That Myka would allow her such... access.

“I want to tell you everything. But in the meantime we have to tell Artie something... I guess we’ve got both flights plus the layover in Denver to get our story straight.”

Stories. Narrative. Novels? “But we’ll tell Steve the truth. Won’t we?”

“Of course we will. And Claudia, right?”

“Also necessary. Although most likely mockery-inducing.”

Myka smiles. It’s a sunrise. “Stress testing. If we can take it from her, we’ll be fine. Then again we might need the time on the planes to rest up for that.”

“Weren’t you able to sleep, this past while?”

Myka shakes her head, and just as Helena opens her mouth to express regret and apologize again for her own sleep, Myka silences her with a kiss, one that lingers, lingers, lingers... still half against Helena’s lips, she says, “The un-touching part really is difficult. But don’t worry about my not sleeping: for the first time in a long time, I was happy to be awake.”

END

[slapmeshigaraki]

౨ৎ "Are you scared, sweetheart?" ౨ৎ

♡ warnings: meanie!sylus x reader, spit, gunplay, daddy, condescension, improper evol use lmao, actually pretty tame ngl the dirty talk is kinda gross though, sylus is out of character in this in case that bothers you

♡ a/n: okay i lied and said i wasn't posting this until later in the week, but i finished editing it early so... idk happy valentine's day i guess. another old fic that i just edited. enjoy pretties !!

♡ Sylus doesn't ask you for much other than to leave him alone for a few hours on Sundays so he can clean his gun collection, but after a few interruptions too many, he decides that you can stick around just this once. Afterall, maybe you can help? ♡

“What is it?” he said after letting out a deep sigh, not bothering to look up at you through the lenses of his glasses. They sat loosely against the bridge of his nose as he looked down at his lap, softly polishing one of his most prized possessions: a gun. You weren’t sure whose death he’d pictured on the other end of it, but he treated it like the last bite of dessert, savoring it, keeping it hidden away for a special occasion. No one could touch it, look at it, breathe on it, except him. When Luke and Kieran gave you your first tour of the house, they wouldn’t even walk you down the hallway of the safe, scared that ‘Boss would smell your scents when he returned.’ It wasn’t until months later when he’d decided that your firearm wasn’t up to par any longer that he’d invited you in to 'shop' for a new one. That’s when you saw it, hung up on the wall in a glass case so high that only he could reach. It was wrapped in a fine silk fabric, a pristine black cherry gun whose make or model was so far beyond your pay grade that you’d never heard of it before.

Every Sunday he disappears into the safe for hours before dinner. He was not to be disturbed. It was the only thing that he was really particular about, but he needed it just to clear his head—some solace after a long week. So, the fact that you were interrupting him for the third time with a knock on the door was grating, to say the least.

“Nothing I just-“

“Is something on fire, darling?”

“No, Sylus.”

“Has someone managed to break into the house?”

“No.”

“Has Mephisto spontaneously combusted, leaving a feather lodged into one of your eyes?”

“No.”

“So, you can clearly see that I’m busy? Then I’ll ask again, what is it that you need?” His eyes still wouldn’t meet yours, eyebrows furrowing as he spoke, his tone strained.

“I just wanted to know if you wanted rice or mashed potatoes for dinner, but since you’re so caught up in tending to an inanimate object, I’ll decide for you.” He was snippier than usual, the darkening of his voice making it obvious he was not in the mood for witty banter.

“Be careful there, sweetheart. I’d hate for that pretty mouth to get you into trouble.”

“Or what? Will you get trigger happy and let that precious gun go off? No, of course not because we must keep it clean for a hypothetical threat that doesn’t fucking exist.”

“Kneel.” It wasn’t a question or a suggestion. It was a command, an order barked at an underling.

“Go fuck yourself,” You said, venom in your voice as you made a move back towards the door, hand clenched around the golden handle.

“If you make me get up to come catch you sweetheart, you’ll be sorry.” His eyes met yours for the first time, a fiery crimson illuminating your line of vision. His gaze was dark, challenging you to disobey him. When Sylus told someone to do something, they did it and you were no exception. You might bite back once in a while, but he always knew that you’d do what he told you to at the end of the day.

So, you kneeled, perhaps too slowly because it wasn’t before long that your knees were forced to buckle beneath you, Sylus making good use of his evol to bind your ankles together. The cool marble tile flooring chilled your flesh as your heartbeat ran wild, your mouth getting wetter with each second, practically drooling as if you were waiting to sink your teeth into your favorite meal. In the same breath, your hands were bound as well, moved behind your back against your will and stuck together like glue.

“Go on, crawl to me.” There was amusement staining his expression, a sinister smirk plastered across his face.

“What’s wrong, pretty girl? Can’t you get to me? A big strong girl like you with such a dirty mouth, surely you can move just a few feet on your own.” You relaxed your legs, letting your knees spread apart to rest them.

“I can’t…” You mumbled under your breath, unable to meet his glare any longer.

“Speak up, pet. You were so loud a few moments ago. Speak to me with that same tough voice now that you can't run away from me.” His slender fingers kept moving, cleaning the trophy with such grace. It was rhythmic, methodical, and calculated. It made you wet just to watch him, reminding you of how easily those same fingers could make you fall apart in his arms.

“I can’t move.”

“You can’t move?” he whined, pouting, mocking you without remorse.

“Well, I want you kneeling in front of me. So how do you suggest you get over here, sweetie?”

“Sylus…” You pled, which was slightly better than flat out begging.

“Tsk tsk, where are our manners?” The same red mist that bound your wrists and ankles now curled around your throat, not hesitating to squeeze abruptly, threatening to rob you of all of your air altogether.

“Please sir, help me.” Without letting another second pass, you were pulled into the air and inched over to him by the mist, roughly thrown back to the ground before him. His legs were spread in his seated position, gun resting on one, the other resting between your thighs.

“Thank you,” You said, hanging your head to avoid meeting his eyes.

“Aw, so polite. See what happens when you ask nicely? See how sweet I can be when you aren't a fucking brat?” With that, his foot adjusted, the tip of his perfectly polished leather shoe gently pressed against your core. You struggled not to writhe against him, desperately needing some form of friction to soothe the ache between your legs.

“Look at me, darling.” You did. The fervent desire in your eyes obvious, bottom lip bloody from biting it so hard, restraining yourself from any more unnecessary commentary.

“You look so needy like this, my foot pressed against your cunt, pouting underneath me. You look like you want to ask me for something? What is it, baby? Do you need something from your daddy, hm?” A whine fell from between your lips against your control as you tensed your legs, begging them not to move without permission.

“Please can I- can you fuck me please?”

“Can I fuck you? Do you think that I should dirty myself--” the hold on your neck tightened once more, “by fucking someone so pathetic that they’re getting off at the thought of grinding on my leg? Someone who can’t go a few hours without my attention shouldn’t get my cock inside of them. Someone like that shouldn’t get to feel my cum filling them up and spilling out of their tight little holes. They shouldn’t get to feel daddy’s tongue cleaning them up, kissing and sucking every inch on their pretty little pussy, should they?” You couldn’t get yourself to say no, but you knew yes wasn’t what he wanted to hear, so you stayed quiet. The cool sensation of metal burned your skin in an instant, tilting your jaw up, forcing your vision toward to ceiling, your eyes getting lost in the gold detailing of the mural above. Silence filled the space between you two, the only sound to be heard was the quickening of your heartbeat and the flip of the gun’s safety that was pressed against your flesh. A lump grew in your throat at the noise. You could feel the sole of his shoe pressing into you even more, gently moving back and forth as you bit your lip again.

“Let me hear you, baby. Tell daddy how good it feels, go on.”

“Th- Thank you daddy. That feels so good.”

“Say ‘thank you daddy for making my cunnie feel good.” You whined at the request, embarrassment causing tears to prick and sting at the corners of your eyes.

“You don’t want to use your words? How ungrateful.” It wasn’t long before the coolness against your jaw was gone. You dropped your gaze to look at him once again. The man before you was starved, his face void any sign of amusement. You wondered if this is what his prey felt when he looked at them, a lamb waiting to be eaten by the lion, forced to let him play with his food before he could be thoroughly satiated. He put the barrel of the gun against your lips now, his thumb languidly dancing on the trigger.

“Open up for me. Let me see that pretty tongue.” You hesitantly stuck your tongue out, the spit that had been building up in your mouth finally free to drip onto the metal as he pushed the barrel against the back of your throat. Your eyes widened at the sensation, the realization that his prized possession was being soiled by your drool far too humiliating. The tears flowed freely now. Your cheeks grew damp as you cried out against the obstruction in your mouth.

“Aw sweetheart, are you crying? Do you want to push your hips against me? Will that make your cunnie feel better?” You nodded, sniffling softly as you shifted uncomfortably, the realization that you couldn’t move at all finally catching up with you.

“Go ahead, hump my leg. You have permission. Make yourself feel good for daddy.” You tried to do as he asked, moving your hips slowly back and forth, the ache only growing in between your legs, but all you could think about was how dirty that gun was getting your mouth. Sobs fell from your lips now. His face contorted slightly at your cries.

“M-s-sorry daddy,” You struggled out, words muffled by the metal. He slowly pulled the gun out of your mouth,

“Are you scared, sweetheart? Is that why you’re dirtying this pretty face with tears, hm?” You felt his skin for the first time against yours, his free hand gently caressing your cheek, thumb making small circles on your flesh.

“No I just… I hate that I’m getting your gun dirty. I know how much you care about it. I’m sorry I just can’t stop drooling on it.” His fingers softly pressed under your eyes, catching the tears.

“Your spit is the sweetest thing I could use to clean this gun. It’s just an inanimate object, huh?" he said, being sure to use your choice of words exactly.

"Don’t cry pretty girl.” As he spoke, your wrists and ankles fell freely, the stress on your throat lifting as the red mist fell away.

“Come up here,” he said, fingers beckoning for you to stand and sit in his lap, your back pressed against his warm and muscular chest. Hooking his arm under your knee, he spread your legs apart, resting your ankle over the arm of the chair. His fingers wasted no time finding their way beneath your skirt, softly pulling the satin fabric of your panties to the side as he slipped a finger inside of you without warning.

“Oh my god,” You moaned out desperately as he hummed in amusement.

“I’m jealous. Your god is getting all of the praise, but I’m the one that's making this pussy leak all over my fingers. That doesn’t seem very fair now, does it?”

“Fuck, daddy thank you.” His pace quickened, every inch of his long and slender fingers making you gasp and writhe beneath his touch as you bucked against his palm.

“You are very welcome sweet girl. Next time you want daddy’s attention, you can just ask and we can skip all the theatrics, hm?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Aw, ‘yes, daddy. Thank you, daddy.'” Such pretty words from such a dirty mouth. The same mouth that stained my gun, isn’t that right?” he said. You threw your head back, squeezing your eyes shut as his thumb rubbed small circles on your clit, your wetness forming a spot on the fine fabric of his pants as you felt his cock growing beneath you. It only made you squirm more at the thought of its thickness filling you up after being empty throughout this whole ordeal.

“Relax for me.” This was the only warning you got before you felt that same cool metal slide between your folds, the ridges of the firearm serving as a new source of friction to grind on before Sylus slid his finger out of your walls, replacing it with the tip of the gun against your entrance. He felt you tense up immediately in his grasp.

“No no no,” he said, thumb gently caressing your inner thigh, his touch burning you with ease.

“Relax baby. Let daddy’s pussy open up for him, hm? I just want that sweet little hole’s juices to cleanse my gun thoroughly.” Your mouth hung open, moans escaping as he spoke. Your head rested against his shoulder, hair messily rubbing against his shirt. He pressed his soft lips against your forehead.

“That’s it, puppy. Gooood fucking girl, you're taking it so well for me, huh sweetheart?” his fingers found your clit once more, melting away any tension. Slowly, the tip of the gun pushed its way between your tender walls, your flesh clenching around it tightly, making it hard for him to slide it in and out of you.

“That’s a greedy pussy, isn’t it— holding onto anything that it can, my fingers, my cock, my tongue, my gun. She just wants to be filled, hm? She just loves daddy so much that anything he puts inside, she doesn’t want to let go of?”

“Y-yes daddy, she loves you. Please please please keep touching her.” So, he did. Slowly but surely, he pushed the metal in and out, salivating as he watched the way your flesh gripped on to the tip before he’d shove it back inside.

“Fuck--you wanna cum for me? Gonna make a big mess all over daddy’s gun, sweetheart? How fucking filthy,” You nodded as Sylus’s rough hands gripped your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. Without warning, his spit filled your open mouth, slowly dripping from between your lips, coating your chest.

“Don’t swallow it. Keep my spit in your mouth when you cum for me. Stick your tongue out and cum all over me like a good little puppy,” He sped up even more now, the tip of the gun pushing against that spot inside of you that made your body heat up like white lightning that was trapped in a bottle and begging to be let out. He hit that spot over and over again, making your head fuzzy as he held your gaze captive with his scarlet eyes.

“Daddy—fuck—please, I don’t think I can take it.” You panicked, your hand desperately reaching for his wrist, hoping for some freedom from the incessant pleasure only for the mist to trap you once again, binding your hands up above your head and around Sylus’s neck, pressing your bodies even closer together.

“Shit—you’re so wet, you’re making a puddle in my lap. Are you gonna squirt around my gun, baby?” He said, emphasizing his point with a sharp push of the metal against you g-spot.

“No I- I can’t. It’s too embarrassing please don’t make me.”

“Come on, listen to your daddy and let go all over me. Squirt, cum, cry, I don’t care, but I’m gonna pull it all out of you either way. So, give it to me, it’s mine. I worked so hard for it,” he said, fingers finding their way into your open mouth, but you didn’t dare close your lips around them, just letting the spit drip down onto yourself and he bullied your pussy over and over again until you just couldn’t take it anymore. Tears streamed from your eyes once more as you let go. Your wetness spilled all over his lap, pulling guttural screams from your throat that were muffled by his hands.

“Good girl, that’s it. Come on, let go for daddy, baby. Poor baby, so pent up. It must feel so good to let go now, huh?” Streams of ‘yes’ and ‘thank you’ echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls as you squirmed against his grasp. He pressed his full lips to your face again as he pulled his finger and his firearm from your holes slowly. You watched him with tired eyes, as you were covered in your own wetness. The gun dripped with your juices, but he wasted no time putting the metal to his own mouth this time, flattening his tongue against the barrel of the gun and licking it clean.

“You are the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted, sweetheart. Maybe you should let you help me clean my guns more often.” Dazed, and far too exhausted to protest, you closed your eyes, resting your head against him once again, your hands finally free. He pressed small kisses against your sweaty face, gently brushing any hair from your skin before you spoke up again.

“T-thank you, Sylus.”

“The pleasure is all mine, pretty girl.”

[meganegatari]

THE WAY YOU WRITE IS JUST SO YUMMM so yeah🧍🏻‍♀️can you write something about streamer ellie <33

☆: IM SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT. definitelyyyy hasn't been...months...anyway. positive this is one of the worse things i've written, but didn't wanna leave you hanging forever! ngl it's pretty filthy..heh.

◇: 18+ pretend those twitch guideline things don't exist. remote control vibrator use, orgasm denial, sub-ish!ellie?? plot twist at the end bc i think im so funny. 1.6k wc. don't mind the layout of this idk what else to do...

You watch your girlfriend stream her game from your fluffy and comfortable spot on your shared bed—you observe how focused she was on her screen, how her skilled fingers were flying across the keyboard and mouse. It would certainly be a shame to disturb her in such a high tension moment but you think it over, running your finger over the small buttons of the sleek little remote in your hand.

"Yeah, yeah, got 'em! Look at that guys, I fuckin’ aced that!" Ellie rejoices in her victory, and gleefully boasts to her viewers, adjusting her microphone closer and leaning back in her chair.

You're glad you were far off camera, her fans didn't even know she was in a relationship—Ellie made it clear she wanted you to be separate from her hobbies, not because she wanted to keep you a secret, but because she wanted to keep you safe. And you enjoyed watching her stream from the sidelines like this, you saw how her personality captivated viewers and how much fun she really was. But you also enjoyed messing with her on the occasion. Like today.

"Can I watch tonight's stream again?" You asked her eagerly. "Yeah, why not? I'll be doing some tournaments and stuff though, so no distractions." Oops. You bit back a laugh. Ellie immediately sussed out the mischievous look on your face and she sighed, expecting the worst.

Then you showed her the box you've been hiding, "Please let's try, I won't click it too much, I promise." She stared at you for a whole minute, maybe more, before sighing and reluctantly agreeing, rubbing her hands all over her face. "God, fine. Just 'cause I love you. Damn you're evil."

Fast forward to now—the device was snugly inserted inside her pretty pussy, tested out to prove it does in fact work, and works well at that.

So off Ellie went to play her game, getting so caught up in everything she seemingly forgot about the device entirely. In between games she was talking to the viewers, reading the chat and joking back and forth. You decided it was a good enough time to click it so you pressed the button, only for a miniscule zap.

She jerked in her seat, gasping, but quickly recovered with a strategic cough. "Phew sorry guys, something got caught in my throat." You saw a bright berry blush spread across her face, and the way she fought to turn and throw a glare at you. This was going to be fun.

"Alright, the next round’s gonna start, we gotta lock in! Hopefully nothing pops up and this goes smoothly. I can taste the win already.” She put a certain warning tone to her voice in the last part of her sentence, you knew it was meant for you, but were you going to listen? Absolutely not. "Oh yeah chat fun fact, this old area of the map was inspired by ancient ruins just of—ah!" As if her body had a mind of its own, she squirmed in her seat and she clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a moan when you hit it again, but this time you didn't turn it off right away. You kept it going for a few more seconds, to prolong the terribly delicious sensation.

She screwed her eyes shut tightly and held her breath until you turned it off, mumbling to her viewers about "having hiccups". "The game is starting now, so we really gotta get serious." Her voice had an unsteadiness to it only you could hear, she was keeping her composure rather well so far. But likely wouldn't be able to keep up the act for much longer. Even she has her limits.

As her match went on, she got quiet when she was focused, mashing the keys with a speed fast as sound. Of course, you hit it again, just a short one, causing a choked "guh" to escape from her lips and she twitched when you did so, her facade starting to crack. The effort to keep her voice stable was showing, she was huffing and struggling to get her words out clearly, they were laced with obvious irritation.

"Fuck missed the shot, dammit. Yeah I don't know, somethings up today, sorry guys...off my game." You decided to be nice to her until the game ended, not pressing it further or adjusting the intensity. She played for a little while longer before losing the match, leaning forward on the desk with her face in her hands. This was the perfect moment, so you cranked it up, increased the intensity to maximum, and held the button for the longest time yet, making her whine—a low, drawn out sound she couldn't stifle this time.

You could hear lots of messages being sent, pings in rapid succession, they were probably clipping that moment. Perverts, you thought. 

Her chest was noticeably heaving up and down, her legs spread as she rocks her front against the chair, and she kept her head lowered until you decreased the intensity but didn't turn it all the way off. Her hands were shaking, and her face was a vibrant cherry red, the screen even reflected the sparkle of a couple tears in her eyes.

“What? Oh, I'm just so sad about the loss guys, we were so close—hnn- so…so closeahh—I mean, we should've gotten that…” She trailed off, chewing on her bottom lip and tapping her fingers on the desk’s wooden surface. “Y’know what, I'll be right back.” She paused the stream, made triple sure her camera and microphone were turned off, then whipped around in her chair to face you, glaring silver daggers your way.

You just giggled innocently and turned the device off again. “What the fuck is wrong with you, this shit is not- not light on you at all.” Her voice was breaking, her pretty features contorted in a beautifully needy expression, eyebrows furrowed and eyes all watery. Nearly as wet as the mess in her pants. You feigned innocence and shrugged at her, “Well I didn't know it was that strong.” “You knew damn well.” She's fed up with your antics, but you have fun playing with her. She covers her face and leans back in the chair, the embarrassment in her voice the only thing you could hear, “Fuck you...turn it up again, wanna cum.”

You couldn't contain the laugh that burst forth from your chest, then said, “Only if you stream it.” The shock that flickered across her face was priceless, you wish you could have snapped a photo.

“What the fuck do you mean by that, nah forget it.”

“Hey, you gotta finish your stream either way, they're waiting. Would you wanna be so awful and deprive those darlings of your presence?”

You flash her a sugary smile, and she shoots you a murderous look again, before wordlessly scooting back to her setup, fanning herself briefly and readjusting her coppery hair.

Then she turns the stream back on. “Sorry guys, I had to get up for a second. Anyway, let's play one more game. I'm getting kinda tired today. Let's make this one count, lock in like never before.” She takes a deep breath, cracks her knuckles, and begins smacking away at the keyboard buttons. You're able to see the way she looks tense, on edge, anticipating your devilish interruption.

You debate whether you should torture her, but the answer quickly becomes clear. Click.

“Ah—fuck!” She sputters, and roughly slams her fist on the desk. The pleasure was hitting her with full force, she was in her own, lewd, world now. Her head is thrown back, back arched and hips stuttering, the release was about to sneak up on her.

You watch the scenario unfold, licking your lips and pressing your thighs together to deal with the pressure between them. Her unapologetic moans get louder, but for a second she snaps out of the trance to sit back upright, turn the stream off, before the peak hits her like a truck.

“Holy, fu—hah!!” With a squeal she cums, not caring about how fucking loud she was being, wanting to be selfishly absorbed in ecstasy.

She started to jolt around in her seat, the throes of overstimulation making her whimper like an animal in heat, it truly was a sight to behold. You wish you were in between her legs, lapping up her sweetness straight from the source, but in a way, just watching from the sidelines was satisfying enough. You'll clean her up afterward.

Finally you turned it off once and for all, and gazed at her, she was panting heavily, the post-orgasm glow making her rosy skin shimmer in the low light.

“Hmmm, thanks babe, that was so good…” She tried to talk, her head was in the clouds, but she looked at peace.

“You're a whore.” You chortled, and you two shared a laugh.

Although, a flurry of shrill sounds brought you both out of the fantasy. Ping, ping, ping.

Unfortunately she wasn't able to enjoy the aftermath of a mind-numbing session, because her eyes shot open and she began scrambling to find the source of the sound. Your stomach dropped as you watched her panic, her neuroticism infectious.

She looked at you, her eyes wider than saucers, nothing but fear in her voice, “I wasn't able to turn my mic off…”

What was she going to do now?

if you'd like to be tagged in my fics, click here! thank you for reading. asks, reblogs, and comments are appreciated more than you know. ♡

tags: @andersonfilms @ch6douin @aouiaa @sapphic-ovaries @astro-cat2 @paqerings @r3starttt @littlefallenangel111 @sinfulprayerss @lvlymicha @sunnsh1ine @anniee333 @pinkcwake @marsworlddd @caszzine @saturnsdrafts @ashaynep @mascdom @xysbree @liddysflyer @fortune777 @brunaedn @bunnitewsilly @mimasroom2 @deliriousrn @infiniteinquiries @thekill3randthefinalgirl @kissyslut @elliesapple

[stabbyfoxandrew]

OH MY GOD IM FINALLY AWARE OF THE FACT ITS WEDNESDAY!! hi aerie i hope u are doing well (aside from the knee pain. which ik is always a horrible experience) can i request some guardian angel neil or arson neil smile :)

WIP Wednesday (3/26) | Arsonist Neil / Firefighter Andrew AU (Part 292)

ANDREW

"No, I decided to forge the names of three men I hang out with on occasion. Yes, of course they're real. Jeremy insisted when I told him how crazy you were over their team. He made his—" Andrew cuts off suddenly to keep from outing Kevin's relationship. "He made the others sign it when I had lunch with them the other day."

"So he's actually like that? The happy, super-friendly thing isn't an act?"

"Jeremy is one of the kindest and most annoying people I have ever had the displeasure of meeting. He is an anomaly. I don't understand how Kevin or Jean put up with him." Andrew tells him honestly. A pair of grumpy asshole ex-Ravens and Captain Sunshine. Of course, Jeremy has his own various issues but he always seems to shove them down to make room for other peoples'. He is an idiot. A loveable one, but still. 

10 looks back down at the card and traces the swoops of Jeremy's signature with his fingernail. "Andrew, this is too good. I can't... I don't have anything for you that's worth this."

Andrew stares at him, awaiting an explanation. Then he realizes this is sort of violating the give and get, something-for-something deal they've got going. He's already told 10 that it was from Jeremy, he is not going to repeat himself. 10 is just going to have to deal—

"I think you do," Andrew says after a moment of consideration. 10 raises his gaze back to meet Andrew's, a question in his eyes. "Tell me your name," Andrew breathes. In an instant, the arsonist's expression switches from awed to blank. Locked up tight. Fuck.

"I can't do that."

"You can. That is what I want."

"Andrew—"

"I can't refer to you as a number forever, not if we're doing this," Andrew says, gesturing between them. "I'm not going to hurt you with it. Tell me."

10 sits there, frozen in thought long enough Andrew worries he's broken him. Then finally he swallows hard and chews the inside of his cheek. "Is my middle name alright? It's what my mom always used to call me, no matter who we were. It's the closest thing I can give you."

"You don't trust me with the real thing."

"I can't trust anyone with the real thing. It's the last name I'm ever going to have and I have to keep it forever. The FBI made sure to hammer that home before they turned me loose. I can't... You'll figure everything out."

"Everything."

"My father, the... All of it. I can't." 10 says, a war taking place on his face. Andrew can tell 10 wants him to know. He's afraid of a dead man. Or of Andrew's reaction to whose blood runs through his veins.

"Middle name it is. Give it."

10 lets out a long breath and it fogs up the space between them before he says, "Abram."

"Abram." Andrew repeats. The other boy's breathing hitches.

"That's the first time anyone's called me that in years."

"I guess I'll have to make up for lost time then, Abram. Put the card down so I can kiss you." The words are barely out of his mouth before Abram is tossing the card off to the side like it's garbage. Andrew slings a leg over Abram's lap, watching his pupils eat up the blue of his eyes. "I’m going to put you on your back, yes?"

"Yes." Abram sighs out. When Andrew plants a hand on his chest and shoves him back onto the blanket under him, he lets out a groan. "Fuck, yes. Andrew, god I want—" Andrew cuts him off by mashing their mouths together. Looming over this man is the single greatest thrill of his life, he can't listen to Abram's wish list right now or he might combust and take the whole barn down with him.

Abram meets him eagerly and they kiss and kiss and kiss until their lips are sore. Until Andrew's knees hurt from the position he's holding. Until he's rock hard and Abram seems to be even worse off, squirming under him and squeezing Andrew's shoulders tight enough to bruise. It's dizzying, but he’s quite sure neither of them is quite ready for more than this. Pulling away, Andrew sits back on his knees and leaves Abram panting under him.

"God, Andrew. You..." His chest is heaving and he looks fucked out. Like they've gone much farther than they have. "You're so. I can't." He tilts his head back and swallows. Andrew watches his throat move, enraptured, and lets out a huff. If Abram can't form a sentence, Andrew will give him a moment. He climbs off his lap and lies down next to him, on his side with an arm under his head. Abram rolls onto his side and they stare at each other, content to breathe each other's breath until Andrew starts to nod off.

[laviefantasie]

Video 3

| series masterlist |

“Okay, this thing on?”

You sigh as you see yourself in the video camera, looking at all the current ingredients in front of you with doubt.

“If you don’t recognize the place, I’m currently at my school’s kitchen” you open your arms to showcase the big kitchen you’re at.

You let your arms down to grab some of the main ingredients of the dishes you have planned today, pork cutlet and vegetables.

“So, if you’re wondering what I’m up to… I’m making Satoru a bento box” your eyes move around the place as you feel yourself become flustered, “It’s not what you’re probably thinking though! It’s about my dignity!”

You sigh, “He said I couldn’t cook and that that’s why I’d never marry… and I can’t cook or care about marriage but he shouldn’t talk about any of it! So I’m gonna prove him wrong by making the best freaking bento box ever! I’ll even decorate like Digimon characters”

You grab the white rice bag holding it up proudly towards the camera.

“Let’s get started!”

You put the rice inside the rice cooker with the amount of water stated on the cook book you buy for this special occasion. While waiting for it to be done, you grabbed the pork cutlet.

You take a deep breath, preparing mentally for what you were about to try to do: Tonkatsu.

First of all, you seasoned the meat with salt and pepper before coating it with flour, egg and breadcrumbs. Then, you let it fry.

“If I’m doing this wrong please let it at least taste good” you whisper with a frown.

By the time that was done, you continued by focusing on doing a Japanese potato salad. Semi-mashed potatoes mixed with vegetables, ham, egg and mayonnaise. You had to make sure it is not too creamy, not too rich, but flavoursome. Hopefully the Kewpie mayonnaise makes sure it tastes perfect.

Or at least good enough.

You made sure to put the salad inside the Agumon moulds you bought before storing it inside the bento box.

The rice was soon done and you made sure to use the Patamom mould now. Black sesame seeds with salt sprinkled on the rice forming the shape to make it more obvious what character it was supposed to be.

“I’m not an artist but damn am I doing a good job at this”

Except maybe you were too confident.

You forgot that while you were decorating everything that you’d finish already, you had left some vegetables cooking. Meaning now the whole kitchen was full of smoke after you turned of the small fire caused.

And now you had your three classmates and teacher worrying over you.

“You could’ve died! What were you thinking?!”

“I need to check your breathing!”

“WATER! WATER! WE NEED WATER!”

“SILENCE” voiced loudly professor Yaga making the other three shut up, “What happened here, Y/L/N?”

You cough slightly, blushing in embarrassment, “I was trying to cook…”

Silence.

And then laughter.

You frown frustrated as Gojo and Geto’s laughter fills the space. It was bad enough you couldn’t even finish what you started, now you were a joke to them.

Even Shoko was stifling her laughter!

Yaga sighs, “Clean this up and let Shoko check you over… and don’t cook again”

More laughter from the boys.

You sigh and proceed to grab the burnt pan before throwing it into the sink, all while trying to mute the loud voices of both boys joking about your culinary skills.

Shoko stops you from washing the pan, doing a little check up before just to make sure there is nothing serious. You thank her silently.

“HAHAHAHA” Gojo laughs, “I KNEW YOU WERE A BAD COOK? BUT NOT TO THE POINT THAT IT’D EVEN ENDANGER YOURSELF!”

Your grip on the pan tightens.

Geto stops laughing loudly.

“HONESTLY” Gojo laughs, “YOU BETTER MAKE SURE TO MARRY RICH OR YOU’LL DIE IF YOU EVER HAVE TO COOK AGAIN”

Inhale. Exhale, you remind yourself.

Inhale. Exhale.

“THE ONE TIME YOU DECIDE TO COOK AND YOU ALMOST BURN US ALL” his grin widens, “Why would you ever decide to—?”

“SHUT UP”

Enraged, you turn off the water and go towards the unfinished bento box, grabbing it before walking towards one of your best friends.

Gojo’s eyes widen as they see your upset face, not believing he had truly bothered you with his jokes, before letting out a soft gasp once you push the bento box hard towards him.

“I was making you that, asshole”

And you leave before he can even process what you actually said. Unknowingly leaving the still recording video camera behind.

Which is how it catches the soft look on Satoru’s face as soon as he eyes the bento box in his hands, and the regret his eyes show once he realizes his mistakes.

Geto and Shoko stay silent beside him.

What a day.

taglist: @gumiiiiezzzz @reagan707

[bullet-clubs-bitch]

Oh! I had a prompt idea for Zack

Can you please do on where Y/N is a jui jutsu practitioner & Y/N is getting a belt promotion & then Z realizes how much her body goes through and wants to pamper her?

Namaste

Zack Sabre Jr X Fem Reader Main Masterlist

An: I don't like the way this turned out but I was having some pretty bad writers block

Looking in the mirror I wondered if I should cancel my date with Zack. My left eye was bruised and my lip was busted. Makeup could only do so much, I didn’t want people to stare at us in public. Against my own judgment, I decided to go out with Zack, it wound’t be the first time he saw me battered and bruised. Although it was normally the other way around. Despite my appearance, I tried to still look my best for the occasion. All was going well until it started to rain. Of course, it would rain, why wouldn’t it? 

Tonight I planned to take Y/n out on a date. I knew how hard she had been working and I wanted to do something special for her tonight. When Y/n arrived I was a bit taken back. “Do I look that bad?” She asked “You should see the other person” As I watched Y/n walk into the room I could see just what kind of state she was in. She had a black eye and a busted lip that she tried to cover with makeup. She walked with a slight limp, her hair was wet from the rain. “What happened?” I asked “Well, as you know I was supposed to get my black belt. The guy I was fighting was a real asshole, it got very personal and very real very fast. I had to stand my ground you know” I wasn’t surprised by her response. “Maybe we should stay in tonight? It’s all gross outside. When was the last time I cooked for you?” “You don’t have to do that, I’m fine to go out Zack,” she said. “But I want to, cone on Y/n. It would be like old times” I could tell that she was hesitant at first but she gave in. 

I decided to prepare a vegetable stirfry, some stuffed peppers and a sweet potato mash. As we sat at the table and caught up I found myself studying Y/n like she was a book. I noticed the bruising on her knuckles, the scab on the bridge of her nose. It made me glad we decided to stay inside this evening. After our meal, we relaxed on the couch and ended up watching some old matches. 

Even though the night didn't go the way I had originally planned, it was nice having a lazy evening. Sometimes, all you need is a home-cooked meal and good company after a hard day at work.

[coffeegnomee]

lifesteal spoilers

about Kab's manipulative villain/wet cat 2 sides, I 100% agree with you, it currently just feels like a bit loose with which direction she wants to go with and honestly it could go either way.

Since at the end of the day, the streams will be edited into videos, and from the knowledge of Kab's first lifesteal video (and her other videos), some of the behind the scenes knowledge(like discord messages) or deeper inner thoughts are mentioned and or revealed even though it hasn't been shown on stream (wont go into detail here, just stating the point). So there is a chance that she IS playing the manipulative villain that you imagined and internally thought to not show it at all to stream audience, just to reveal that's what she had been doing the entire time in the video. And that's why I think the narration of her video is the ultimate deciding factor of her character, whether she is the secret big villain or a wet cat that tries to be one.

Also, on the topic of wet cat, since the season started, she always have and developed even more insecurities on her skills(both pvp and non-pvp) and trusting other people. Through multiple people, she already experienced lifesteal more than some of the other new members(also bacause of play time but), and it makes sense that she would become more vulnerable and a wet cat since she felt a lot of things go out of control and often felt lost and loss. Even with that, she is in a place where she still needs to find herself a comfortable position on the server, and I just think she still needs to learn to have a proper relationship and understanding with people without having the anxiety from her already established lifesteal trauma getting in the way. From what ive seen, she tends to get more desperate when things start to turn and not everyone is fine with that(some might even see that suspicious when it's just unintentional). Seeing recent events I think she's getting closer and closer so I hope she reaches a comfortable position to do whatever direction she wants to go with this, I'm still watching anyways

Last thing, I think her reputation plays quite a bit on how others treat her. Throughout the season, there are multiple occasions where when other lifestealers discuss anything about Kab, they would bring up "Kab's thing is manipulation". Multiple people from seperate teams even, said something similar and it just strikes me as most people that are aware of this reputation would already have a tendency to avoid her and those who interact with her will be wary and be on guard to not fall for her tactics(example: Mapicc does not trust her at all, even in the entirety of their alliance against Mane and this is the first reason he gave). With this reputation, she already has a hard time getting people to even try to trust her, so it renders her manipulation skill even harder to put into practice, especially in this long term server.

(lowkey don't know if my thoughts are consistent here, just sprinkling some ideas, crossing my fingers, and hope it won't be too much of a mess)

I mean, yea, the video will solidify what she was intending for her character. But it is 100% a manipulative villain, it'll just be how she spins the tale. The sopping wet cat is a classic of her videos and is used to get the one up on the other person. (which is also why i find it irksome for her to keep doing it to chat)

but as a stream-first, usually-stream-only, consumer of the story of lifesteal the fact remains that she's mashing it up all over the place without any clear lines. And that creates, imo, a very difficult character to sympathize with, and that's without the triggering argument style. With the ableism and triggering I just flat out hate her character and that hate would feel better if she balanced it with to-chat on-camera villainy.

But it is the fate of a first season new member to not know if they can trust chat, not know how to make an unscripted live character, to be faced with their literal skill tree of abilities being put to the actual test (and for kab, in an environment where everyone is a liar and manipulator) and to generally be all over the place. I am very interested to how she will be s7 because one full season usually helps a ton. But unfortunately until then she still exists in the story, she still exists in relation to Zam's story who has a lot of practice at making an unscripted live stream character, in relation to mapicc who has his own thoughts about how the server works and what merits death that she just doesn't understand, in relation to ash and clown and everyone else that has shocked her and scared her with their choices.

Realistically- no ok realistically if i'm being honest with myself and think for half a second about the shit she says on camera i only hate her character. and I hate especially how trapped she's made, specifically zam but also everyone, for like, tormented if i kill you, tormented if i don't.

But realistically she simply exists in this story exactly as she is. Which is all everyone else is on this server. No matter what they do they affect the story; being there, not being there, saying this, keeping that secret.

And honestly, her story is creating a really really fascinating, if incredibly difficult and painful, story for Zam. Which sucks and makes me feel emotions that I didn't want to be feeling. Is that good? Is that bad? idk but it is lifesteal.

[sondheim-girly]

I know it's not american thanksgiving yet but it is this weekend where I am so what are your thoughts on Mathews family thanksgiving? (cause their mom absolutely tries to do smt for it even if it's not much)

sorry this took me so long, I got a little sidetracked... go see my headcanons on mama mathews for context cuz otherwise a lot of this wont make sense!

-the thanksgiving after two bit is born, mollys parents reach out to her and invite her to come back to their farm for the holiday

-Molly, with some convincing from Betsy, decides to accept

-it’s a little awkward at first, but her parents are masters at pretending everything is fine when it’s not

-keith turns on the charm and makes her whole family really like him, other than Betsy

-this starts a tradition for their family to have a big reunion every thanksgiving

-the thanksgiving after Beth was born and Keith left was awful

-her family kept on making snide comments about how “of course she couldn’t even keep a man” and how shameful it is to be a single mother

-she puts up with this for a few years, until one year when she finally gets sick of it, and there’s a huge screaming match between her and her brother and her parents

-during the argument someone makes a comment about how Beth never should have been born and it’s her fault that Keith is gone, and Molly just snaps

-cuz nooo one is going after her babies, she’d give up the world for them 100 times over

-she immediately gets up and leaves, and they never go back

-the next year they try and make a nice dinner but molly cant cook for shit so they end up just going to the curtis house

-that births the new tradition of the big Curtis gang thanksgiving!

-then one year post canon Betsy reaches out saying that her husband and kids are traveling to see some extended family for thanksgiving and she decided to stay back home

-she asks if she could come to Tulsa so they can do thanksgiving together!!

-Molly is like “of course!!!!” And is absolutely thrilled to get to spend some time with her sister

-this is after Marcia and two bit start dating, and when two bit finds out that this year Marcia’s parents are working through the holiday and she won’t be having a thanksgiving dinner he insists she comes

-Betsy is good at cooking, however Molly and Beth are both atrocious

-two bit, surprisingly, is actually fucking incredible

-no one knows why, but u put him in the kitchen and he can do magicccc

-he and Betsy are put in charge of the majority of the food

-Beth tries to make the mashed potatoes because how does someone fuck up mashed potatoes?

-however she finds a way, because of course she does

-Betsy doesn’t let Molly anywhere near the kitchen cuz she’s still traumatized from mollys cooking endeavors when they were kids

-the kitchen was nearly burned down on multiple occasions back then

-Marcia volunteers to make a pumpkin pie, because she’d baked a few times when Cherry was over at her house and they got bored

-two bit comes over to ‘help’ and like… I don’t even need to talk about it I think you know how unbearably cute they were (and there may have been a minor food fight- think of that scene between Quinn and puck from glee)

-they all sit down for dinner, and stuff themselves full and laugh and talk the whole time!

-Molly decided her contribution would be decorations, so the table is beautiful with all sorts of fall colors!

-afterwards they all agree it’s the best thanksgiving they ever had

Thanks so much for asking me about this! It feels wrong for me to be talking about thanksgiving this early, but I had so much fun making these that it’s ok :)

[simpcityy]

Yes, I'm Sure (Miguel O'Hara X Fem!Reader)

Summary: This is pt 2 of Where is my Freedom. Having enough, you decided to do what is right for you and your son.

Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel or any of its characters.

Word Count: Around 1.3K

Warnings: Use of (Y/N), abusive husband, physical and mental abuse, angst if it counts, Hot single dad Miguel, being called a wife.

pt1 pt2 pt3

┍━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━┑

It’s been a couple of days since the night your next-door neighbor, Miguel, comforted you after your husband's abusive outburst. Right now, you were eating your dinner with the occasion of turning over to your son, feeding his mashed food. You could only focus on the noise of utensils scraping your husband's plate. He’s been keeping an eye on you ever since he found you eating empanadas with Miguel. Despite telling him it was a friendly interaction; he held his ground from letting you out. He wouldn’t even let you go to the front yard to tend to your garden which was slowly wilting like yourself. Having enough of the silence, you spoke carefully. “Has anything happened at the station?” Slowly glancing at your husband for his response. “Things have been slow, and I think I might take a week off if this keeps going on. Spending time with my family.” You only look away as he said family while staring at you. You knew what he meant, it just meant to keep an eye on you from speaking with that handsome neighbor of yours. 

After dinner, Rex was fast asleep giving you a chance to wash up the mess used for today's dinner. The loud noise of the tv played behind you signaling your husband was watching his nightly news. You look up hearing something being thrown at your window gently. Upon this, you spotted Miguel waving at you from his fence once you saw him. You smile gently waving as Miguel nods his head over to your backyard. Getting the memo, you grabbed all the trash in the house and collected it in one bag. “I’m going to throw the trash, it's still in the backyard …don’t forget to place it in the front tomorrow before you leave for work.” You call out to your husband. Only to hear a grunt as his response. You quickly walk to the backdoor closing it behind you walking over to the fence. 

Miguel waited on his side of the fence; he was finally able to let that breath he was holding in. He was worried sick about you, not seeing you for days got him worried for your safety along with your son. “Vecinita*, haven’t seen you step out of the house for days” He lets a small smile which makes your heart jump. “My husband has been taking days off, but he returns to work tomorrow” You felt touched that Miguel was worried sick for you. “Tu Hijo*?” He asked, making you wonder what he was asking about before spotting him seeing Rex toys outside getting the idea. “Oh! Rex is doing fine” You assure him, “He had a big dinner so he’s fast asleep.” You wanted to cry in front of him again, he cared about your boy as well. ‘That’s right, he’s a single father’ You reminded yourself mentally. During the night of being comforted, you learned about Miguel’s life and Gabriella’s as well. Miguel lets out a relieved sigh “I’m glad, you don’t deserve this. Not even him, tu niño*” He looked at your house seeing the light of your bedroom turn on. He wanted so badly to dress up as Spider-Man and give your husband a lecture, but it would only make things worse for you. Looking at your window you decided you needed to head in. “I should go” You didn’t want to, but you had to. Throwing the trash away in the trash bin, you look back at Miguel as you walk to the door. “Vecinita, if you ever feel in danger, ven a mí*” He points to his house “My doors are open, siempre*” You smiled and nodded, feeling glad to have someone’s support in this neighborhood. Everyone knows the true side of your husband but never offered a hand because he was a cop. 

You laid in bed next to your husband who snores away in the night. You turn over to him feeling disgusted and hate towards him. You’ve been nothing but a good wife to him only for him to do this. You try to think back on what made him like this, but nothing comes to mind. Sitting up, it was 2am. You knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight as something was in your mind, or rather someone. Your hot single father neighbor, you wonder how your life would be if you left your husband but quickly shake those thoughts away, Rex. You need to think about your son before your selfish needs. Your boy needed you to stay strong. Then you start to wonder, how? How does Miguel do it being a parent to Gabriella, mostly all by himself. Always seeing him rushed out in the mornings to take her to school before he’s late to work. You smile at the memory. Not only was he a hot man but a kind loving father who loves his daughter to the bone. Looking at your husband, the only time he ever smiles at Rex was when he was born and that was 3 years ago. Your son deserves better that’s for sure. You grabbed your phone and sent a message to your lawyer before laying down. You had enough and you couldn’t thank Miguel enough for helping you into the right path. 

It was morning and you were busy cursing out your husband's name as he forgot to move the trash bin to the front. Trying to pull the heavy bin with one good wheel while holding a toddler was difficult but you couldn’t place your son down fearing he would run into the street. “Let me help!” Stopping, you look over seeing Gabriella put her backpack down running to you. “Good morning, Gabriella” You spoke softly as she grabbed the other handle helping you pull. “Morning! Morning to you too!” She looks at Rex playing his hand making him squeal. Finally putting the bin to the curb, you placed Rex down letting Gabriella grab both his hands and jump with him. You smile at the interaction, Rex never played with anyone as you didn’t like welcoming the other mothers from daycare, scared one of them will find out and report your husband making things worse. 

 “Vecinita* Morning” Miguel walks out locking the door and picks up Gabriella's bag. “Morning” You smile at him taking Rex back in your arms once he is done playing with his little neighbor. “You two should get going, don’t want to be late for work” You look at them as Miguel chuckles “actually, no work for me today. So, there is no rush.”  He picks up his daughter and walks to the car. “ oye*, enjoy your time outside, you need some sun. It’s a beautiful day” he says while helping his daughter in the car. You look at the sun and the bright white clouds. “Yeah, it is, I think I might.” You look at your garden which needs a lot of work done. “Have a nice day at school” You wave at Gabriella before going on with your day. 

You did take his advice, glancing over to your son who you placed in his playpen in the shade while you worked on your flowers. “It’s hot today, isn’t it?” You sat up looking at Rex who only smiles at you playing with his spider-Man toy who your husband hates very much. You only laugh at his goofy mood before going back to cutting off the dead flowers. “Is that a spider-man toy?” Rex looked at the voice before letting out a squeal. You turn over hearing Miguel’s gruff voice. “Back from errands?” You asked before wiping your hands clean “Yeah, he loves it and will bite his father's hand if he tries to take it.” You watched as your son showed Miguel the toy. Miguel smiles “A spider-man fan aren’t you Pequeño*?” He picked up your son and that right there made you know you were doing the right thing. The sight of your son in the arms of another man who wasn’t your husband made you melt. It was radiating warmth that your husband could never whenever he was told to hold his son for pictures. While both of them were distracted, you grabbed your phone looking back at the message of your lawyer. Reading the message they sent, you finally had an answer. 

‘Yes, I’m sure. I want the divorce ‘

┕━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━┙

Author Notes: Thank you so much for reading and sorry for any grammar mistakes, I hope you all enjoyed it. Tomorrow, I'll post the last part, it's going to be slightly longer this time! Stay hydrated and keep simping. (Simp City Population :4) *Thank you for the follows and love! * 🥰

Spanish Translation: (Remember some have double meaning or similar meaning) 1. Vecinita: Little Neighbor 2. Tu Hijo: Your son or your boy 3. Tu Niño: Your boy 4. Ven a mí: Come to me 4. Siempre: Always 5. Oye: Hey or listen up 6. Pequeño: Little one (Boy and if added with an s at the end can be referred as little ones.)

[nekole-doodles]

For today's DMSP AU, Imma talk about my Fullmetal Alchemist DSMP AU, one of my many AU mash-ups! Here we go!

Obviously, this is heavily based on Fullmetal Alchemist(The original manga plot and the FMA: Brotherhood series btw) so here are some of the roles the characters have:

Tommy - Edward Elric: They both have similar personalities but one is tall while the other is made fun of for being short which is hilarious in my opinion :) Also, Tommy joined the military when he was 12-14 and he's currently 16.

Ranboo - Alphonse Elric: I had to think about this one a lot since Tommy and Ranboo wouldn't be blood brothers like in the original and Ranboo would not be a suit of armor. Ranboo is the adopted brother of Tommy and they're still really close. Ranboo's soul was transferred into a sort of large organic doll/chimera that was the experiment of Phil(who takes the place of Von Hohenheim, I'll get to him in a bit). It's basically a lot like C! Ranboo's body but it's incredible durable/has tough skin(as in bulletproof), can't digest food(the body will reject and Ranboo would end up having to spit it out), can't sleep, and can't feel anything(he can hear, see, and smell, but not taste, feel pain/feel anything physical). His original body is basically Ranboo in real life but younger. The body Ranboo's soul is in has a lot of complexities to it that will be explained for another time.

Tubbo - Winry: He's an automail mechanic, it suits him. He also won't hesitate to clonk Tommy's head with a wrench if Tommy gets careless with his automail. He's surprisingly strong(as in probably being able to pick Tommy up and throw him) and hates feeling powerless despite always being left powerless.

Phil - Von Hohenheim: Still immortal and still left his family. Tommy doesn't like Phil because he left them but Ranboo feels more neutral about Phil. Basically like in the original FMA. Phil's wife is, of course, Kristin(RIP). He also doesn't have wings. Idk what else to say for Phil, he's really similar to C! Phil and Von Hohenheim.

Wilbur(not related to cc! Wilbur) - Roy Mustang: It just fits so well in my brain. His title is the Dynamite Alchemist and yes, he is sane. He's a lot like L'manberg era Wilbur but much less naive since he's seen what war is. ALSO, his uniform is extremely similar to the L'manberg military uniform in C! DSMP(but without the hat), I just really like that idea :)))) He and Tommy have a similar relationship as Ed and Roy in FMA but if you added more friendship and fondness because I love Crimeboys in AUs and DSMP :]

Techno - Scar: I debated VERY HARD on this one between Techno taking the role of Scar or General Armstrong/Olivier Armstrong because both fit so well for me. In the end, I decided on Scar but with a different backstory. Techno is a piglin hybrid because I added hybrid races to this world. So far, there are Enderians(I'll talk about them more in another post) and Piglins but there might be more. Techno is an anarchist still and he's very strong and good in combat. I still haven't figured out how he'll gain the destructive alchemy ability but I know that at some point, he'll be able to do more reconstruction, even being able to change the physical appearance of a person(that'll be elaborated on later). Techno did not kill Tubbo's parents btw, so Tommy doesn't have as much anger towards him besides the fact he keeps trying to kill state alchemists and succeeding most of the time. When Tommy and Techno had to work together, they had some surprisingly nice joking moments but it still took a while for Tommy to be comfortable around him since, y'know, Techno tried killing him on several occasions. I think he'll still have the voices which will be a major part of his backstory that I'm still piecing together.

Okay, it's late and I'm tired so that's all you're getting right now.

[chrisbitchtree]

It may be my birthday, but I have a little gift for you all instead! Enjoy!

***

Billy knows that Steve’s love for him is unconditional, just like his love for Steve is. He also knows that Steve doesn’t need big shiny tokens of Billy’s affection to feel that love.

He likes simple things. Home cooked dinners, massages, Billy’s hand knitted scarves for Christmas every year, all carefully tucked away in their own special drawer when not in use.

That never stops Billy from trying to do the most possible every year for Steve’s birthday. Take, for example, Steve’s 21st, the last birthday before they moved out of Hawkins, heading west, when Billy planned a massive scavenger hunt that took Steve to all their special places, or his 25th, when Billy had convinced him he’d tone down the birthday plans for once, only to have Robin and Dustin fly in from New York, where they were both going to school at the time, for the occasion. They’d went to a Dodgers game, then to dinner and a karaoke bar, and had the time of their lives.

This year, Billy was planning to bigger than ever, literally, with a chocolate cake comprised of ten small tiers. Three months ago, Billy had bought a ring, planning to ask Steve a question on his 30th birthday that he should have asked him long ago. They’ve talked about taking the next step together plenty of times, but it’s just never happened, so Billy’s taking his chance now.

The plan is to construct such a ridiculous cake that Steve’ll think that’s the big surprise, and he’ll never see the proposal coming. The idea to put the ring in the cake comes later, when Billy thinks of his childhood birthdays, his mom baking coins into the cake for him to find.

What’s stopping him from wrapping the ring in tinfoil and baking it into the top tier? It turns out nothing is, so he does it, proud of his genius when all the layers come out perfectly. You’d never be able to tell that there was an engagement ring in one of them.

That becomes a problem when Billy loses track of which layer has the ring in it. He’s sure it’s the one cooling next to the sink, but it could also be the one cooling on the table, or one of the ones on the coffee table.

He finally decides it has to be the one next to the stove. It has to be. He’s sure of it after lifting them all, trying to detect the little bit of added weight.

He frosts the cake, pleased with how perfectly straight it is, then he showers and gets dressed. Steve unfortunately works on his birthday this year, so Billy picks him up and they head to the restaurant from there.

He tries to act normal through dinner, but his palms are sweating and his heart is beating fast from a combination of nerves about proposing and fear that the ring isn’t in the top layer.

Thankfully Steve doesn’t seem to notice, focusing instead on the delicious mashed potatoes and the couple at the next table who may or may not be breaking up right in front of them. It’s a welcome distraction.

They get home, refrigerating the leftovers, and Billy pulls out the cake. Steve oohs and ahhs at the height of it before blowing out the candles and giving Billy a kiss of thanks.

Billy serves Steve the topmost layer and himself the one below and waits. And waits some more. Waits until Steve finishes the whole small layer.

Either Steve’s playing it really cool right now or Billy’s royally fucked things up. He looks at Steve’s empty plate, then at the remaining eight layers.

Before he can think of what to do, Steve speaks, taking Billy’s hand in his own. “Thank you so much, babe. I know every year I tell you not to do anything big and every year you don’t listen, and I should know that by now, but you somehow still manage to surprise me. You’re the best partner that a man could ever ask for.”

Oh god, Steve’s now slipping down onto the floor on one knee, still holding onto Billy’s hand.

“You’re kind, funny, compassionate, and incredibly thoughtful. We’ve been to hell and back and I’m so glad we’ve been through each other’s sides by all of it. I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life with anyone else.”

Now he’s reaching into his pocket. Oh no, this couldn’t be going any worse. But it also couldn’t be going any better. Steve wants to marry him! He wants to spend his life with Billy!

“Billy, will you make me the happiest man in the world and marry me?”

Billy nods, tears springing to his eyes as Steve slips the beautiful black band onto Billy’s finger. Then, the laughter starts as Steve stands up and kisses him. He giggles helplessly against Steve’s lips.

Steve pulls back and looks at Billy questioningly, a smile on his face. “What’s so funny, babe?”

Billy just laughs harder, having to take a couple minutes to compose himself before he can respond. Finally, he can speak. “Soooo, I really fucked things up today. There’s a ring for you somewhere in that cake, wrapped in tinfoil. I thought it would be such a great surprise to have you find it in your piece of cake. But then I lost track of what layer it’s in. I was going to have our friends over tomorrow to celebrate our engagement and eat the rest of the cake, but now the plan’s all ruined because I’m an idiot.”

Steve laughs, pulling Billy into a hug and kissing his cheek. “You’re not an idiot, babe. That was incredibly sweet of you, and I can definitely say I’m still surprised! Can you grab me one of the shish-kabob skewers from the kitchen.”

Billy’s confused, but does what he says, returning quickly with it.

Steve takes it from him and starts sliding it down through the layers, and fuck, why didn’t Billy think of that? It doesn’t take him long at all to find it, and they carefully lift the layers on top of the one it’s hiding in before cutting it out.

And now they each have a ring, a symbol of their love for each other, and a funny story to tell to boot. In retrospect, this night couldn’t have gone any better if Billy had tried.

[shadowscommand]

Hello.. can we get more ghostmace headcanons. If you ever wrote any pls link them too...

:)c YESSS i love talking abt maceghost.. i know ive made a bunch of sporadic posts about them but i havent done a like dedicated hcs post. i feel like often im struggling to understand the narrative of their past but generally i keep the same vibe to it all.

mace is for sure the more level headed of the two only because relationships and love freak ghost out. ive mentioned on a post like years ago hes traumatized by watching his mother stick with his father and i still believe this. hes like scared to be in a position where something Isn't working anymore but hes too emotional to cut it off so he self sabotages the relationship so mace will get pissed and stop talking to him.

in the past (as i mentioned in another post) mace Did also feed into this. he had a good home life but his own personal issues and anger at more outward issues caused him to like. seek an outlet for this sort of petty squabbling. and he found it in ghost. until he got tired of festering and being pissed off all the time and decided to actually like Do Shit he feels good about. and he broke up with ghost.

now in modern times where theyve caught up with each other it's like a weird mash of their past and them both being more mature. ghost struggles more because hes very adverse to actually improving himself and how he feels about himself bc hes like. hes Given Up on being a person. while mace has done a lot of healing.

like the toxic factor of maceghost Is Ghost at this point to me. but theres a lot of love there bc theres a lot of mutual respect and, like, easy familiarity there. mace understands how ghost works at his core.

so like. when ghost is being Normal and not anxious they literally just. like. Click? mace can extremely put ghost at ease with just his presence. and mace in turn rly enjoys his company bc a calm ghost is actually just sort of casually funny.

and ghost does like making mace laugh i imagine mace has a really beautiful smile bc he has resting bitch face so when it lights up it's very special.

ghost also i think would be 100% willing to take his mask off in a room of just him and mace. no special occasion needed he's just comforted. mace has already seen it over many, many years.

because they're like an Old couple i think theyve been on and off since their mid twenties for ghost and late twenties for mace. WHICH is another reason mace like wont entertain the childish picking ghost does theyre literally too old.

but he does play along a little. sometimes. old habits die hard. if it's petty mace will have a back and forth w ghost for old times sake its just how ghost communicates sometimes. emotions are just hard for ghost mace understands this. to put all of this simply.

i will say tho if more comes out and they end up more antagonistic than my current read i will still be a huge stan i love when dudes try to fuck and kill each other 💪🥰💕

speaking of fucking tho. tw for implying sexual assault also i just got kinda nasty sowwy.

LIKE we know ghost has a complicated relationship w sex a lot of his past history w it is like traumatic. i think he was already promiscuous as a teen bc he already had issues from his upbringing so hes like. well experienced. and he likes sex. and he likes fucking mace bc his dick is thick, hes good with his hands, and he's not afraid to be rough with him and take their time bc mace likes to be edged and when ghost is rly into it he Likes it to Last esp if he can cum more than once. he likes when his pussy is sore.

BUT ALSOO theyre both like. verse esp w each other. ghost likes topping more tho. he likes fucking mace for being a little bit vocal and just. like. huge. ghost loves bending him over and watching his fat bounce. ghost would blow off any task and anyone to go fuck him.

but also, bc its ghost and i think if the wrong buttons get pressed in the wrong order and it goes sour he gets quiet and, like, disassociates. and mace keeps watch for that bc he doesn't want to put ghost in that state. its not fun

[rainiishowers]

Happy 300~

I don't know if you can, can you do a reaction to the demon bros + Diavolo and Barbatos slow blinking/purring at MC while they're hanging out? Apparently when cats do it, it's a sign of trust and they're content, so yeah! :3

Lucifer

You were helping Lucifer lessen his workload in his office

He wouldn't say it but he really did appreciate it and how you worked diligently

You soon started hearing slight rumbling, coming from Lucifer

Rumbling? It sounded more like....

Purring!

You give a small smile, not daring to point it out, lest this grumpy demon stops

"What are you smiling about?"

"Oh nothing~"

Mammon

A movie night with Mammon was always fun, no matter how many times it has happened

You two were just watching a movie, picking apart some of the inaccuracies and making fun of some of the decisions the characters make

It wasn't long before you heard soft yet noticeable purring coming from Mammon, as he leans on you

You lean on him in return and close your eyes to listen to him purring

You could practically feel the blush radiating off him as he seems to purr only louder

Leviathan

You were gaming with Levi in his room

The only sound was you two furiously mashing buttons and the game's music/sound effects

During a cutscene however, you noticed Levi looking at you, slowly blinking while a light blush was evident on his cheeks

You give him a smile and continue with the game, it took a second for Levi to collect himself before continuing as well

His small bits of affection continued, as he gathered up the confidence to scoot a little closer to you

Satan

Whether you two would be reading or doing some studying, whenever this cat obsessed romantic is with you, he feels at peace, and thus he does both of these quite often

On rare occasions when he would fall asleep before you during studying or reading, you can hear him softly purring or he gives you a slow, tired blink before drifting off to snooze land

He trusts you, a lot. And it is quite easy to tell

Satan doesn't deny it, but he is quite flustered when asked about it

Asmodeus

Much different then Satan, is Asmo.

He has zero shame is showing his affection and trust for you

Asmo will coo, purr and cling onto your arm in public (or just the first two if you don't like PDA, he respects boundaries!)

However, in more closed doors, he is more calm

An occurrence that has happened more then a few times, is that he would be painting your nails in his or your room, and he would just look up at you, with an expression of trust before giving you a smile and blinking softly a few times

Of course you give him a smile back

He stares back at your half painted nails with a more thoughtful look

"Hun.. Can you promise me something?"

"What's up, Asmo?"

"Well.. I'm not afraid to admit that I trust you, a lot actually.. But.. Can you promise me not to break that trust... please..?"

"Of course!"

"Good, I'll be holding you to that~"

Beelzebub

Beel isn't shy about showing the world how much he trusts you

But it is more often that you two would be in the kitchen, or binging a show that he would slowly blink at you

His purring isn't the most subtle, so you might catch onto that first before noticing him slowly blinking

When he notices you looking at him, he'll smile happily before offering some of the snacks he has on hand

Belphegor

Belphie and trust aren't two things that typically goes together, even after you came along and helped him

It took a bit, after Lesson 16 to decide on whether he should fully trust you or not

It was a typical day, the youngest was using your lap as a pillow while you scrolled through your phone

It didn't take long for you to notice him purring as he laid on your lap, he held more of a grip on you as well, as if scared someone would take away his comfy pillow

If you mention it later on, he'll grow a bit flustered

"Well... Yea.. That's because I trust you..."

Diavolo

If you thought Beel's purrs weren't subtle, wait till you hear Diavolo's

This prince is typically one to not keep his cards far away from his chest ~~so to speak~~ from people that aren't his close companions

And lucky for you, you happen to be one of those close companions!

You were going over plans for a RAD event with Dia, and this man was looking at you with so much fondness and attention

And that's when you heard loud purring and saw him slowly blinking at you

You couldn't deny it was cute, this giant puppy of a man looking at you with so much trust, no wonder he put you in charge of this event!

You give a smile before continuing explaining your plans

Barbatos

Similar to Belphie, Barbatos giving his trust to people is rare, but not unheard of (but he refuses to give his trust to Solomon, RIP)

He shows it in subtle ways, yet if you were observant enough, you'd catch onto them

You two had just finished a trip to the human world tea shop, and now he was just making tea for the two of you

When he finished, he gives you your cup and takes his own cup in his hands before sitting beside you

Comfortable silence filled the air, with small bits of chatter and a bit of noise coming from other places in the castle

Eventually, you start to hear purring coming from the butler, it took everything in you not to squeal of happiness, so you just gave a smile

When he notices your wide grin, he gives a small chuckle and sips his tea, but that doesn't cover up his rosy pink cheeks

[h8crimesmd]

fic fic fic!!! (please not something with a sad ending, otherways you can throw anything on me) (also thank you <3)

oho ask and you shall receive!

A Modest Proposal by ignaz

"Tritter's case against House still depends on subpoenaed testimony from Wilson. To save House from losing everything, the doctors of PPTH decide on an unusual solution, which in turn leads to unexpected consequences. This is a story about the sacrifices we make that turn out not to be such great sacrifices after all. (Contains spoilers for everything up to and including "Merry Little Christmas.")"

I cannot say enough good things about this fic

its funny, its witty, the characters are in character, the ending is satisfying

the author rly said slow burn and put this bitch on simmer but by GOD its worth it

Made me laugh on numerous occasions.

the smut is top-tier. turn your phone brightness down if you're in public

Experimental Procedures by ORiley42

"An offhand comment leads Wilson to test out some unusual methods of pain relief for House. (They’re extremely effective.)"

ORiley42 has some really good fics in general i'd recommend checking them out

short and sweet (and spicy)

and surprisingly heartfelt at the end!

these old men are so silly and i love them very much

no need to worry by scribespirare

"House makes the mistake of telling his mother he can't join her for Christmas because of his new boyfriend. Somehow, this becomes Wilson's problem."

The fake dating trope of all time

actual tooth rotting fluff, made me go "AWWWW" out loud several times

shoutout blythe house fr

wilson being depressingly repressed and house being far too unrepressed

i wanted to mash their faces together like barbies

THE PAYOFF OF WHEN THEY REALIZE THAT HMM MAYBE THIS FAKE DATING THING IS WORKING

for fear that you find out by showzen

“Okay, okay! I just thought - why do your allotted times with me have to be separate?” He ventures. Both raise their eyebrows, but don’t immediately rip his head off, which he takes as a good sign. “Of course I like to spend time with both of you independently, but… I like both of you. Is there any good reason why we can’t, I don’t know - go bowling as… a trio?”

(wilson comes up with an elegant solution to the custody issue.)"

if wilson/house/amber isn't your thing, then this isnt for you

but even if it isn't, its worth a read

they're characterized really well

amber and house's headstrong nature against wilson's people pleasing tendencies

plus you get to watch hilson develop and instead of tossing him out, amber accepts house as a part of wilson

seriously well done. plus, it's a series!

thanks for asking anon! i hope you enjoy <3

[medea10]

Medea Rants - CARTOONS!!!

I’m taking a break from writing up anime reviews to talk about some news that dropped a few weeks ago that has my mind swarming with so much thought.

A few weeks ago, I’m scrolling through Twitter…I’m still not calling it by its other name and randomly came across this news about a new television channel coming. MeTV Toons. The minute-long video teased all of the old cartoons I used to love watching and still love watching.

The Flintstones, Scooby Doo, Top Cat, Rocky and Bullwinkle, Underdog, Wally Gator, 2 Stupid Dogs, Johnny Quest, The Jetsons, Yogi Bear, Magilla Gorilla, Speed Racer, Freakazoid, Snagglepuss, Looney Tunes, Popeye, Droopy, Betty Boop, and so, so, so, so, SOOOOOO MUCH MORE!

HISTORY ABOUT METV: Depending on where you live, you might get a combination of different channels in your cable package. MeTV, Antenna TV, Cozi, Catchy Comedy, Get TV, Rewind, etc. Ever since their existence I’ve been drawn to both MeTV and Catchy Comedy (formerly known as Decades). MeTV has been known to play programming ranging from the 1940s to the 1980s give-or-take. It’s like what TV Land used to be like before becoming the MASH and Raymond network. Me personally, I’m usually watching The Three Stooges or All in the Family.

In recent years, MeTV has decided to play cartoons. Not a lot, but enough to gain attention. Ever since they started this, every Saturday morning I’m up watching the cartoons. Because I’m still used to the Saturday morning cartoon setup before it died. Mostly, this consists of Popeye, Tom & Jerry, Woody Woodpecker, and Bugs Bunny/Looney Tunes. On Sundays, they play The Flintstones and Jetsons. During the week, they also aired a show called, “Toon In With ME”. This was an hour-long program where the hosts would play the short cartoons I just mentioned above. I actually only watch this on rare occasions since it always airs when I’m heading off to work. Believe it or not, this program has been a huge hit. So, it’s no surprise that the hosts announced MeTV Toons on their program.

THE CONCEPT OF A 24/7 CARTOON CHANNEL: Cartoon Network and Boomerang. Y’all remember this, right? Back when Cartoon Network first started, it had all of the old cartoons from back in the day. But then, they started doing their own original programming. And that was okay, because we got Cartoon Planet and Space Ghost Coast to Coast out of the deal. Then we got original programming from the Cartoon, Cartoon era. And that was okay, because we got shows like Courage, Billy and Mandy, Powerpuff Girls, and Dexter out of the deal. But then, all of the older cartoons started disappearing and we get some mediocre cartoons out of the deal. Not okay! But also, we got things like Toonami and Adult Swim. So…I’m stuck here.

That’s when Boomerang came in! And that’s all I can tell you because I never got Boomerang in my cable package. BECAUSE XFINITY SUCKS! Apparently, in the early 2000s, all of those older cartoons I’ve mentioned before migrated to the Boomerang channel. It so would have been nice to watch that. I’m still disgruntled about that whole thing. Time passes and both of these channels are unrecognizable. Fast-forward to the 2010’s, Cartoon Network is playing some garbage called Teen Titans GO and Boomerang mostly plays…I don’t know. I just know it wasn’t the old cartoons. Just rehashes. I only came across it if it was playing in the breakroom at work since we had Dish there. Not going to complain that they were playing Pokemon and it just happened to have Tracey on that day.

YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE SAFE FROM MY TRACEY OBSESSION HERE! Think again.

Mwahahahaha!

Both channels have become shells of their former selves. And if you want to know the truth, I only watch Cartoon Network for Adult Swim and Toonami. That’s it!

Now that MeTV is doing its own 24/7 cartoon channel, I have so many thoughts in my head. Hopes and dreams, crushing reality thoughts, worry, and so much more. Most of all, I just want to actually see it with my own eyes. I don’t want to relive being 12 years old and seeing my favorite shows plucked off the air and put on a channel that I don’t even get. That’s not cool. I’m too old to be going through emotions I felt at the start of puberty. So, Xfinity! Do a sister a favor and hand over the goods. And MeTV, learn from the past mistakes of Boomerang and Cartoon Network. No original programming! Unless it’s something like Toon in With ME, none of that! Leave that shit to Cartoon Network and Max. And Teen Titans in any capacity must be BANNED! It’s for the greater good.

With that said, here are some scattered thoughts I have with the upcoming MeTV Toons channel.

UNDERDOG: I want to see Underdog. Plain and simple. Not that shitty-ass, bull-shit, pile of Taco Bell toilet leave-behinds movie that Disney made back in 2007. I. WANT. UNDERDOG. The show! Wally Cox saying, “There’s no need to fear, Underdog is here”. THAT! I WANT THAT! I want to see Underdog, Sweet Polly Purebread, Riff Raff, Mooch, Tap-Tap the Chisler, Batty Man, O.J. Squeeze, Rudy Guiliani’s doppleganger Simon Barsinister, Cad, I want to see everyone!

…

I ain’t fucking around here. Put Underdog on and LEAVE IT THERE ON THE SCHEDULE. Don’t be fucking with me and having it on for one day and then I never see it again. PLAY IT!

Sorry to get so postal here. But Underdog is my all-time favorite older cartoon. And as you can see by my collection of goodies here, I am a fan.

TIME-STAMP: Seeing all of these old cartoons finally getting a home, you have to ask what’s the cut off of how old the cartoon must be? I seriously would have been fine with them cutting things off at 1989. But then I see surprising entries like 2 Stupid Dogs, Freakazoid, and the cartoon series based off the movie that was based off the comic, The Mask. Wow, that certainly takes me back. Okay, perfect! All of the cartoons played here don’t go past the millennium threshold. This, I can live with. But then…

Xiaolin Showdown too?! Okay, this one was obviously not made in the 90s as it ran on KidsWB from 2003 to 2006. I’m a little excited as it does make me optimistic for more KidsWB programs. But it does make me a little suspicious seeing this one red herring. Nothing against the show at all, I just don’t trust any program after 1999 when you’re seeing the line-up I’m seeing. If it were me, the cut-off time should be this.

This is Christopher Walken dancing in the Fatboy Slim video Weapon of Choice. When this came out should be the cut-off point for any cartoon made to be put on this channel. With Xiaolin Showdown being the exception.

MOVIES: A good idea that Cartoon Network used to do on Saturday nights was play movies. Believe it or not, there are good cartoon movies that were made by people not affiliated with the Disney corporation. Why not do so here? A lot of Don Bluth’s movies used to play like An American Tail, Thumbalina, and Secret of NIHM used to play. Let’s do it here! How about some trippy-ass 60s and 70s movies like Gay Pur-ree and Raggedy Ann and Andy: A Musical Adventure?! A Boy Named Charlie Brown! Yes, do it! MeTV plays that one and Snoopy Come Home during Christmas time, this would be perfect. Hell, add the other two Charlie Brown movies here too. The Chipmunk Adventure! Yes, please!

A lot of the cartoons already on the docket for MeTV Toons have movies. The Jetsons have their own movie. Just stop before you see The Jetsons with the WWE. Tom and Jerry had a movie come out in the 90s. It was weird, but it was at least original. Just stop before you see Tom and Jerry crashing movie classics. Scooby Doo has a plethora of movies. I know the Boo Brothers and the Ghoul School movie has Scrappy Doo, but those were still solid features. Just stop when you see any movie that aired after Y2K. The Flintstones had many that have been made between the 60s and the 90s. This includes a musical, a cross-over, a wedding, and even Pebbles and Bamm-Bamm becoming parents. Seeing all the pictures on the MeTV Toons website put up Fred and Bamm-Bamm from the Christmas Carol movie. So, that gives me hope. Again, just don’t play anything made after 2000.

While you’re at it, try and see if you can get the rights to play The Brave Little Toaster. I promised I wouldn’t bring up anything Disney here, but this movie is very much a Disney film and yet, five years later is still not on Disney+. That’s a fucking crime. Somebody needs to play that classic.

ANIME ON METV TOONS: With this announcement, we saw one of the characters prominently featured in the teasers was Speed Racer. That is definitely an anime despite what we all thought back in the day when we first saw it. Should MeTV stop right there and just keep it with Speed Racer? Believe it or not, I say yes. Shocking, yes. There are so many anime series that could be added to MeTV Toons to bring back other kinds of nostalgia. MeTV Toons is playing shows that came from the KidsWB time. What played back then? Pokemon, Cardcaptor Sakura, and Yu-Gi-Oh! There are shows from FOX Kids time too. What was a show that played there? Digimon! And let’s not forget the Toonami classics like Sailor Moon, Dragon Ball Z, Gundam, and Tenchi Muyo. Would love the fuck out of that, but would also feel like it’d be too much and also hard to get as some of the anime companies are hard to negotiate with. Plus, Cartoon Network is actually bringing DBZ and Sailor Moon back.

But if they do put Pokemon on the schedule, I won’t be mad about that.

ADULT PROGRAMMING: I’m not saying to go full-on Adult Swim. Also, no on Squidbillies. I just like this picture. But some adult programming wouldn’t hurt. Excluded would have to be anything owned by Disney/FOX or Paramount. So, as much as I love shows like Daria and The Simpsons, NO! With that said, there are several shows worthy enough to be given a new home. Let’s start with Duckman! No? How about The Critic? If not that, how about Bob and Margaret? Nobody has seen this show for 20 years. Let’s make this happen. How about the short-lived cartoons that aired in the late 90s/early 2000s? The Oblongs, Baby Blues, Mission Hill, and…I hesitate even saying this one, Dilbert. Hesitation because the creator of Dilbert is a bit of a fuck-hole. But the show is okay! Let’s not go too far with adult animation. Fritz the Cat would be too far. And don’t even think about Ren & Stimpy: Adult Party Cartoon. That’s a war crime in and of itself!

CONTROVERSIAL CARTOONS: Make no mistake about it, there are some cartoons that if made today would be cancelled by all kinds of groups. I’m kind of standing in this fork in the road wondering if it should air or not. Obviously the infamous “Banned Eleven” from Looney Tunes should remain that way and for good reason. But…two cartoons do come to mind and why people would find issue with it. First, is Johnny Bravo. You realize that Cartoon Network is doing it’s Checkered Past block and not once did it put Johnny Bravo on there. I think it’s the fact that he’s a womanizer. Like a human Pepe Le Pew! I can see MeTV Toons carrying Johnny Bravo as their parent channel does play Pepe Le Pew cartoons. The other cartoon I’ll mention might not get a warm welcome.

And it’s Batfink! The superhero bat with wings of steel. He’s Batfink! I can’t even begin to tell you how much I loved watching Batfink when it used to air on the short-lived Nickelodeon show, Weinerville. There’s just one itty-bitty, little, tiny thing…okay, it’s a fucking big crater. Batfink’s assistant, Karate. Yeah, that’s a collar-tug. Just look at him. Just listen to him. I can hear every anus clamp shut with this. The good thing about channels like Catchy and MeTV, they do put up disclaimers if they’re about to play something that could be seen as offensive.

HOPES FOR THE LOST MEDIA: I know I have a lot of treasured classics on VHS. Damn shame my old TV/VCR died last year. If you’re wondering how old I am, I’m this old.

I am (this) Disney Black-Diamond logo old. Moving on!

Seeing that this channel is actually bringing The Mask to it’s line-up gives me hope for other pieces of lost media from back in the day. Shows that aren’t on a streaming service, shows that never got a DVD release, and shows you can only find through old VHS copies. From Cartoon Network, there’s Cartoon Planet and all of the cartoons played on O Canada and What A Cartoon Show. From KidsWB, it would be a lot of the short-lived series like Detention, Histeria, and Generation O. And as for FOX Kids, there’s Life With Louie, Peter Pan & the Pirates, and Eek! The Cat.

Hey Medea, aren’t you forgetting the bad side to this? Angela Anaconda ring a bell?

Oh shit. That’s right. We also do run the risk of seeing things like Mega Babies and Angela Anaconda again. I guess this is a take the good with the bad.

AND FINALLY, SHOWS THAT WOULD BE AWESOME TO SEE AGAIN: Yes, what the website has given us has so many twists and surprises. So, I’m going to list off all the cartoons I didn’t see on the teaser and website. Here’s hoping they’ll get another chance to be seen.

The Tick Batman Beyond Time Squad Harvey Birdman: Attorney at Law Count Duckula Gerald McBoing-Boing Dudley Do-Right The Banana Splits Bobby’s World Madeline Pee Wee’s Playhouse Camp Candy Static Shock Tennessee Tuxedo Earthworm Jim The Addams Family Hong Kong Phooey The Littles Space Ghost Coast to Coast/Cartoon Planet Life With Louie Alvin and the Chipmunks Sabrina the Animated Series Every property of Charlie Brown and Snoopy (fuck Apple TV+) Gumby Inch High Private Eye The Adventures of Sonic the Hedgehog/Sonic Underground Commander McBragg

I think I got everything out of my system. Will all of my hopes and wishes come true with the upcoming MeTV Toons. Hell no! But it’ll be nice if one or two of these happen.

[moonferry]

✨ 🧠 ♥️ for Danny n Lee, perchanceably

ooh. those are good ones..

✨

so.. danny.. i think his name just popped into my head one day? i didnt really have a plan for it, but i liked the name "sawyer". i didnt want it to be the first name, though,, so i introduced samson (knowing hed be samson because of Sam) and i liked the idea of "samson sawyer". i might've been inspired by gamegrumps? because dan avidan is often referred to as "danny" and i guess that sorta.. stuck with me. and thus, "daniel sawyer" came into fruition.

as for lee, i REALLY wanted to name a character lee. i cannot tell you why (maybe i was thinking about lee everett from the walking dead games, i dunno) but i also wanted one of kent's friends to have the name "vincent" (another name he would later pass to his son) . this led to me looking up last names with the word "lee" in it and .. well i didnt really like any of those so i mashed around a few words and eventually came up with "leegland" (his first name was actually going to be leegland, actually! and his last name grieves. but i felt this was too similar to lee everett and decided to use it as a last name instead). so,now that i had the last name.. i needed a first name. i thought, hey, kent seems like the type of guy to name his son after a fallen comrade.. so i had already chosen samson at this point, which left me with vincent. i took this and combined it with the name leegland and thus "vincent leegland" was born.

🧠

i like everything about them! but if i had to choose a favorite, it would probably be lee's personality. i really like how i characterized him and i think it works really well with who he is as a person. i like danny's hair LOL

♥️

lee's best memory.. probably helping oma in her shop as a child. or the rare occasions the traveling merchant would go into the desert and oma would send him to fetch something for her.

danny's favorite is anything that involves jodi, mostly cooking with her and making a complete mess in the kitchen. if jodi was laughing, danny knew he was doing a good job as an older brother.

have more questions? ask from here!