#one of da greatest openings of all time...

[funeralcity]

Mobile Suit Zeta Gundam Opening 2: Hiroko Moriguchi - Mizu no Hoshi e Ai wo Komete

[ghostlynightpanda]

May I request another Ranpo fic hehe :3,,, May I ask pre-relationship Gn! Reader x Ranpo where they're having a sleepover at Ranpo's house, just talking about random things until late at night and they when they sleep (Ranpo has his own Futon but he kept an extra one for reader and placed next to him), what he didn't know is that reader is a cuddle bug, and unfortunately he doesn't have any body pillows for them to hug. So what did they do instead? They slept like a bear and unconsciously scooted to Ranpo's Futon and cuddled him instead, poor Ranpo, his brain stopped working and he was bright red T^T!!!! It didn't help that in the morning, you didn't know what you did as you both wake up on different sides and when you two finished dressing up, reader noticed Ranpo can NOT tie his tie correctly for the life of him, so you came to him and did it instead, leaving Ranpo froze at the proximity. Reader was do oblivious that after they left, Ranpo literally was weak on the knees and flushing red <33 -from da 🍮anonie!!!

Case of the Cuddly Culprit

synopsis: When a casual sleepover with Ranpo turns into an accidental cuddle-fest, the world’s greatest detective finds himself completely undone by your unconscious affection—and worse, realizes he might actually like it. Now hopelessly touch-starved and flustered, Ranpo’s only solution is to march to your door in the middle of the night for more… research.

content/warnings: Ranpo Edogawa x reader, fluff, -4.951 words

The soft hum of a movie played in the background, the dialogue nearly drowned out by the loud rustling of snack wrappers. Ranpo's living room was exactly what you expected: cluttered, chaotic, very Ranpo. Manga stacked unevenly on the floor, detective novels poking out from under the kotatsu, half a dozen empty candy wrappers scattered like fallen leaves. And in the middle of it all—Ranpo, sitting crisscross on the floor, happily munching on a bag of caramel popcorn like it was oxygen itself.

You sat next to him, leaned against the slightly lumpy couch, legs tucked under yourself, balancing an open bag of gummies on your knee.

"Okay," you said, pointing dramatically at the TV, "plot hole number fifteen—why would anyone go into a creepy abandoned house at night just to get a stupid necklace? Who does that?"

Ranpo didn't even glance at the screen. "Idiots," he answered through a mouthful of popcorn, crumbs on the corner of his mouth. "Besides, I would've solved the whole thing in five minutes. Tops."

"You say that like you wouldn't just nap in the corner until someone brought you snacks."

"Wrong." He stuck a finger up smugly, "I'd nap after solving the mystery. With snacks on me. Obviously."

You snorted, flopping dramatically sideways across the couch, head hanging over the edge. "Of course. How silly of me to forget your advanced detective strategy: solve crime, nap, eat sweets."

"See? You are learning."

A gummi bear bounced off his forehead before plopping into his lap.

Ranpo blinked down at it, then slowly looked at you with the flattest expression imaginable. "Assault. With sugar. How dare you."

You burst into laughter as he picked up the candy and immediately ate it with an exaggerated crunch.

It was comfortable like this—half talking nonsense, half watching the movie, mostly ignoring the plot in favor of making fun of the characters. Every so often, you'd toss a snack his way, and Ranpo, being Ranpo, caught most of them with almost offensively perfect reflexes.

Eventually, the movie became just background noise, replaced by random conversations about childhood games, favorite candies, weird dreams, and how Ranpo swore up and down that he once solved a case in his sleep. (You're still not sure if he was serious.)

By the time midnight rolled around, Ranpo finally stretched his arms over his head, letting out a dramatic sigh. "Alright. Detective genius needs his beauty sleep."

"You have beauty?" you teased, grinning at him over your shoulder.

"Excuse you, I am an icon of intellectual and physical beauty. Just ask anyone. Even Dazai's jealous."

"Dazai's not jealous—Dazai's unhinged."

"Exactly."

He stood up and disappeared for a moment into the back room, returning with two futons under his arms. He dropped them on the floor next to the couch, one right next to the other, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Got an extra. Obviously. Detective planning skills," he said with a wink.

"You knew I'd crash here?" you asked, raising a brow.

"Of course. I deduced it." He tapped the side of his head. "Genius, remember?"

"Right, right…" you grinned. "Thanks, Ranpo."

The casual thanks was enough to make his confident smirk falter just for a second, a faint pink creeping onto his cheeks, though he quickly masked it with a yawn.

"Whatever. Just don't snore."

"Don't drool."

"Never."

The playful banter dwindled as the futons were unrolled, pillows plopped into place, lights turned low. The last thing you remembered before your eyelids got too heavy was Ranpo settling down in his futon beside you, munching on one last piece of chocolate.

"G'night, Y/N," he mumbled softly, voice drifting lazily into the quiet.

"Night, Ranpo…"

Neither of you knew yet that Ranpo's night of peaceful sleep was about to be completely obliterated.

The apartment was quiet now, save for the occasional crinkle of a snack wrapper shifting when the night breeze from the open window drifted by.

Ranpo was already dozing, one arm lazily flopped across his pillow, his breathing soft and steady. For once, his sharp mind wasn't racing to solve mysteries or clever schemes—it was just still. Peaceful.

Or at least, it was peaceful.

At first, it was subtle. The faint rustle of fabric. A soft sigh. Barely noticeable.

Then—shuffle. A soft weight brushing against his side.

Ranpo blinked awake groggily, brain still fogged with sleep. Huh? He glanced sideways.

You were closer now. Still completely out, your breathing even, face relaxed in the soft glow of the streetlamp in front of the window. Your futon had become…more of a suggestion than a boundary. Somehow, without even noticing, you had gradually migrated toward him in your sleep like a heat-seeking missile. Your hand was now brushing against his arm.

He froze.

"…………….."

Another soft shift, another rustle of blankets—and then it happened. Your arms wrapped around his torso, face pressing gently against his shoulder like he was the world's warmest, softest pillow.

Like a koala latching onto a tree.

Ranpo didn't move. Couldn't move. 

Brain: error.

His eyes were wide open now, pupils dilated like someone had just whispered the answer to a world-class riddle in his ear.

Wha—what—? Why?? Are they—?? What's happening???

His genius-level deduction skills? Gone. Vanished. Useless.

Mystery: unsolvable.

His thoughts were racing, but his brain was simultaneously short-circuiting: okay okay okay THINK, Ranpo. What's the protocol for this?? What chapter of the detective handbook covers accidental midnight cuddling? Wait. WHY don't I have a handbook for this???

Your breath was warm against the fabric of his shirt. He could feel the steady, gentle rise and fall of your chest against his side. You mumbled something incoherent in your sleep, brow twitching slightly, nose brushing against the crook of his neck like you were getting comfortable.

That was it.

Critical hit.

Ranpo.exe has stopped responding.

His face flushed such a violent shade of red that it was honestly impressive. Bright scarlet, ears burning, lips slightly parted in stunned silence.

And he stayed like that. Stiff as a statue. Arms hovering awkwardly midair, unsure if he should move, return the hug, or just ascend to another plane of existence entirely.

Normally, he'd be smug. Teasing. He'd call you clingy or make some ridiculous flirty comment.

But now?

Ranpo, self-proclaimed greatest detective, reduced to one malfunctioning idiot by unconscious cuddling.

Seconds ticked by.

Minutes.

Your grip only seemed to tighten slightly, a small, happy sigh leaving your lips like this was exactly where you belonged.

And Ranpo?

He remained frozen, staring at the ceiling, red-faced, suffering in silence, wondering if he would ever recover from this. Probably not.

"…I'm gonna die here," he whispered, too quietly for you to hear.

And maybe…maybe that wasn't the worst way to go.

The first soft glow of dawn was beginning to creep in through the half-closed curtains, painting Ranpo's cluttered living room in muted hues of pale orange and soft gray. Dust motes floated lazily in the early morning light, dancing above stacks of books and unopened snack bags.

Ranpo stirred, his eyelashes fluttering slightly before his eyes cracked open.

For a moment, he didn't remember why his back felt weirdly tense or why his heart felt like it had been running a marathon in his chest all night. Then the events of a few hours ago crashed back into him like a stack of unopened case files.

The cuddling.

Right.

His breath caught.

But when he glanced to the side—

You were gone. Well, not gone—just back on your own futon, on the opposite end like a respectable, polite, definitely-not-cuddling person. You lay curled up under your blanket, your face soft with sleep, completely unaware of the war Ranpo had been waging inside his head for hours.

And him?

Flat on his back, hair messy, pillow half off the futon, one sock missing (when did that happen?), and a blanket half kicked off.

A normal person would have been relieved.

Ranpo let out a quiet breath, closing his eyes again for a second. Good. Great. Perfect. This is what I wanted. That was unbearable anyway, all that heat. No sane person could sleep like that, glued to someone else. Right?

Right?

Then why…

Why was his chest feeling kind of…empty now?

Why did the cool air around him feel wrong?

And why—WHY—did he miss the press of your body against his, the steady warmth, that absent-minded way you'd sighed into his shoulder like you were safe with him?

Ranpo furrowed his brows, annoyed—not at you, but at himself. What the hell's wrong with me? he thought bitterly. Since when do I care about things like—

He stopped.

Had he ever…cuddled someone before? Like that? Properly? Warm, tangled limbs, soft breathing, innocent closeness—not just casual shoulder-bumps on the couch or lazy sprawls at the Agency?

…No. No, he hadn't.

He'd always teased people, always been the one poking fun, leaning over desks with that smug, catlike grin. But real closeness? Comfort? That wasn't something Ranpo Edogawa knew how to handle. And now, one accidental cuddle, and suddenly his brain was flipping through imaginary manuals trying to find a chapter on what-the-hell-to-do-when-you-want-to-be-cuddled-again.

Pathetic.

A faint flush crept over his cheeks again, and he buried his face halfway in his blanket to try and hide it from no one in particular.

And then—

"Mm… morning…"

Your sleepy voice broke the silence, soft and thick with drowsiness as you sat up, stretching your arms above your head with a little groan. Hair messy, eyes squinted, you looked over at him and gave a lazy smile. "Did you sleep okay?"

Ranpo flinched slightly, snapping his gaze away and shoving his face harder into his blanket like a turtle retreating into its shell.

"Y-yeah. Fine. Obviously. Why wouldn't I?"

"Okay," you said with a yawn, completely buying it, completely missing the way his ears were bright pink. "Cool. Do you have tea or something? I think I'm crashing from all the sugar."

"Yeah—kitchen. Whatever."

You dragged yourself up with another groan, trudging toward the kitchen like a zombie, leaving Ranpo still curled up in emotional confusion on his futon.

His heart was still racing.

This is stupid. I'm stupid. They're stupid. Why do they smell so good in the morning—NOPE, abort, brain, shut up—

He peeked over the edge of his blanket again, watching you shuffle around his messy kitchen in his oversized slippers, completely unaware of the storm you'd accidentally unleashed in the mind of the greatest detective in Yokohama.

And for the first time in a very, very long time… Ranpo didn't want to solve this mystery.

He just wanted to feel it again.

By the time both of you had finished with tea, the apartment looked slightly less like a snack crime scene. Slightly. You had pulled your spare clothes from your overnight bag—a clean, crisp outfit.

You were standing near his full-length mirror now, adjusting the knot of your own tie with practiced ease, focused, sharp, the picture of casual confidence.

Meanwhile…

Ranpo sat on the floor behind you, legs crossed, fumbling awkwardly with his own tie, brow furrowed, mouth pulled into a tense line.

Normally, tying it was annoying but manageable. But today?

Nope. No good. Total garbage. His fingers weren't cooperating. The tie twisted the wrong way, then slipped through the knot completely wrong, ending in a sad, floppy mess against his shirt. Again.

It definitely had nothing to do with the fact that his brain was still doing barrel rolls from earlier. Definitely.

You glanced over your shoulder just in time to catch him glaring at the offending piece of fabric like it had personally committed treason.

A grin tugged at your lips. "What's wrong, Detective? Crashed from the sugar high already?"

His eye twitched. "No."

You snickered. "Sure. Looks like your hands are shaking."

"They're not shaking," Ranpo muttered defensively, tugging at the tie again, somehow only making it worse. "It's defective. I'm being sabotaged."

You let out a soft laugh, stepping away from the mirror and brushing imaginary dust off your shirt. "I knew it. The Great Edogawa Ranpo, brought down by breakfast pastries."

His retort was halfway out of his mouth when you did something he wasn't prepared for at all—

You knelt down right in front of him. Close. Closer than before. Practically between his knees. The warmth of your body hit him first, then the faint scent of your shampoo, then the light brush of your fingers against his shirt collar as you lifted the tie gently from his hands.

"I got it. Hold still."

Ranpo stopped breathing.

He physically stopped. His entire body stiffened like you'd hit him with a tranquilizer dart. The heat of you kneeling there, hands moving smoothly to fix his ridiculous tie mess like it was nothing—it was too much.

His brain short-circuited all over again.

They're close—they're REALLY close—why are they this close?? Hands. Touching me. I should be making some dumb joke right now. Why can't I think?? ERROR. ERROR. ERROR—

Meanwhile, you were utterly oblivious to his meltdown, focused entirely on making the knot symmetrical, neat, sharp.

"There," you murmured softly, brushing the fabric flat against his chest. "Perfect."

Perfect.

Great. Wonderful. Now Ranpo was ninety percent tie, ten percent sentient embarrassment.

You looked up, finally meeting his eyes—those bright green eyes now wide, almost glassy, with an unreadable expression on his face. His mouth was slightly parted like he wanted to say something but forgot how speaking worked.

"…What?" you asked with a laugh. "It's just a tie."

Just a tie.

Right.

"R-right," he croaked, voice cracking like a teenager. "Tie. Sure."

You stood, patting him on the shoulder lightly as you moved back toward your bag to finish getting ready. "You're acting weird. Must be the sugar crash."

Ranpo sat there, still kneeling, staring blankly at your retreating form, utterly betrayed by his own nervous system.

He tugged absently at the knot you'd just tied. Perfect. Of course it was.

And the worst part?

He could still feel the ghost of your fingers on his collar, soft and careful and way too nice.

He was doomed.

The Agency was unusually lively that morning. Yosano humming softly while sharpening scalpels she definitely didn't need right now. Kunikida furiously scribbling in his notebook about order and structure, none of which anyone was following. Atsushi avoiding eye contact with helpless Junichiro, who was currently being latched onto by his sister, her arms around him in a dramatic display of (weird) sibling affection that left everyone—including the orange-haired man himself—deeply uncomfortable.

And Dazai?

Dazai was watching.

More specifically—Dazai was watching Ranpo.

To the untrained eye, Ranpo looked as he always did: slouched in his chair, lollipop tucked lazily between his lips, wearing that usual cocky half-lidded expression like he owned the place.

But to Dazai's eyes? Oh, this was gold. There was a subtle stiffness in Ranpo's posture, the rare flush still barely present on his cheeks that had nothing to do with heat or embarrassment over snacks. His tie, for once, was actually tied properly, but Ranpo kept fidgeting with it, tugging at the fabric like it had personally offended him.

And then there was you—sitting at your desk, rolling a pen between your fingers, utterly unaware of the way Ranpo's eyes kept accidentally sliding your way before snapping back like he'd been caught stealing candy.

Dazai's lips curved into a slow, wicked grin.

Oh yeah. Something happened.

And, being the absolute menace he was, Dazai wasn't about to let that go unchecked.

He leaned back in his chair with a dramatic sigh, tearing a scrap piece of paper from the corner of Kunikida's notebook ("Dazai, don't you dare—" rip), scrunched it into a tight little ball, and took aim like a sniper.

Fwip—thunk.

Direct hit. Right on Ranpo's hat.

"Oi—!" Ranpo shook his head, twisting around. His expression was more irritated than confused, but Dazai just gave him an innocent smile.

"Must've been the wind," he mused, resting his chin on his palm.

Ranpo narrowed his eyes, about two seconds away from launching an office supply at him when—

"Hey, hold still a sec."

You were already moving, standing and stepping over toward Ranpo, brushing crumbs from your lap as you approached.

And then—

You leaned down.

The scrap of paper stuck gently in Ranpo's brown hat, tangled with a few loose threads. Your hand came up, brushing over it softly to retrieve it. Absentminded. Casual. No big deal.

Except it was a big deal. To Ranpo, it was catastrophic.

Critical hit. Weakness: affection.

His whole body locked up as your fingertips ghosted along his hat before plucking the paper away. Your face was right there, close enough that he could smell your shampoo again, see the faint warmth in your eyes.

You were completely, blissfully unaware of how close you were.

Ranpo, on the other hand, was experiencing internal combustion.

His ears burned scarlet. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair like his life depended on it. His brain screamed in three different languages, none of them coherent.

Steam. Actual steam, if the laws of anime physics applied here, might've been curling out of his ears by now.

"Got it," you said cheerfully, holding up the offending paper ball, totally oblivious. "Looks like someone's making a mess again."

Ranpo could barely make a noise beyond a strangled "Mm—" sound in response.

Dazai watched the whole thing like a spectator at a fireworks show, chin in hand, delight practically radiating off him. He twirled another piece of paper between his fingers, wondering just how much further he could push this.

Oh wait, he didn't have to wonder. He would push it.

And then he moved.

Before you could walk back to your desk, Dazai appeared beside you, draping himself over your shoulder like a bored cat, his chin resting dramatically near your neck, breath exaggeratedly close.

"I'm so bored," he drawled, eyes half-lidded with faux sadness. "Won't you entertain me, Y/N? Surely you won't let me die of boredom here, will you?"

Your eye twitched. "Dazai…"

You knew this game.

Ranpo knew this game too.

The glare Ranpo shot Dazai could have ignited pure flame. It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. It was murderous. If looks could kill, Dazai would've been ashes on the carpet by now.

But of course, Dazai only smiled more sweetly.

Interesting.

Now this was getting fun.

And poor Ranpo? Sitting there, fists clenched in his lap, trying desperately not to combust in the middle of the office. He wanted to shout, Get off! That's MY personal space they're supposed to be invading!

But no words came. Just a dark, dangerous glint in his green eyes.

Dazai winked at Ranpo behind your back.

Evening came, bringing with it the soft orange glow of sunset spilling through the office windows. One by one, the Agency members filtered out, stretching tired limbs, gathering coats and bags, ready to call it a day.

You were one of the first to leave, waving cheerfully at everyone as you slung your bag over your shoulder. "See you tomorrow!"

Ranpo didn't even look at you as you left. Not because he didn't want to—but because if he did, he was sure the heat in his cheeks would've given him away immediately. Instead, he stayed slouched dramatically in his chair, spinning idly in slow, sulking rotations.

And of course, because the universe hates him, Dazai stayed behind too.

It didn't take long before they were the only two left.

Silence.

Ranpo sat with his arms crossed, still fiddling with the tie you had fixed for him earlier, scowling like a kicked cat.

Dazai, leaning back lazily on one of the desks, finally broke the silence. "Soooooo…"

Ranpo glared at him suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. "What?"

Dazai's grin was slow, shark-like. "Something you wanna tell me about Y/N?"

Ranpo's jaw clenched. "Tch."

"Oho~ That's a yes, isn't it?" Dazai chuckled. "Come on, Ranpo—what's this all about? You've been acting strange ever since you two walked in this morning. Blushing. Fidgeting. Practically malfunctioning when they leaned in close."

Ranpo kicked at the floor with the heel of his shoe, spinning his chair half a rotation away, arms crossed even tighter now. "Wasn't even a thing."

Dazai's brow rose. "Really? Because it looked like a thing."

Ranpo grumbled something under his breath. Too soft to hear.

"What was that?"

"—Only cuddling…" Ranpo finally muttered, cheeks burning pink again, scowl deepening. "That's all. They were just cuddling me."

Dazai blinked. "…Cuddling?"

"In their sleep, okay?! They didn't even know. It's not like—I didn't ask for it—they were just—" He gave up on explaining with a helpless gesture, slumping lower into his chair like gravity itself was bullying him. "Forget it."

Dazai blinked again, then smiled slowly. "Awww. So that's why you've been pouting all day."

"I'm not pouting."

"You're absolutely pouting."

Ranpo shot him a sharp glare, the flush creeping back into his ears. His next words came out in a stubborn whine:

"They're only allowed to cuddle me."

That silenced Dazai for a beat.

Ranpo wasn't even sure why he said it. It just came out—like a petulant child hoarding their favorite toy, except the "toy" was you and the possessiveness was a little too raw, a little too real.

"They're mine. Not yours."

Dazai blinked, then leaned back with a soft, surprised laugh—not mocking, not teasing this time, but genuinely amused.

"Well, well… interesting."

Ranpo didn't respond. He just sat there, sulking, sulking harder, cheeks hot, ears red, glaring furiously at his knees like they'd betrayed him too.

Possessive. Touch-starved. Completely lost and hating how vulnerable he felt.

But one thing was clear: the idea of you being close to someone else? Especially someone like Dazai?

Unacceptable.

Only him.

Ranpo should have been asleep by now.

Normally, he was the type to pass out the moment his head hit the pillow—or futon, in this case—with a stomach full of sweets and a mind smugly satisfied from solving unsolvable cases.

But not tonight.

He was awake. Wide awake.

Laying flat on his back, arms sprawled out, eyes boring holes into the ceiling. His cape was thrown haphazardly across the room, his beloved hat tossed nearby. He was practically kicking his legs like a restless cat, sheets rumpled in frustration.

And the worst part?

It wasn't because he wasn't tired. He was. He wanted to sleep.

But something was missing.

Something infuriatingly warm and soft that clung to him like a damn koala.

You.

Ranpo rolled onto his side, huffing loudly, cheeks flushed in frustration—not embarrassment, no, definitely not embarrassment.

"This is stupid," he muttered into his pillow. "I don't need that. I don't need them here."

And yet—he shifted again, curling around nothing, arms awkwardly hugging a pillow that was too flat and too cold and smelled wrong.

His scowl deepened.

He'd always liked sleeping alone. Space. Freedom. Comfort.

But now? After one night of you unconsciously pressing up against him like it was your life source?

Now he felt cold.

"This is your fault," he grumbled under his breath, voice tight and petulant, cheeks growing warmer. "All your fault…"

How dare you, waltzing into his life with your random kindness and warmth and stupid sleepy clinging. What gave you the right to just rewire his entire sleep pattern with one unconscious cuddle?

He sat up sharply.

No. Nope. Not happening. This was unacceptable.

Five more minutes of glaring at the wall, and then—

The cape was thrown over his shoulders with a dramatic flourish. The hat was jammed onto his messy hair.

He stomped toward the door, socks thumping against the floor.

What was he going to do when he got to your place? He didn't know.

Was he going to yell at you for breaking him? Maybe.

Was he going to make you fix it? Definitely.

Thudding through the dim streets, his mood only worsened by every step. The cool night air did nothing to soothe his simmering frustration.

Before he could fully think it through, Ranpo was already standing in front of your door, fist raised, banging against it with unreasonable force for someone showing up uninvited past midnight.

"Y/N!" he hissed sharply through clenched teeth, cheeks flushed with a dangerous combination of anger and mortification. "Wake up!"

Another few loud knocks. He didn't care if he looked crazy. You had done this to him, and now you were going to deal with it.

"Open up! I can't sleep without—!"

He cut himself off, lips snapping shut, teeth clenched. No way was he going to say it.

But the damage was done. His heart was racing, his cheeks practically glowing, and he was glaring at your door like it personally owed him an apology.

What was he supposed to do now?

A beat later, the door creaked open, and there you were—hair a mess, blanket slipping off one shoulder, eyes sleepy and confused, like a cat someone woke up from a nap too soon.

Ranpo froze for a second. You looked… soft like that. Warm. Sleepy. Way too inviting for his sanity.

"…Ranpo?" you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. "Am I dreaming…?"

"Tch." His scowl deepened immediately, defensive. "No. You're awake. I'm awake. All because of you."

You stared at him, eyes bleary, expression not matching the chaos in his chest at all.

"…What?"

"This is your fault," he snapped, as if you had dragged him here against his will. "I can't sleep."

You blinked slowly. "…Okay?"

Ranpo huffed, eyes darting to the side in frustration, refusing to meet your gaze. "I can't sleep. Because of your stupid cuddling. You're a menace. You ruined everything. You did something to me. My whole system's broken now. I hope you're happy."

Saying it out loud made his ears burn. He hated it. Hated that he sounded like some whiny kid complaining about their toy being taken. Hated that the moment you stopped pressing against him, his whole body felt wrong in a way he didn't know how to describe.

You just… yawned. Like you'd heard this complaint a thousand times before. "So… you can't sleep because I cuddled you…?"

"Obviously!" he barked, frustrated, cheeks pink. Why weren't you taking this seriously?

Another shrug. Another yawn. "Then come to bed."

Ranpo blinked. "What?"

"Come to bed. Cuddle me if you want."

And just like that, you turned around—like it was nothing—and wandered back to your bed, crawling under the blanket, leaving the door wide open behind you.

Ranpo stood there in the doorway, utterly, completely fried.

His brain—brilliant detective that it was—did not know what to do with this. He had cracked murders. Solved crimes no one else could even begin to understand. But this?

Your sleepy voice, your messy hair, the soft sound of blankets rustling as you burrowed back into warmth… offering him a place there too—

No. Nope. Unfair. Illegal, even.

"This is all your fault," he muttered one last time, voice quieter now, almost sulky, as if repeating it would somehow fix whatever catastrophic emotional failure was happening in his chest.

And yet—

His feet betrayed him.

He stepped inside, shutting the door softly behind him, and padded after you like a grumpy, overgrown cat.

What had you done to him?

He stood next to your bed like a criminal caught red-handed, cape still around his shoulders, hat slightly askew. You were already curled up on one side, blanket pulled messily over yourself, clearly waiting for him like it was the most normal thing in the world to invite someone over for emergency cuddling.

Ranpo clenched his jaw, fighting the burning in his ears. Fine. Whatever. He was here now.

With all the grace of a man facing execution, he lowered himself onto the bed beside you. Stiff. Straight as a board. Not touching you. Not breathing. Muscles locked, like a plank of human frustration.

This was fine. He could do this. Totally normal. This was normal.

Then you sighed.

"…You're so tense it's making me stressed," you muttered, half into your pillow, voice raspy with sleep. "C'mere."

Before he could argue, you moved—scooting closer like a sleepy, determined animal on a mission, reaching out—

And latched onto him.

Just like last night.

One arm flopped lazily over his chest. A leg hooked lightly around his. Your face pressed warm into the crook of his neck, the tickle of your breath making his pulse spike like he'd just been pushed off a building.

His entire body locked up, eyes wide, mouth dry, thoughts scattering like marbles across a tile floor.

You sighed again. But this time it was soft, content. Like being pressed up against him was exactly where you wanted to be.

Ranpo wanted to die.

He also wanted to never move again.

His hands twitched, unsure of what to do with themselves. He should probably move. Probably make some smug comment. Probably breathe—

And yet… warmth started creeping up through his limbs, fatigue creeping in behind it, dragging him down like slow-moving syrup.

Maybe he could sleep like this. Maybe this wasn't completely terrible. Actually, his eyes were already drooping—

It was fine.

Everything was fine.

Just before he drifted off, your sleepy voice murmured, amused, barely audible against his throat:

"…Did you really just walk all this way in your socks just to demand cuddles?"

Ranpo's eye twitched.

"Shut up."

Masterlist

[fandomnerd9602]

Home on the Run (4)

Yelena Belova x Venom!Reader

Set during Thunderbolts*

Alexei kept driving the limo. You and Yelena just kept yelling and ranting against the man.

“You left our children alone!” Yelena screams.

“What? No do no such thing!” Alexei argues, “I left little Natalie and Alex with their babushka.”

“We left you in charge for a reason, Alexei!” Venom adds to the argument.

You and Venom settle back in your seat, Ava just smirks at you.

“What?”

“Oh nothing. It’s just so adorable. Big hulking alien and a human host who are total homemakers.” Ava sighs, “I’m actually kind of jealous”

“How did you two do it?” Walker asks, “you seem so…secure in being civilians”

Venom and you look to each other and then to Yelena. “My kids, my wife, they’re my mission” you shrug. “Before I met Yelena I was…aimless”

Yelena perks up a little.

“We were the Lethal Protector.” Venom nods. “Before that…well we all have our demons”

“Da” Alexei sighs.

“But when I held my daughter for the first time…” you smile, “part of me just…wanted to change. I wanted to be more than a duo that bit the heads off bad guys”

Yelena’s eyes lower. Had she really allowed herself to sink back into her old ways? Red Room, CIA, was it all just about titles? Was she so close to losing you and her children?

“Yelena” Alexei’s voice snapped her back to reality, “I can see light in your eyes again. You have put together quite the little team here”

“Not a team” Ava retorts

“Yeah. Go Thunderbolts!” Walker says sarcastically.

“Thunderbolts?” Alexei begins to tear up, “you named the team after your little peewee soccer team?”

“No. No. It was a sarcastic remark by-“ yelena tried to deflect but Alexei kept rambling on and on.

“This has makings of great team who can rise up…” Alexei smiled, “and be the heroes on the Wheaties box!”

“They don’t put superheroes on Wheaties boxes” you answer back.

“Then we shall be the first!” Alexei states triumphantly.

“Six o’clock!” Walker called out as he raised his shield.

The gunfire of an incoming convoy wailed away at the red limo. Windows were shattering. Walker was trying to shield you all with his rip-off shield.

“What do we do?” Venom’s voice echoing in your mind.

You checked the AR-15 you stole from OXE and your two pistols. “Can you give me an opening, bud?”

“Oh yeah!” Venom quickly cut a hole in the roof.

“Hey! This is still limo!” Alexei called out.

You popped out of the makeshift hole in the roof, Venom’s tendrils popped out of your back and grabbed the pistols. The two of you worked in tandem, laying down cover fire.

Yelena popped out the side window and fired a couple rounds off.

Time seemed to slow down as the two of you locked eyes. It felt like the old days again. You, Yelena, and Venom, all working as the Lethal Protectors again.

It was like the two of you reignited that spark was again. Yelena gave you a loving smirk.

I missed that smirk.

Then the convoy cars started to explode one by one. Bucky came riding in on his motorcycle. All three convoy cars were brought to a crashing halt.

Bucky was about to shoot the limo when he spotted you and Venom. He chose instead to drive up next to the limo.

“Follow me” he practically ordered before giving you a little salute.

“Aye aye Winter Soldier!” Alexei said before following Bucky.

Bucky made you all stop in some long abandoned mechanics shop. You all stepped out of the limo a little uneasy.

You gave Yelena’s hand a gentle squeeze before walking to Bucky.

“Bucky!” Venom’s tendrils gave him a high five “long time!”

“Venom, (Y/N), you were working with OXE?” Bucky asks hesitantly.

“No. We were trying to get our wife back” you gesture to Yelena.

“Hi Buck” Yelena offers a playful smile.

Bucky looks at the ragtag group before him, “kind of a scruffy looking bunch, aren’t you?”

“We are greatest team ever assembled,” Alexei states rather proudly, “we are the Thunderbolts”

“We did not agree on that” Walker states as he takes a seat.

“Nope” Ava agrees.

“I kind of like it” you whisper to Venom.

“I like it too actually” venom seconds that. Lash just produces a tendril from Yelena’s back and gives a thumbs up.

First Bucky wanted you all to testify against Val in the impeachment hearings. But you and Yelena quickly redirected upon realizing what Val had in mind for Bob.

“We have to rescue him” Yelena states.

“All that power if left unchecked could be disastrous” you second.

“And Bob is nice” Lash adds

And then came the phone call from Bucky’s insider, Mel. Bucky’s face went pale.

“New plan. I’m taking you all to New York” Bucky sighs, “let’s go rescue this…Bob, team”

“Team? We are team?!” Alexei asks excitedly, “yes!!!!”

To Be Continued…

Tags @sparks123123 @julieromanoff @supercorpdanbeau @scarletquake-n7 @marveldcfandom @ma1egamer @multi-fandom-enjoyer @iamnicodemus @pinklawyerwinnerzonk @catswag22 @deafeningsharkslimeempath @revanshand @russianredassassin @texaswolf23 @wolfwarrior06 @baylegend6 @sweetheartlizzie07

[d-targaryenshoe]

Muddy Games - Anthony Bridgerton

Word Count: 1728

Summary: Anthony Bridgerton and a game of Pall Mall, without winning it's never good enough it is.

As the sunlight met your skin, you felt the heat radiate from the So huge window shining into your bedroom, or perhaps it may been the warmth that radiated from your husband's body who still sounded pretty much asleep next to you. 

Staring at the ceiling, a smile appeared on your face. It may have been happiness even though adoration was also still a valuable option.

You pulled the covers from your body as you carefully took hold of Anthony's hand, trying to pull yourself from under his grip meanwhile, but the Lord was smarter than you knew.

"Dearest, it's almost half of the day, we must go downstairs to the family." You chuckled, feeling Anthony's arm tighten around your waist before he pulled you closer once more. "Anthony, we've arrived last night, we didn't even see them."

"We still have enough time to conversate with them, they'd understand me if I desired to lock myself in here with my newly wedded wife." He answered, placing his lips on your neck.

"They would, hm?" Running a hand through his brown hair, you smiled while raising an eyebrow at the man. "We really should sr-tart of this da-"

"Anthony? Y/n?" A young female's voice was sounded on the other side of your door after a knock was heard. "YOU MUST MAKE HASTE." 

Anthony sighed to himself, rubbing his forehead before getting up out of bed and opening the door for a small crack. hiding his uncovered body behind the door, meeting Eloise's eyes. "Sister? Nice to see you on this delightful morning, is it not?"

"No, it is not." She answered.

"The sun is shining to its greatest?"

"Sun? Ah, very hot, too hot." She fanned herself with her hand.

Eloise grinned sarcastically at her brother, giving him a toothy smile, trying to peek into the room but no one could do as Anthony positioned his hand on the doorframe. "Do you need assistance with anything, El?

"No, just hastening the two of you up with whatever you're accomplishing, everyone's downstairs, we're almost beginning a Pall Mall game." Eloise shrugged, before loudly speaking up. "DAPHNE WOULD LOVE TO SEE Y/N AGAIN AFTER SUCH A LONG TRAVEL." 

Anthony squinted at the younger girl, shaking his head before she waved him off and walked away, knowing how much of a strong connection you had with the other Bridgerton sister.

Anthony closed the door, walked back into the room, and started to relay Eloise's message, but you interrupted him with a chuckle. "I heard everything, dearest. Let's not keep your family waiting." 

You leaned in and gave him a quick kiss before getting out of bed to get dressed. Anthony smiled at you, grateful for your understanding nature, and started to get ready as well. 

"Thank you for the concern, but I'm ready to face them. We'll handle it together." You replied with a smile as you walked down the staircase, holding hands. 

As you stepped outside, the first thing you saw was the family waiting on the grass field. They were all smiling and waving, and you could feel the love and warmth radiating from them. 

Despite the overwhelming feeling of being surrounded by so many people, you knew that you were very much ready to be a part of this family.

Eloise was standing next to Violet, who immediately embraced you and welcomed you to the family. 

"Oh, brother, I must say, you and the clothes on your body are a much more pleasant sight." Eloise smiled, but the smile quickly faded as she saw the look Colin gave her.

"Eloise, that's enough. Let's not embarrass the newlyweds," Violet said, giving her daughter a stern look. 

"I'll think of a number and the person to guess it, picks first?" Colin suggested.

"What? I do not accept. The oldest should pick first, Colin." Benedict snapped.

"The oldest? The youngest, much rather!" Eloise

"I just got married, I should be choosing." Anthony urged.

"Why am I afraid that this is how every Pall Mall game goes?" You asked Daphne as she chuckled. "Because it is, is it not?"

Daphne catches your eye and nods her head. "Very much so, excuse me for a moment."

"All of you, almost starting a contest on who shall pick first, when the only person who has not said one thing, is your wife, Anthony, maybe she is the one to pick first?" Daphne gave her brother a stern look, hearing Eloise laughing quietly.

As Anthony clears his throat, he agrees with Daphne's suggestion that you should be the one to pick first. "Yes, that's a great idea. Dearest, why don't you pick first?" he says, giving you a warm smile. 

You nod, picking the black mallet, and noticing Anthony's expression of shock. You can't help but laugh as Benedict teases his brother about the mallet of death. 

"So it is yours?" You ask, holding out the mallet towards him to take, but he shakes his head, kissing your temple.

"No, not at all, it's yours now." Anthony smiles.

"Is it? Because the last time I tried to do so, you almost beate-" Colin his words were stopped by the look his brother gave him. "What?"

"You exaggerate, dear brother." Anthony placed his chin on your shoulder, standing behind you and wrapping one arm around your waist. 

"I've had enough, shall I watch those two all day, or may I start this game?" Eloise sighed, swinging the mallet in her hand towards you and Anthony. "I much would like to do the second thought."

" I think we should indeed begin with the Pall Mall game, y/n, love, why don't you start? violet kindly smiled, placing her hand on yours before returning to her seat.

With a determined look on your face, you swung your mallet and successfully struck the round bowl through the high arch of iron.

"Well, well, well! It seems your mighty mallet has finally proven its worth." You teased your husband, making him place his lips on your neck, making you lean into him. 

" It was just a stroke of luck." He muttered against your neck, before releasing you and walking towards the spot to give it his best try. "Dear family, watch closely, Benedict, you indeed. I'm about to show you how it's done."

Anthony steps up to take his shot, his eyes focused on the target. He swings his mallet with confidence, but to his dismay, he misses the ball completely. His expression turns from determination to frustration.

"Well, well, Anthony. I must say, that was quite the swing!" Benedict laughed, throwing his arm around his brother's shoulder.

Anthony's face turns red with embarrassment as his siblings join in on the laughter.

"Oh Anthony, perhaps you need a bit more practice before challenging Benedict." Daphne tried to hide her smile behind her gloved hand. 

"I think I'll keep score. One point deducted for every missed shot, Anthony." Eloise adjusted the bow in her hair, smiling at the Bridgerton brother.

Anthony tries to maintain his composure, but the teasing continues to rattle him. "Enough! I'll show you all in the next round."

"Alright, here goes nothing!" Daphne sighs, taking Anthony's spot of position. Daphne takes a deep breath and focuses on the ball. With a swift motion, she strikes it with precision.

The ball hits the target dead center, causing a loud "clang" sound. 

"I did it! I did it!" She cheered, embracing you and Eloise with joy. 

"Okay, Daphne, we've heard, now it's my turn." Colin tries his best to concentrate. "Alright, here goes nothing!"

"Colin, that position? You really must work on your aim." Anthony spoke, having Eloise chuckle. "Don't chuckle, you too."

"Just you wait, Anthony. I'll get better with practice." Colin answered, striking the ball and scoring another point. 

"Everybody move, I get to try now." Benedict swings his mallet and hits the ball with a strong force, but unfortunately, it veers off course. "Damn it!"

"What happened, Benedict?" Anthony raised an eyebrow, leaning his hands on his mallet.

"It's your fault, Anthony! You distracted me!" Benedict pointed a finger at his brother. 

 "Me? How on earth did I distract you?" Anthony rolled his eyes. "It's not my fault you missed your shot."

"Okay, okay, my turn, go away," Eloise said, She hit the ball, but it flew through the air and landed in the mud. "Oh no! The ball went flying, there goes my shot!

Anthony let his eyes run over the field and remembers which direction it went. "Y/n, dearest, the ball went in that direction, care to join?"

"Of course, we must retrieve it." You smile, taking hold of your husband's hand and following him in the direction, trying not to ruin your gown.

" Look for anything round and shiny. It could be partially buried." Anthony said, doing his best not to slip away in the mud. 

Letting your eyes scan the ground they stopped at a particular point. "I see something over there! It's partially hidden under the mud."

The both of you carefully unearth the ball, covered in mud, but otherwise intact. "Thank goodness! Our family's legacy is safe."

the both of you find yourselves alone in the middle of the muddy mess. Your clothes are drenched and covered in dirt. The rain pours down, adding to the chaos.

"Well, my love, it seems we've found ourselves in quite a predicament, the desire that burns within me is too strong." Anthony softly spoke, removing the sleeve from your shoulder

"Oh, stop it, Anthony. You're just as disheveled as I am." You chuckled, as Anthony pulled your body closer to his. 

"But that's what makes this moment so perfect. No expectations, no inhibitions, just us, here in the mud." Anthony smiled at you, tightening his grip around you. 

 "Are you suggesting we make the most of this muddy situation?" You asked, removing the strand of hair that fell on his forehead.

"Absolutely, dearest, let's embrace the messiness and create a memory that will last a lifetime." You share a passionate kiss, your bodies intertwining as they revel in the spontaneity of the moment. 

The rain continues to pour, washing away your worries and leaving only their love behind. The mud still clings to your clothes, but you pay no mind.

 In this moment, nothing else matters except their love for each other.

[sneverussape]

severus gasped and flinched away from lord riddle’s — tom, call me tom, your mother and i were housemates, merlin how time does fly? — touch. the man’s skin was uncannily cold, despite it being nearly summer. like a fish…or a snake.

there was a momentary panic as severus was convinced that the glamour he had painstakingly applied had failed, and he would have to explain his battered face to lucius and cissa. it would ruin the entire evening! fortunately, a cursory glance at one of the many mirrors that lined the hall showed him that the glamour had thankfully held.

but then…how…?

“it was well applied, i must congratulate you on that. very impressive for someone as young as you are.”

severus threw tom a look that was almost defensive. “i’m fourteen. i’m not that young.”

“of course,” tom looked amused. “i didn’t mean to offend. i merely wanted to recognize talent when i see it. you wouldn’t have been able to learn that until…hmmm…NEWT-levels perhaps?”

severus flushed. “it isn’t—” he found himself stammering, “it really isn’t that difficult. jus’ need to be resourceful. i made it for me...”

he bit his lip before he could speak any further and bury himself deeper into a hole. but it seemed tom had caught on well enough.

“I know that pain,” tom said quietly. “I’ve had to hold my own more than once a child.”

“you have?” severus couldn’t help asking. he couldn’t imagine tom having been in his place, at the bottom of the pile that had potter, black, lupin, and pettigrew up on top. he straightened, remembering his manners. cissa would cuff him mightily if she caught him slipping. “begging your pardon, sir. i did not mean to pry. I apologise.”

to his great surprise, tom laughed, wide and open, with his teeth glinting in the firelight.

“oh, severus, you remind me of myself when i was young,” he said. “i daresay brax was right about you.” at severus’ confused expression he explained further. “im a…teacher for…further studies you see. lord malfoy has been generous enough to send a kind word in about you.”

severus coloured for the second time that night. “he has?” he squeaked. he had rarely met lord malfoy but the little that he knew from lucius’ stories was enough to put a liberal amount of fear in him of the powerful wizard. he decided to add with haste, “lucius of course has been teaching me since I arrived in hogwarts, and narcissa too…”

“lucius is a worthy heir for the House of Malfoy, as narcissa is for the House of Black, but you mustn’t discount your own abilities, severus.” tom’s eyes seemed to flash red as he held severus’ awed gaze, but it was gone in the next moment. “you have determined simpler but more effective ways of doing level 6 potions. you’ve invented charms your own professors couldn’t have dreamed of. you can break down spells into their most basic elements and refashion them for your purposes. your excellent glamour is proof!”

tom leaned down to his eye level, and severus held his breath.

“you have the potential to be one of the greatest wizards since merlin, and believe me, i don’t say that lightly. you are utterly brilliant, severus snape. i see your wonderful mind and your desire for knowledge, and i would be glad for you to be my pupil.”

“oh yes!” severus nodded before he could stop himself. his heart was thudding hard against his chest. “is it…er…is it for the summer hols?” his gut churned as he realised it might even have a fee. shite. “and…i’d have to ask mam and my da in case there’s payment…”

to his surprise tom waved him off. “there is no payment, you don’t need to worry. all I need is a willing heart and a brilliant mind. also im afraid i only start taking in pupils once they’ve reached the age of majority.”

“sixteen?” severus’ face fell. that was years away!

“if you would still be willing by that time, I’ll be happy to have you,” tom said. “i can save you a spot. mind that you keep learning, however. i won’t accept anything less than your best. and you must keep our conversation a secret. it isn’t my habit to hand out personal invites.”

“of course!” severus felt almost smug. he could wait two years. “you won’t regret having me.”

tom’s lips curved upward into a wide smile.

“no, i don’t believe I will.”

—

au/hc where severus meets tom at lucius’ leaving party at malfoy manor.

fun fact: the painting behind them is the missing carvaggio, Nativity (bit of a heavy-handed symbolism but i couldn’t help it lol). it’s been missing (from the muggle world at least) since 1969. 😎 guess lu has a not-so secret hobby.

[fyotherat]

May i request headcanons of Ranpo, Dazai, Lucy and jouno with a s/o who hates being alone?

Like always afraid of being alone with their thoughts and uses other people to distract themselves from them and is afraid of them leaving and abandoning them? Could be angst or fluff or both i dont really mind!

-🥀

Abandonment Issues

Characters: Ranpo, Dazai and Jouno

Warnings: None I assume?

Note: Thank you for requesting! I wrote for Lucy but I'll share it together with Yosano and Higuchi on a second part!

Ranpo

It wasn't usual for you to be separated in the first place, you two were always clinging to each other like koalas.

Because of that, it took a while for him to catch a glimpse of how you felt and behaved when left alone.

He couldn't deny that he felt the same in some situations, you are what feels like home to him, and he never enjoyed leaving your side.

As much of a direct person he is, he wouldn't directly confront you about it, he knew you couldn't help it.. so he decided to do his part to make you feel as safe as possible even without him by your side.

Long cuddle sessions are a must before any mission, or any outing for that matter! He will subtly do his best to let you know he isn't going anywhere.

If he has to be gone for a while, he would make sure to leave some of your favorite candies around the house for you to find, I can even imagine him leaving sticky notes with random compliments and cute faces drawn on them!

"Da-daan! y/n found the hidden candy! 10 points from the world's greatest detective!(･v<)☆"

And if you need a distraction? He would be glad to leave some of Poe's newest mystery novels for you to solve, they're too easy for him anyway!

Dazai

He is similar, even if he doesn't show it to you, he always has that lingering anxiety about you leaving him behind.

He knew it was unlikely but.. what if you somehow learned about his past? Learned about the horrendous things he did without a second thought..? Or maybe you would just find someone better than him..

With those thoughts always in the back of his mind, he didn't have a problem catching onto yours either, he was sharp after all.

It would take a while for him to find a solution or something to distract you from those thoughts.. he didn't have the best ways of distraction, as his first resolute was turning to the bottle, and the fact that he sometimes disappeared for days didn't really help your case.

But he had to find a way to ease your mind and distract you from those thoughts and fears.

He started with small gestures, maybe draping his coat over your shoulders before leaving to visit a crime site would suggest to you that he will be back?

He already declares his undying love to you a hundred times a day, but that was just a part of his personality, playful and teasing.. so he decides to do something a bit more proper, at least before long missions.

Taking your hands in his, he would lean in with a promise, a promise he swore he'll never break.

"No matter what, I'll come back home to you."

Jouno

The hardest case is by far Jouno... He knows how attached you are to him, and something about it brings joy to this sadistic man. Saying words like this.. with that damned smile..

"My my, can't live without me y/n? Too bad I have to leave for work now."

His words of teasing weren't helping you at all, even a small joke about him 'maybe not coming back' from a mission made your stomach curl.

One day, after a long mission that took him away from you, he returned home just to pause at the doorstep, with his sharpened senses he could hear your silent tears.

But the question was.. why were you crying..? It couldn't be because you felt alone.. right..?

With a sigh, he opened the door, closing and locking it behind him.

That night, he finally caved in to listen to your growing fears and your displeasure about his teasing.

How could he keep hurting you for his own amusement when you clung onto him so tightly and sobbed silently in his arms..?

[multistandomwrites]

A Younger Temptation

Hello everyone, this is the first chapter of the series I’m doing of Ikémen Vampire x teen reader which I hope you’ll all like and support. I will try to update as much as possible. I can’t promise it’ll be everyday, but I’ll try to whenever I have time. This fic also may not fully follow everything that happens in the game, though I’ve tried to include some parts from the game, but they might also happen at different points. Enjoy.

I don’t own Ikémen Vampire, only my own oc’s. All rights reserved for Cybird.

Themes: platonic, background, fluff

Chapter One - Arrival in France

Art had always intrigued me ever since I was a young child even though my heart had always been set on music which, in actual fact, was a form of art so both were equally special to me. So, as you can imagine, when I was offered a trip to visit one of the most beautiful art museums in Paris, France I didn’t hesitate and immediately took it up.

Miss the chance to learn from some of the greatest artists who ever lived? I didn’t think so. Art didn’t only spark my interest due to its link to music, art helped me to gain inspiration for my music. I had a different, more interesting way of composing and songwriting as I usually drew or painted something out, which was the base of my ideas, and from that I always knew what to play or write, no matter how long it took. That was one of the reasons why I became popular around Britain and America as my way of making music was unique, to say the least.

Yet it gave promising results. And, I didn’t want my once - in - a - lifetime chance to be wasted. So, off to France I went.

A few songs, language learning and an airplane ride later, I arrived in the heart of France, known as the city of love, Paris. Dragging my suitcase behind me, I gestured for a taxi as nerves spun through me as my manager had stayed behind in England, but we promised to text daily to ensure everything was going smoothly as planned.

The taxi took me to my booked hotel where I was almost immediately escorted to my single room: a medium sized double bed with pure white sheets, a small bedside table, a large table stacked with cups and menus and a bathroom. I quickly packed my clothes into the open wardrobe, placed my toiletries in the bathroom and pulled out my notebook. From my window, I spotted the Eiffel Tower a few blocks away standing proudly in the centre of the square as people milled around it, posing and taking pictures. Not too far from there, I knew the Louvre was waiting for me to take in all of its valuable art and the stories behind them.

The next day, I left the hotel with nothing but my keycard, purse and phone in my jacket pockets and headed immediately for the large dome where the most influential artists resided, briefly glancing at the large structure that was the Eiffel Tower. I’d be seeing it tomorrow.

I weaved through multiple groups of people who stood around me, muttering phrases of ‘Excuse me’ and ‘I’m sorry’ as I went along. Blood rushed through my ears and my heart pounded as I finally came up to the entrance of the glass building, scanning my ticket before making my way inside.

I was unsure of where to start first, but gradually figured out the layout, putting my little French to the test.

(It was then that I first came into contact with the secret keeping man).

As I was gazing intently at the miniature portrait of da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, after getting over the fact that it was even smaller than I had expected, I felt a slight push on my back which caused me to turn and see a man apologise, which I also did. He asked me a question which caused my mind to translate as he went along, diverting my gaze awkwardly while I concentrated on what he was saying. Before I could come up with a reply, he repeated the question in fluent English, which eased my nerves at speaking the other language, though I tried to practise as much as I could.

“Are you ok, mademoiselle?” His golden eyes glittered with concern and kindness as I nodded shyly, also hoping I wouldn’t be recognised. “Yes, merci.”

He gave me a small, soft smile before turning and walking away. I turned back to sightseeing, but was distracted by a plain brown watch resting on the floor close by my feet. I knew it hadn’t been there before so it could only have been the sandy haired man’s who must’ve dropped it after bumping into me. Carefully picking it up, I chased after the man who I vaguely saw disappear down a long corridor before losing full sight of him, my heart racing with my jog.

Preface

Chapter 2

Masterlist

[waspenned]

scenes from an italian restaurant • part ten • peter parker

in which you and peter clear the air • 5k

warnings: language as per usual, angsty

now playing: bleecker street by simon & garfunkel

part one / the ao3 version

a/n: long time no see!!!!!! full update in the notes of the ao3 post but what a crazy year

You’ve been stood in front of Peter’s door for five minutes now.

That’s on top of the five minutes you spent working up the courage to go inside the building, and then the other ten minutes you spent pacing the block - just to try and shake some of your nerves out onto the pavement. It’s just knocking, just seeing the same face you’ve been seeing nearly every day for months now, but it feels bigger. 

You hadn’t been to a coworker’s place since the fire; not gone for coffee after a morning shift, or drinks after close, or a Red Bull run before the open. It made things easier to deal with. Sometimes it stung a little more than usual, especially when most of them were particularly inclined to come in all hungover and messy on a Saturday, with a whole new roster of inside jokes - but it felt safer, somehow. You’d been friendly with a few of them at some point, close almost, and even though they kept inviting you out with them, they all eventually stopped asking. Some understood, some didn’t - and once you'd overheard Sal hushedly call you ‘troubled’ to somebody through the gantry hatch, you were basically the point of no return. 

But Peter, as always, is different.

You glance at your phone. Seven minutes. Some awful part of you twists at the idea that maybe he’s wondering where you are, if he’s waiting for you; or if he’s being normal about it, like a normal person. Peter’s more normal than you, he wouldn’t take seven- no, EIGHT minutes to knock on someone’s door, even if his hands were clammy and his heart was thumping so loudly in his ears he thought his eardrums might burst. You’ve still got your earphones on even though you paused whatever you were listening to long ago, the sound of your breath thrumming through your head. When you move to finally take them off, you fumble and swear as they clatter loudly to the floor. 

Immediately, you cringe, wanting the floor to swallow you up as muffled movement stirs behind the door in front of you. You’ve probably got about ten seconds to pull yourself together and appear fine enough for him not to be immediately concerned - a difficult task, considering that you have dark circles the size of plates, and you’re pretty sure you’ve got some sort of stress-related rash breaking out on your hands, but the door is already opening, and life (as it turns out) isn’t merciful.

All of a sudden, Peter is there, and you’re on the floor, frantically chasing your earphones as they scatter across the lino. When you look up at him, you’re suddenly relieved to find that he’s mostly just confused. Lamely, you flap your mouth for a second, and then blurt out the first thing that pops into your head. 

“I was just about to knock.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Peter’s apartment smells like Peter - which is obvious when you think about it, but it didn’t cross your mind until this moment how painful this might be. There’s his soap, his deodorant, the faint oil fryer smell of any Joe’s uniform, which is currently half hanging out of a laundry basket near the door. It was like you were seeing him properly for the first time; this new, unknown Peter who exists beyond the confines of a kitchen. This isn’t the Peter you know or Spider-Man - this is Peter outside of Joe’s. Peter who does laundry. Peter who has a coffee mug on the drying rack that says ‘World’s Greatest Pop-Pop’, and some complicated calculations splayed out in sheets on the rickety little dining table. 

“It’s a bit of a mess right now, I haven’t had time to clean up, because of the-“ He’s babbling and flitting about, picking up different bits of odd clutter only to put them down again. His hair is damp against the collar of his sweatshirt; shiny and dark and curling up in little spirals around his ears that you had the sudden urge to wrap around your fingers. You step inside, and Peter’s pottering about the kitchen, preparing mugs and rooting through his cupboards. When you make your way into the main space of the apartment, barely a separate room, Peter looks up at you through his hatch and brightly chimes, “Would you like anything to drink?”

You quirk your brow. Suddenly, whatever haze had fallen over his face dissipates, and he blinks, dazed.

“I’m still in Diner Mode.” Peter rubs his eyes, then rakes a hand through his hair, disturbing the wet clumps of curls. No wonder it's always so frizzy, with the amount of times you've seen him tug and ruffle at it. The movement exposes the tips of his ears, shiny from the moisture, and their usual shade of flustered pink. He’s back into the cupboard in an instant, searching through boxes and jars before he finds what he’s looking for. “Okay, so I have coffee and…”

“I’m on the edge of my seat.”

“…Actually, that’s it.”

“Then I guess it’s my lucky day.”

You can’t help it, but your voice comes out dry and flat, and his eyebrows knit, something shifting in his expression. Your fingers go numb, and you remember what you came here to do - you just didn’t think you would get into it so quickly. Peter sets his shitty instant coffee on the side (and you would know it’s shitty, because you buy the same stuff) and just looks at you. You’re not sure what sort of look it is, something between his usual awkwardness, and some entirely new face you’ve never seen before. He’s planting his hands on the counter now, squaring his shoulders, and your breath hitches.

Maybe, you think, this is the face behind the mask. 

“I don’t know what to say.” It sounds awful and croaky, and it’s nowhere near covering the sheer amount of thoughts currently rushing through your head, but it’s all that comes to mind. 

What is there to say? Nothing much had really happened; coworkers hook up with each other all the time (granted, usually not on shift), but even then, you never even had sex. You can’t call him a ‘hook up’, he was somehow both more and less than that - just some guy you’ve kissed a couple times. Whatever the hell the two of you have been doing for months has never been labelled anything past ‘friends’, which you’re now quickly realising is nothing like what you actually are. You’ve been tormenting yourself, tormenting him, all because you couldn’t suck it up enough to admit to yourself that you care about him more than you want to, and because it’s easier to live with the possibility that something could, might happen. 

And now a new, worse feeling is looming over you; the possibility that Peter might not feel the same way about you.

Deep breath. Push it down. Bury it. 

“Then let me say it.” Peter is clearing his throat now, your heart rate spiking like a hummingbird, your teeth clenched shut. It takes one, two, five, seventy drips of the faucet before he speaks again - or maybe he doesn’t hesitate at all. 

“I’ve been thinking about something you said a while ago, before…” He trails off. Before everything. You grimace a little, suddenly feeling nauseous when you remember how rude you were to him, all the times you’d snapped at him when he was just trying to help. He’s the kind of person who helps people, and you’re the kind of person who pushes them away, apparently. All of the hate and grudges you’d held against him, all of the resentment, instantly falls onto your shoulders. You punished him for the crime of being happy and content, when his other job is being beaten to a pulp and worked to the bone, and you were stupid enough to not realise it was only because you hated yourself. 

“You said something about how shit happens, and Spider-Man won’t always be there. How I’m ‘just some guy’.”

“Peter, I-“ Your lungs are burning so hot you think you smell smoke again, and you try to hold your breath, even though you currently feel like you’re suffocating, “I didn’t… I don’t think that anymore. I’m-“

Deep breath. Push it down.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m fucked up.” You’re laughing, but it doesn’t reach your eyes, or Peter’s. 'Fucked up’ is an umbrella term, apparently, for having nightmares about a fire that happened over a year ago, shutting everyone out of your life, smelling smoke in every dark corner or pantry. ‘Fucked up’ covers being so desperately lonely that you have to compulsively hurt the first friend you make after isolating yourself for so long; stringing him along in some ‘will-they-won’t-they’ bullshit and letting him down every step of the way. He probably wants to cut you off. It’s probably better if he does.

“You’re not fucked up,” His face is soft, like ricotta against your tongue. Like the skin across his collarbones. “I just… About the fire-“

He’s not broken eye contact with you until now, but his gaze flicks to the dish rack, the walls - he fiddles with the faucet for a fleeting moment. You wait.

“I want to apologise for everything,” It’s slow to start, but once the dam is broken, it all comes out in a rush and drowns you. “I know we didn’t know each other then, but I want- I need you to know that I’m sorry. It’s my duty to protect people, and I didn’t protect you, and I’m sorry.”

“Peter-“

“Hold on. Last night, when you were talking about how it was your responsibility to-“ His voice wavers. You realise you’re still holding your breath. “How you had, like, a sense of duty towards Joe’s, and you were so brave, and all I could think about was how I let you down. Even before I knew you, it killed me just knowing that there was someone who needed me, and I didn’t come through for them. It- It messed me up.”

There’s a pang where your heart used to be, when you realise he’s not talking about you specifically, but just someone in general. Some poor citizen needing to be saved. There’s nothing else there, just hollowness and cold, stretching back and back into you like an abyss. This must be what heartbreak feels like, you realise; you’re not special to him, you’re just something else on his plate. Maybe, something in the back of your head leers, maybe you’re nothing to him after all.

Spider-Man, your coworker, is staring into you so intently that you can feel the weight of the city on his shoulders. 

“I nearly quit.” His voice hangs like a loose thread - like the ones on the diner tablecloths that if you pull, make the whole thing unravel. You twist your finger around it and tug, even though you know you’ll come apart too.

“Joe’s?”

“Being Spider-Man.”

“Oh.” 

Peter huffs a breath, twirls the faucet knob between his fingers with the same dexterity and fluidity he demonstrated between your legs last night, and your gut churns. The pipes groan to life, and he shuts it off again before any water has the chance to flow through. Then, he’s coming around the corner, out of the kitchen, and all of a sudden you’re in Peter’s living room, with Peter, and that's what he looks like at home. There’s no pretence, no uniform, no employee code of conduct between you. 

“I want to be just some guy. More than anything.” He’s so close to you now that you can smell lime body wash and shampoo, see a drip forming at the tip of that one curl at his left temple that’s more like a ringlet than the rest of them. And you only know it's there because you haven’t stopped thinking about him, looking at him only when his back is turned and no one could catch you staring. You can barely hear him over the shame spinning in your ribs like a catherine wheel.

“But after the fire, I sort of took it as a sign that I was meant to be Spider-Man. You were there, you lived it. It’s my responsibility to stop that from happening.”

You can’t help it, but your eye twitches. It’s the same thing that’s been bothering you about Spider-Man since before; the promise of selflessness and responsibility and duty that Peter is now forever bound to. Before last night, you would have told yourself that you hated Spider-Man because you felt like he abandoned you, because he broke some kind of stupid, city-wide promise - but now that you know it’s Peter behind the mask, blaming him feels too harsh when the world gives him enough shit to begin with.

He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve the beatings, or the sleepless nights, or the working minimum wage just to go home to an apartment that will only get more expensive to rent. And all it does is make you angry. It’s unfair - everything’s unfair - and now it feels like your life, your near-death, was the event that made him keep giving himself and getting nothing in return. At the end of the day, you’re both just two twenty-somethings, trying to keep their heads above water.

It’s your fault that he’s still here, still hurting.

He’s still staring at you when you realise you’ve been silent for some time now, your mind blank and stuttering as Peter just looks on, almost concerned. The vice that’s been slowly tightening around your chest for months gives one final clench, and some long-buried string in your heart finally, finally snaps. 

You’re so tired. 

You knew it would happen eventually; that you’d run out of steam, or your knees would give out, and you wouldn’t be able to keep this up anymore. You’d always expected it to be while you were alone, or in Sal’s office, when you wouldn’t be able to keep up with all the silly little lies you’d been telling yourself - but not here, not in front of Peter, and not like this. 

And you’re not sure you’ve ever said any of this out loud - but the same tug in the back of your head that wanted to protect him last night is now thrumming away like a rubber band pulled taut. That pull, that itch, that simmers in your lungs and makes you feel like you’re responsible for him, or that he’s responsible for you. 

When you think about it, it’s guilt. Guilt that burns hot and acrid at the back of your tongue - guilt that puts you in debt to him, to everyone at Joe’s. You don’t just owe him an apology for lashing out, and running around the diner like a shithead; you owe him the truth. 

Deep breath. 

“Peter, I have to tell you something.”

Your voice sounds miles away - echoing in his box apartment, or maybe just in your head. You try not to notice the way his face twitches, or the way he stiffens slightly, or his eyes darting over you. His voice is tense, but not quite strained when he speaks. 

“What is it?”

Something scratches at the back of your throat, squeezing, constricting, scratching. This is it, this has to be it. 

Say it. 

Say it.  

“The fire was my fault.”

You weren’t sure what was going to happen. Sure, you’d imagined this scenario multiple times, all of them ending in various, and increasingly wild forms of punishment - losing your job, being arrested, getting cut off from the people who had been your whole life for years - but you’d at least imagined some form of relief. Perhaps the relief was the driving force of this whole confession, laying yourself bare and raw and bleeding in front of Peter in the hopes that he’d do something about it, take it all away, and still like you enough to speak to you afterwards. 

Only now, in practice, the relief never comes, and Peter just keeps staring at you. Instantly, you want to vomit. 

"What?”

You can’t read his voice. You can’t read his face. To compensate for this, your brain cedes all control, and your mouth keeps moving. 

“I was smoking out the back door and Sal called me in for some stupid reason - something about the pans or the sauce, or whatever - and I forgot to stub it out, and-“

That’s done something. Peter holds his hands up, eyes drawn wide, as if you were some sort of wild animal. Maybe you are. Maybe this is all some sort of twisted defence mechanism - spilling out the one thing you swore you would never tell anybody, in one last-ditch attempt at pushing him away. 

“Hey, hey-“

“I didn’t get to see the full report, but I’m not stupid. I know it started near the back door, and that some- some spark, or something, caused it. If I'd just-“ Your voice sticks like glue in your dry throat, like you’re trying to swallow cotton. “I nearly killed people. So much of it was destroyed - stuff that had been there for decades, family pictures, wedding presents.”

You think he says your name. You don’t hear it. 

“That burn on Sal’s arm is only there because of me. Because- Because he tried to get me out of there.”

It’s all too much now - even here, even in Peter’s apartment, you can smell the smoke, feel the heat. Through the hatch into the kitchen, you swear you can see a flame, licking up the walls, swimming in your vision like molten glass. It’s burning in your eyes, curling in your throat and nostrils, burning and burning and 

“Please, look at me.” 

When you finally make eye contact, a breath forces its way past your lips. His hands are steady and warm on your forearms, slipping down to clutch at your palms, as if weighing you down to reality. It’s as if everything else had slipped away, and he’s in the middle of it all, grounding you like a tether. You cling to him. 

“I’m sorry.” It tumbles out like an impulse. Peter shakes his head, soft and smudged in the lamplight. 

“Don’t be.” He says, firmly. Every wet curl shines and shimmers as he shakes his head, and the smell of soap pushes the soot that little bit further away. Maybe if you were to look out of the window, you’d see plumes of dark smoke rising from a building a few blocks away, but your gaze is stuck to Peter’s like a magnet. “You didn’t do anything wrong."

“I did,” The awful creature that’s been churning in your chest rears its ugly head again, “I caused so much hurt. And I’ve been hurting you, too - holding a grudge for something that was my own fault. You- You don’t deserve-”

“No.” Peter hasn’t let up, watching every twitch and flicker on your face. Is this how he speaks to the maniacs he fights in the street? Is this how he handles every catastrophic responsibility that falls into his lap? “You didn’t.”

“Peter, I did-“

“You didn't.” He says again, only this time, something sticks. The look on his face, the sadness in his eyes - it snaps your mouth shut. It’s the way he hovers around it, the unsureness in his face, that almost confuses you. “I… After the fire, I did some investigating.”

Your feet have gone numb. So have your hands, and arms, and legs, and just about everywhere else. When you don’t protest or interrupt, Peter continues tentatively. 

“I got access to the NYPD files, I watched the clean-up like a hawk, I-“ He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. His fingertips worry over your knuckles, back and forth, like a pendulum. “I did some stuff I wasn’t necessarily allowed to, but I needed closure. Joe’s was- It was one of the last things I had left of Ben’s, and…”

“What do you mean?” Your voice comes from another room, another planet. How could he know something you don’t? How could he have answers that you don’t have? Sal never told you anything about the report, about the cause, about any kind of investigation. Something is clawing inside your stomach. How? How? “Peter, what are you saying?”

His voice is softer than anything you’ve ever heard when he finally answers. 

“It was a fault with a fryer. Some electrical issue.” You can barely hear him, but he keeps talking anyway, even though it sounds like he’s on the other side of Manhattan. “Suppose it’s why Sal is so insistent on fryer training now, and- hey-?”

It takes a moment to register what you're doing, but you realise that you’re laughing. You can’t help it, but you’re laughing. Peter's utterly lost, his eyebrows tangled into that familiar furrow, the one you only see when you've completely perplexed him.

All this time, all this energy, spent tying yourself in knots and swallowing bile - and it was all the fault of a fucking fryer. Even now, the relief doesn't come, doesn't take all of the pains and aches of it away. Instead, it melts and morphs into something new - awful, burning, searing shame. And there's Peter in the middle of it all, just waiting for you, wanting the best for you. There's something hot on your cheeks, and it turns out that your laughter has quickly merged into crying.

You're actually crying. In front of him. You'd probably prefer being vaporised into a million pieces by whatever supervillain is calling themselves Spider-Man's arch nemesis these days.

"Oh my God," You blurt out, every cell trembling. It sounded like the beginning of a sentence, but any other words dissolve on your tongue.

Something warm wraps around you, and of course, it's him. He's holding you, and while you've had the odd bit of skin contact with him here and there - hands clapping on your shoulders, fingertips as he passes you ketchup bottles, lips pressed to yours in the snow - you'd never expected it to be like this. This close, you can hear his heart pounding away, the scent of his deodorant drowning out any scrap of smoke or burning oil, and your hands - against your will - fist into the back of his t-shirt.

You stay like that until it subsides, whatever it is, Peter murmuring things you can't quite hear with your ears muffled by his arms. Eventually, though, he pulls back, and fixes you with a look you can't really identify. It's the same one from last night, where he'd stood in the middle of your apartment in his spandex and his mask, wanting something from you that you aren't sure you can give him.

"I know that doesn't... fix it," He says, his voice rumbling through you like a wave - like you were one of his webs, and you can feel his feet tugging at the threads, knowing exactly where he was, and how far away, with one tiny movement. Even if you weren't a web, if you weren't coworkers, if you weren't people (though you suppose, he technically isn't, at least not all the way) you'd probably still be able to find him. "But it's the truth."

Even if you could dredge up something meaningful and coherent to say, you don't think you'd be able to actually say it - not with your tongue feeling so heavy and sluggish in your mouth. You settle on the first thing that comes to mind - the onlything your mouth can remember the shape of.

“I’m sorry.”

Peter shakes his head. “Nothing to be sorry about.”

Your diaphragm is still convulsing with the aftershocks of tears, and your breath trembles in your lungs. It's all coming out now, and you don't think you'd be able to stop it if you wanted to - not now that dam is broken, and Peter hasn't gone running for the hills. Apparently, that's given your brain the go-ahead to spew out pure, babbling nonsense.

“I was awful to you.”

"You really weren't."

"I, I just-" Your breathing hitches again, your face burning hot and bleary, “God, this is pathetic. I’m supposed to be apologising to you.”

You're bowing your head, avoiding eye contact, but you can hear the way his face looks, just from the gentleness in his voice, the concern that soaks the room like gasoline, threatening to be set alight.

“You really think about yourself like this?” 

“I’m- I really am sorry Peter. I was so mean. You don’t deserve that.” 

It’s instant. It's genuine, and it's absolute. “I forgive you.”

There goes that familiar feeling again, the one that claws at you from the inside, and hates how nice he is, how soft he is when the world is so hard to him. You swallow thickly, forcing it down, and choke out a dry laugh, your face scrubbed raw from the heels of your hands. You probably look awful, but he's still looking at you like he always does - whatever that is.

“You know you’re allowed to hate me. You don’t have to be nice to me just because I’m snotting all over your couch.” 

“I could never hate you.”

There's a pang in your chest, and you're bent double, winded, by the gentleness of his tone. It hurts like a knife. 

“Don’t-“ Another shaking breath as you shake your head, “You can’t say things like that.”

“Look, I don't-" He begins, before he reshapes the words in his mouth, shuffling them like a pack of cards. That's how he's better than you, you think, he thinks before he speaks - he approaches things with kindness and care, instead of months of anger and resentment towards nothing in particular. "With the fire, even if we didn’t know each other then, when I think about what could have happened, if, if you-“

There it is, the unspoken part. The part that keeps you up at night with nightmares and the smell of ash in your hair that you can’t scrub out. Peter looks almost pained, his face screwed up as he debates between speaking his mind and holding his tongue - he seems to go on a whole journey in his head that’s plain as day across his face. He’s tense and strung tight, hands wringing themselves over and over and over, like he’s cleaning the countertops at the diner, and all of a sudden he’s your coworker again, and you think you taste bile. Eventually, he makes a decision, and speaks. 

“I guess I'm trying to say that I would miss you."

You’re almost winded by it. He says it so plainly, but it stabs you through the chest like a knife. Whatever emotion you’re experiencing right now is entirely new to you, and hurts like a bitch. 

Peter would miss you. He saves your life, he kisses you at work - and he would miss you. He just says it like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t knock the air out of you. 

It’s stupid - whether it was because he frustrated you, or confused you, or made you get that funny, swooping feeling in your stomach, you haven’t stopped thinking about him since you met him, and you’ve never even stepped foot in his house. And he looks like an angel by lamplight. And he would miss you. 

You don't remember much of the rest of the evening, between mumbles and awkward sips of shitty coffee, and the city growing louder outside as the sun sinks below the horizon.

Perhaps this is why people go to church, or believe in something bigger than themselves - in pure, desperate hopes that despite whatever they've done, there will be someone at the end who will forgive you, and treat you kindly. But Peter isn't one for spite, and his kindness is all the more special to you because of that. His forgiveness, however, is something closer to sacred - washing you over in its totality, its absolution. For the first time in a while, Manhattan's clatter and din isn't overwhelming, or undercutting all the shit going on inside your head, it simply exists; cutting through the wind and rustling the trees, like the pigeons that scavenge the back end of Joe's for pizza crusts and stray fries.

It's been a while, but when you leave Peter's, and take in another deep breath on the steps of his building - it feels clean and new. It's only on the walk home, when his voice is pinging around inside your head, that you realise - and it hits you like a train. 

He’s been more than a co-worker this whole time. 

How could you not have realised that? You used to have your head screwed on, the sensible one, and here you were; only just realising how absolutely, positively stupid you’ve been. Of course everything has felt so frustrating and complicated - you’ve been so blind to your own feelings that the realisation of it practically knocks the air out of you.

You’re not even sure when the world started looking brighter and the city started smelling sweeter, and you’re not even sure when that feeling became so all-encompassing and vast and deep and hot and cold all at the same time - but you know it’s all Peter’s fault. You want to hate him for it, at first, but you’re not sure that hating Peter would even be possible. Not when there’s no one in the world that looks at you like he does, no one who goes out of their way to make you smile. He makes you feel special, special enough for you to wonder why no one else has been looking at you like this all along. It’s not that the job has gotten easier, or the fancy coffee you can afford with your pay rise; it’s just that you’ve been stupid enough to develop stupid fucking feelings for the stupid guy you work with. 

Realising this feels like falling off of the Empire State Building. A familiar feeling, yes, when you tally up all of the emotional turmoil you’ve experienced - except now, there’s a small part of your brain that really, truly believes that Spider-Man would catch you.

Somehow, that was scarier.

[anonymousewrites]

A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 4) Chapter Twenty-Five

Father Figure! Sherlock Holmes x Teen! Reader

Chapter Twenty-Five: Clever One

Summary: (Y/N) wakes up alone and has to face their greatest fear.

            (Y/N)’s eyes opened blearily. They were trapped…somewhere. The room was stone, cold and dark. (Y/N) shivered. Despite the cool stone, their body felt on fire. Their heartbeat was like a racehorse. Their vision was blurry, and every blink felt like an eternity.

            Their gaze slid to their arm as they finally registered a slight press. An IV was in their vein. It snaked into the walls, and it dripped a strange substance into them, a little more each moment (each moment that felt like an hour).

            (Y/N) was drugged. They were high and spiraling, and they were still being drugged. (Y/N)’s heart seized up. They were being forcibly overdosed.

            (Y/N) sobbed, and their eyes fluttered shut. Anxiety gripped them as easily as the drugs. They slipped into a helpless panic as their lungs constricted. Their voice left them. They couldn’t even move to try to calm themself with any movements.

            They were going to die, too high to think, losing their mind, all alone in a stone prison, no hope.

            They were going to die…

l

            “Hello?”

            Sherlock opened his eyes and blinked. He lay facedown on a table in dark room lit by a window high in the ceiling. The moon shone in from above.

            “Hello, are you still there?” The little girl was calling out for help, lonely and afraid.

            “Yes. Yeah, no, I’m still here.” Sherlock raised his head, groaning. The lingering effects of the tranquilizer made him feel drowsy and sluggish. “I’m here.”

            “You went away,” said the girl. “You said you’d help me, and you went away.”

            “Yes, I know,” said Sherlock. “Well, I’m sorry about that. We must have got cut off. How long was I away?”

            “Hours. Hours and hours,” said the girl, sobbing. “Why don’t grown-ups tell the truth.”

            “No, I…I am telling the truth,” said Sherlock. “You can trust me.”

            “Where did you go?” asked the girl.

            “I’m not completely sure,” said Sherlock, looking around himself. John wasn’t there. Mycroft wasn’t there. (Y/N) wasn’t there. His panic mounted. That could only mean they were in danger. He cleared his throat and tried to focus. “Um, now, I’ll tell you what,” he said, trying to comfort the girl at the same time. There was so much he had to do and so little he could. “You’ve got to be really, really brave for me. Can you go to the front of the plane? Can you do that?”

            He rolled off the table and found a lantern sitting beside it. He picked it up, turned it on, and approached the walls of his cell. He found pictures as a child taped on them, and Sherlock furrowed his brow.

            “You mean where the driver is?” said the girl.

            “Yes,” said Sherlock.

            “Okay. I’m going,” said the girl.

            Sherlock tapped his earpiece over and over and spoke. “Please, please, tell me you’re there.”

            “Yeah, I’m here,” said John.

            “(Y/N)?” said Sherlock. “(Y/N)?” He swallowed. Come on, come on. Come on, (Y/N). Be there. Be there for me. He needed them alive.

l

            (Y/N)?

            The voice felt like it came from underwater. (Y/N) blinked and opened their eyes.

            “(Y/N)?”

            Stronger. Right in their ear.

            Dad!

            “D…” The word fell away on their tongue, their entire being freezing and refusing to let out a word.

            They swallowed. “Da…”

            “You’re there,” said Sherlock, breathing a sigh of relief as he heard the sluggish attempt at speaking. “Just hum, (Y/N). Just do what you can.” He closed his eyes and thanked the world that (Y/N) was alive.

            (Y/N) hummed, the sound reverberating in their head. But Sherlock knew they were there. He knew they were alive.

            Maybe they had a chance.

            “Where are you? John, describe it,” said Sherlock.

            “I don’t know, I’ve just woken up,” said John. “Where are you?”

            “I’m in another cell. I just spoke to the girl on the plane again,” said Sherlock. “We’ve been out for hours.”

            “What, she still up there?” said John.

            “Yes. The plane will keep flying until it’s out of fuel,” said Sherlock. “Is Mycroft with you?”

            “I have no idea,” said John. “I can hardly see anything.”

            “(Y/N), do you know where you are?” said Sherlock.

            (Y/N) hummed low. No.

            “Is Mycroft with you?”

            No.

            “Are you alright?”

            No.

            Sherlock sucked in a breath. “Were you hurt?”

            (Y/N) paused. They weren’t sure how to answer.

            Sherlock understood. “Do you have a physical wound?”

            No.

            Sherlock closed his eyes and hated the next question he had to ask. “Are you drugged?”

            Yes.

            “Oh, god,” said John.

            “Okay. Okay.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “I’m coming. Alright? I’ll figure out a way to you. You’re going to be okay. John, tell me you’re alright.”

            “Yeah, I’m fine, just stuck,” said John.

            “Tell me anything you can about where you are.” Sherlock paced. “(Y/N), I need you to try to breathe. When you can speak again, tell me anything you can.”

            “The walls are rough, stone I think,” said John.

            “What are you standing on?” said Sherlock.

            “Stone, I think,” said John.

            “(Y/N), is that similar?” said Sherlock.

            Yes, hummed (Y/N). They blinked as the world blurred. They could feel the voices fading again.

            “But listen, there’s about two feet of water,” said John. “Chains. Yeah, my feet are chained up. I can feel…something.”

            The words echoed in their head, and (Y/N) furiously tried to grab hold of them and stay with their family. It was their only way to keep sane.

            “Bones, Sherlock,” said John. “There are bones in here.”

            “What kind of Bones?” Sherlock knelt in his own cell and picked up a small bowl.

            “Uh, I don’t know. Small,” said John.

            Sherlock looked at bowl, which read “Redbeard.”

            “Redbeard,” whispered Sherlock.

            The word bounced around (Y/N)’s head. Their eyes closed. “…d…” Their mouth couldn’t form the words. They were out again.

l

            Sherlock took a deep breath as the girl spoke to him, seeing a river and a city in front of her. There was a possibility to save her.

            “Sherlock,” said John. “I’m in a well. That’s where I am. I’m in the bottom of a well.”

            “Why would there be a well in Sherrinford?” said Sherlock. “Why is there a draught?” He paused. “Walls don’t contract after you’ve painted them. Not real ones.” He pushed the wall down, and it fell back. He stood in a field looking at an old, run-down building. “I’m home. Musgrave Hall.”

            “Me and Jim Moriarty, we got on like a house on fire, which reminded me of home.” Eurus’s voice finally appeared.

            “Yeah. It’s just an old building, don’t care. The plane. Tell me about the plane, now,” said Sherlock. “And tell me where (Y/N) is.”

            “Sweet Jim. He was only interested in being alive to make a new generation for his little empire,” said Eurus. “But he enjoyed the idea of making trouble when he was dead.”

            “Yep, still not interested. The plane! (Y/N)!” said Sherlock, walking towards the house.

            “You knew he’d take his revenge. His revenge, apparently, is me,” said Eurus.

            “Eurus, let me speak to the little girl on the plane, tell me where (Y/N) is, and I’ll play any game you like,” said Sherlock.

            “First, find Redbeard,” said Eurus.

            Sherlock stepped into the hall, and a screen turned on to show Eurus.

            “I’m letting the water in now. And the drugs are already going. You don’t want me to drown another one of your pets, do you? At long last, Sherlock Holmes, it’s time to solve the Musgrave Ritual. Your very first case,” said Eurus. “And then I’ll give you a new song for (Y/N) Holmes.” Sherlock tensed. “Let’s reminder you of the first, though.”

            “I that am lost, oh who will find me?” She began to sing.

            “Sherlock!” shouted John through the earpiece.

            “Deep down below the old beech tree, help, succor me now. The east winds blow.”

            Sherlock broke into the next room and could see a screen showing John being pelted with water as the well filled.

            “John. John?” said Sherlock. “Can you hear me?! John?!” Nothing. He swallowed. “(Y/N)? (Y/N)?” Nothing. He was losing everyone, everything.

            “Help me! Help me, please!” shouted the little girl.

            “Sherlock,” said John.

            “John?” said Sherlock in relief.

            “Yeah, it’s flooding,” said John, coughing as water tried to get into his mouth. “The well is flooding.”

            “Try as long as possible not to drown,” said Sherlock desperately. “I’m going to find you! I am finding you! I’m finding you and (Y/N)!” He had to. He had to.

            “Well, hurry up, please, I don’t have long!” responded John.

            “(Y/N)? (Y/N)!” shouted Sherlock, needing a response.

            “It’s leaning over!” shouted the girl. “The whole plane!”

            “(Y/N)!” shouted Sherlock desperately, falling to his knees.

            “Oh, who will find me?” sang Eurus.

            “(Y/N)!” Sherlock sobbed, putting his head in his hands.

l

A few minutes ago…

            (Y/N)’s eyes opened. They lay on their back, a cave all around them. Darkness stretched into the infinite distance. They could see clearly. They were in their mind, dying and losing all sense and order just like in reality.

            “Uh-oh, someone’s in trouble again.”

            (Y/N) was paralyzed as Moriarty leaned over them, grinning down at them.

            “Can’t move. Can’t talk. Can’t even think.” Moriarty laughed with a wild grin. “Even worse this time around. I guess this is your weakness—someone who’s smarter than you.”

            (Y/N) whimpered as they tried to speak.

            Moriarty pouted and crouched to look down at them. “Kind of makes me wish I was still alive to really see you fail. I mean, if you weren’t going to be a good child and do as I said, you might as well really lose.” He smirked. “And what better to make you lose than your mind?” He punctuated it by tapping their forehead. “Now we’ll really by like father and child.”

            “Sh…” (Y/N) forced the sound out, focusing on all their anger.

            “Not even final words.” Moriarty sighed. “In the end, a dumb disappointment.”

            “Sher…” (Y/N) swallowed. “Sher…lock.” Their eyes burned.

            “Sherlock?” Moriarty grinned. “He’s not coming for you. He’s running around like a chicken with its head cut off. He can’t solve the final problem. He’s not smart enough.” He laughed. “And he’s too distracted by you! You’re going to die because he cares.” Moriarty pouted. “How sweet. It brings me to tears.” He gripped their face, and the tears collecting in their eyes rolled down their cheeks. He grinned maniacally.

            His touch burned, and (Y/N) gazed at him, pushing all their fury into their eyes as if they could burn him with a look.

            “Sherlock…mmm….my,” said (Y/N). They squeezed their eyes shut. “Mmmy…Dad!” They shouted the word.

            The cavern around them rumbled, and the top cracked. A sliver of light spilled in. Moriarty let go of their face in surprise.

            “My dad,” gasped (Y/N) as their rage got their focus to return. Their mind had more clarity, and as their mind focused, their chest expanded. Their words returned. “Sherlock’s my dad.” Vines grabbed Moriarty and held him back.

            Their limbs tingled, but they forced themself to sit up. “So…if he can’t save me…” (Y/N) pushed themself to their feet. “I’ll save him myself.” They looked at Moriarty. “Because I can do it.” They raised their chin as the ground rumbled and the ceiling split up to show stormy skies above them. They weren’t out of the dark yet, but they had some control.

            (Y/N) looked back at Moriarty. “And it doesn’t matter how many times you haunt me. How many times you try to scare me.” They narrowed their eyes. “I don’t need to be afraid of you.” They lifted their chin. “Because you’re just a memory. You can’t hurt me.” They smirked, snakelike. “And I always win.” Moriarty glared at them, and (Y/N) leaned towards him. “Do you know why? Because I’m the clever one.”

            Vines crept up around Moriarty, turning him to a hill, and (Y/N) looked up at the sky. They closed their eyes.

            I’m the clever one.

Taglist:

@stilesstilinskiforlife-blog

@im-making-an-effort

@ilse235

@schrodingers-intelligence

@awsedrftgyhujikol

@lxserthxngzzz

@forever1313

@mentallyunstablemanlover

@roo024

@ohimjustagirlidrathetnotbe

@snowy-violet

@jaguarthecat

[plothole-in-one]

Dancing with Deceit || Bill Cipher || Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The walk back to my trailer was... longer than usual.

Probably because the forest wouldn’t stop breathing. maybe i was high. that would explain alot. or dead.

i pinched myself.

"ow!!"

nope. not dead.

“Hey, uh, quick question,” I said without turning. “Is reality gonna keep doing this?”

Bill’s response was a delighted cackle. “Maybe! Who’s to say? Cause and effect are so last season..”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I was nervous—which I very much was.

When I finally emerged from the tree line and saw the glint of my trailer’s busted antenna, I almost wept. Civilization! Sort of! A place with working outlets and a fridge full of questionable yogurt!

I keyed open the door and stepped inside, kicking off my boots. Bill just phased through the wall behind me, arms thrown wide like he was expecting applause.

“Ahhh, home sweet trailer! Oh, this is charming! Very... survival horror! Very found footage! I love it.”

“Don’t touch anything,” I muttered, tossing my backpack into a corner and making a beeline for the mini-fridge.

"and that once again doesn't make ANY sense."

I cracked open the first can of cold caffeine I could find and downed half of it before Bill hovered into my personal space again.

“So, what’s the plan, fleshbag? You got any cursed videotapes? Haunted dolls? Maybe a toaster possessed by the ghost of Elvis?”

“What the fuck? no? does that exist??? I was gonna take a nap,” I said flatly.

He gasped “You can’t nap now! We’ve just begun the greatest cosmic joyride of your puny little life! You’re finally interesting!”

“Oh gee. Thanks.”

He spun, arms out. “I mean it! You’re the key to unlocking interdimensional chaos again! You're on the board, Kid! All Eyes are on you!”

I raised an eyebrow. “Whose eyes?”

His eye flared. “Not ones you want looking.”

I stared at him. “...You’re not just being dramatic, are you?”

“There are things that stir when timelines snap. Things that watch through cracks. You shook my hand and cracked the door—and they heard it creak.”

The silence that followed was heavier than it had any right to be.

“So,” I said eventually, “you’re saying I’m cursed?”

“I’m saying,” Bill drawled, “you’re mine. And by extension, a bit... flagged.”

He gestured to the air, and for half a second, I saw it—this weird shimmer around me t flickered out just as quickly as it flickered in.

I sat down on the edge of my rickety bed. “I should’ve stayed home. I knew there was something wrong with the forest tonight..”

Bill snapped his fingers and conjured a mug labeled WORLD’S BEST COSMIC HOSTAGE and pouring the rest of my cold coffee inside of it. “Too late now! You're stuck with me, kid!”

“Can I unstick myself?”

“Nope!”

“Cool. Love that.”

I groaned, dragging a hand over my face. “Okay. New rule. If you’re gonna haunt my sad little trailer, you pull your weight." I grabbed my coffee from his sad, dark, hand. "You help. No cryptic riddles, no mind games, and for the love of all things unholy, no summoning things..”

“You drive a hard bargain,” he said, mock-offended. “But sure! I’ll play flesh-bag for a while! I’ll blend in. Pass as your fun, totally normal roommate!”

I looked at him. “You’re a floating, glowing triangle.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got flair!”

He twirled in place like he was showing off an outfit, despite having the same two stupid accessories. “Ta-da! What do you think? Hot or horrifying?”

“worse” I deadpanned.

"WOW!!! I am Flattered.”

I sighed and flopped onto my creaky excuse of a bed. “I cannot believe I’m letting this happen..”

“You shook my hand,” he sing-songed, kicking his non-existent feet up onto a floating recliner he summoned from a rift in space-time. “This is a team-up! Think Batman and Joker. With more teeth. And less moral ambiguity!”

“whats with you and teeth?!?!?” I muttered. “Exactly what I wanted. An eldritch nightmare roomie.”

Outside, the wind picked up. Or—not wind. Something was moving out there. It sounded like a dial-up modem being dragged through wet gravel, layered with a whisper that made my brain twitch.

Bill didn’t even flinch. But his eye did that twitchy, flicker thing it does when he’s actually paying attention.

“That’s not normal wind, is it?” I asked, already knowing the answer and hating it.

“Nope!” he chirped. “That’s something sniffing around. You broke the lock. Now the scavengers come sniffing.”

I sat bolt upright. “Here?!”

He waved a hand. “Relax. It can’t get in..”

I dove for my backpack. “I have an emergency sigil in here somewhere.”

Bill clapped. “Look at you! Little spooky overachiever!! I’m so proud I could explode! But I won’t. Yet.”

I flipped open my notebook to the page labeled HOLY CRAP EMERGENCY DEMON STUFF and dropped to my knees. “If this thing gets inside, you’re fighting it.”

“Me?” he scoffed, lounging upside-down in midair. “I’m on vacation! But maaaybe… if you ask real nice. Or if it turns out to be funnier than expected.”

I muttered the words of the sigil—half in Latin, half in a language that tastes like static—and the trailer briefly rattled. The howling outside faded. The fuzziness in my ears cleared.

The silence after was almost worse.

Bill slow-clapped. “Aww. Look at you, little wizard. I’m so proud I could puke teeth.”

I stared at him. “Do not puke teeth in my trailer.”

“No promises.”

He did a lazy backflip in the air and settled into a cross-legged hover. “So, roomie. What’s for dinner? ”

I groaned, getting to my feet. “Nothing for you. You’re not even supposed to eat.. I think.. can you eat??”

“I can!! Doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it,” he said with a shrug.

I made my way to the kitchenette, opened a can of soup, and dumped it into a pot. As it bubbled, I caught my reflection in the microwave’s metal door—tired, messy hair, with a thousand-yard stare that screamed “kill me please.”

Behind me, Bill hovered like a smug jerk, hands folded behind his back?? (does he even HAVE a back???), eye twinkling like this was all some kind of delightful sitcom.

Maybe it was.

And maybe the laugh track was just getting started.

NEXT CHAPTER>>

[soireegurl]

can u pls write bully jungwon? i love ur works they're too addicting 🫶😭

Thanks for requesting 🫶🫶🫶 and thank you for liking my works💗

Sniffles and heavy breathing are echoeing throughout the classroom.

You were alone in the Janitor's room cry and wishing that someone will walk by and hear your calls.

You have been locked up for god knows how long.

It's already evening, almost everyone have left the school. Even those who haven't, they will just hang out in the cafeteria...

No one would ever come to the science block and no one will notice that someone have been locked up in the Janitor's room.

And this is all thanks you to your bully, Yang Jungwon...

You just transferred to this school about a week and eversince you transfer here, Jungwon have been bullying you.

From asking you to do his homework, randomly pulling your hair to pranks like locking you in rooms...

You always gave in to him because you didn't want more trouble for yourself.

But today, you had enough... You just want to get out of here, get out of this school, get away from Yang Jungwon.

Suddenly, you heard some noises outside... Sounds like someone humming to some songs.

You immediately stood up and started banging on the door and called for help.

"Hello?! Is there anyone out there?! I'm locked up and in the Janitor's room!"

You shouted as loud as you can so that the person can hear you. The humming stopped... You thought the person heard you. So you continued.

"Hello! I'm here! Please help me!"

You heard foot steps coming closer and closer.

Your eyes glistened with hope.

Are you finally gonna get out of here?

"Tak-da"

The sound of door unlocking was heard, the next second, the door was opened.

You smiled widely at the fact that you are finally out of here.

But, when you saw the person standing infront of you, your smile dropped.

"Tsk tsk... What is this attitude? I saved you... And now you are giving me a black face?"

The culprit is none other than Yang Jungwon...

"Thank you but I should go now."

You said coldly and tried to sneak away from him but ofcourse he is not gonna let you go.

He grabbed you by your arm and turned your around.

"Yah... Do you have a death wish? How dare you talk to me like this?"

Jungwon's tone was arrogant.

"Let go! I'm done with you Yang Jungwon!"

You shouted and yank your hands away from him.

"You were the one who locked me up here! Am I supposed to thank you for that?!"

You were really mad. How can he act like that greatest person on earth when he did all those things to you?

Shameless...

"Are you shouting at me now? Yah... Do you know who I am?"

Jungwon was taken aback by your sudden change of attitude.

"I don't know and I don't want to know! I will leave the school and get away from you!"

You stomped away from him but he quickly caught up to you and grabbed you by your arm.

"Yah! I dare you to say that again!"

Jungwon said in a deep and raspy voice.

"For what? I don't have time to waste on you! Let go!"

You tried to free yourself, but Jungwon's grip just gets tighter and tighter.

"I said... Repeat..."

Jungwon's voice was low and dangerous. It sent shivers down your spine.

"I said, I'm gonna leave the school and get away from you! So now let me go!"

You were too focused on trying to free yourself that you didn't notice the change in Jungwon's aura.

His eyes slowly turned red and his veins were popping out of his neck.

"No... You are not..."

"What?"

"I said you are not leaving me! You hear me?!"

Jungwon suddenly raised his voice which cauhht you off guard. And you flinched at the sudden loud voice.

"The hell? You are too much Yang Jungwon... You don't have the right to control-"

You words were cut off but the lips that was placed on yours.

Your eyes widen at the face that was zoomed in and the weird feeling that was on your lips.

You quickly reacted and pushed Jungwon away from you.

"What the hell? Are you crazy?"

You were genuinely shocked. Did he just... Just kissed you?

"Yes, I am... So keep that in mind... Don't disobey me... Or else... I'm not sure what I will do..."

[beardedmrbean]

PARIS — The Louvre, the world’s most-visited museum and a global symbol of art, beauty and endurance, has withstood war, terror, and pandemic — but on Monday, it was brought to a halt by its own staff, who say the institution is crumbling under the weight of mass tourism.

It was an almost unthinkable sight: the home to works by Leonardo da Vinci and millennia of civilization’s greatest treasures — paralyzed in a strike by the very people tasked with welcoming the world to its galleries.

Thousands of stranded and confused visitors, tickets in hand, were corralled into unmoving lines beneath I.M. Pei's glass pyramid.

“It’s the Mona Lisa moan out here,” said Kevin Ward, 62, from Milwaukee. “Thousands of people waiting, no communication, no explanation. I guess even she needs a day off.”

The Louvre has become a symbol of tourism pushed to its limits. As hotspots from Venice to the Acropolis race to curb crowds, the world’s most iconic museum, visited by millions, is hitting a breaking point of its own.

Just a day earlier, coordinated anti-tourism protests swept across southern Europe. Thousands rallied in Mallorca, Venice, Lisbon and beyond, denouncing an economic model they say displaces locals and erodes city life. In Barcelona, activists sprayed tourists with water pistols — a theatrical bid to “cool down” runaway tourism.

The Louvre's spontaneous strike erupted during a routine internal meeting, as gallery attendants, ticket agents and security personnel refused to take up their posts in protest over unmanageable crowds, chronic understaffing and what one union called “untenable” working conditions.

It’s rare for the Louvre to close its doors. It has happened during war, during the pandemic, and in a handful of strikes — including spontaneous walkouts over overcrowding in 2019 and safety fears in 2013. But seldom has it happened so suddenly, without warning, and in full view of the crowds.

What's more, the disruption comes just months after President Emmanuel Macron unveiled a sweeping decade-long plan to rescue the Louvre from precisely the problems now boiling over — water leaks, dangerous temperature swings, outdated infrastructure, and foot traffic far beyond what the museum can handle.

But for workers on the ground, that promised future feels distant.

“We can’t wait six years for help,” said Sarah Sefian of the CGT-Culture union. “Our teams are under pressure now. It’s not just about the art — it’s about the people protecting it.”

The Mona Lisa’s daily mob

At the center of it all is the Mona Lisa — a 16th-century portrait that draws modern-day crowds more akin to a celebrity meet-and-greet than an art experience.

Roughly 20,000 people a day squeeze into the Salle des États, the museum’s largest room, just to snap a selfie with Leonardo da Vinci’s enigmatic woman behind protective glass. The scene is often noisy, jostling, and so dense that many barely glance at the masterpieces flanking her — works by Titian and Veronese that go largely ignored.

“You don’t see a painting,” said Ji-Hyun Park, 28, who flew from Seoul to Paris. “You see phones. You see elbows. You feel heat. And then, you’re pushed out.”

Macron’s renovation blueprint, dubbed the “Louvre New Renaissance,” promises a remedy. The Mona Lisa will finally get her own dedicated room, accessible through a timed-entry ticket. A new entrance near the Seine River is also planned by 2031 to relieve pressure from the overwhelmed pyramid hub.

“Conditions of display, explanation and presentation will be up to what the Mona Lisa deserves,” Macron said in January.

But Louvre workers call Macron hypocritical and say the €700–800 million million renovation plan masks a deeper crisis. While Macron is investing in new entrances and exhibition space, the Louvre’s annual operating subsidies from the French state have shrunk by more than 20% over the past decade — even as visitor numbers soared.

“We take it very badly that Monsieur Le President makes his speeches here in our museum,” Sefian said, “but when you scratch the surface, the financial investment of the state is getting worse with each passing year.”

While many striking staff plan to remain off duty all day, Sefian said some workers may return temporarily to open a limited “masterpiece route” for a couple of hours, allowing access to select highlights including the Mona Lisa and the Venus de Milo. The full museum might reopen as normal on Wednesday, and some tourists with time-sensitive tickets for Monday may be allowed to reuse them then. On Tuesday the Louvre is closed.

A museum in limbo

The Louvre welcomed 8.7 million visitors last year — more than double what its infrastructure was designed to accommodate. Even with a daily cap of 30,000, staff say the experience has become a daily test of endurance, with too few rest areas, limited bathrooms, and summer heat magnified by the pyramid’s greenhouse effect.

In a leaked memo, Louvre President Laurence des Cars warned that parts of the building are “no longer watertight,” that temperature fluctuations endanger priceless art, and that even basic visitor needs — food, restrooms, signage — fall far below international standards. She described the experience simply as “a physical ordeal.”

“What began as a scheduled monthly information session turned into a mass expression of exasperation,” Sefian said. Talks between workers and management began at 10:30 a.m. and continued into the afternoon.

The full renovation plan is expected to be financed through ticket revenue, private donations, state funds, and licensing fees from the Louvre’s Abu Dhabi branch. Ticket prices for non-EU tourists are expected to rise later this year.

But workers say their needs are more urgent than any 10-year plan.

Unlike other major sites in Paris, such as Notre Dame cathedral or the Centre Pompidou museum, both of which are undergoing government-backed restorations, the Louvre remains stuck in limbo — neither fully funded nor fully functional.

President Macron, who delivered his 2017 election victory speech at the Louvre and showcased it during the 2024 Paris Olympics, has promised a safer, more modern museum by the end of the decade.

Until then, France’s greatest cultural treasure — and the millions who flock to see it — remain caught between the cracks.

[morihaus]

Breath

"I thought it would make for a good story!"

A son of Skyrim sits on a log far, far away from the snowy shores of his birth. Beside him sit two fellow warriors, one from this land of dragons in the East, and the other from a land of swords even further East than that. When Njorri bellows out his explanation, the Yokudan cracks a small smile, while the Tsaesci's eyes bore into him.

"It's a lovely fine country you have here. It's hot! But not as hot as Morrowind, so it suits me more! And I ain't got any ash in my beard, like my cousin Holf is always complaining about."

"That's why you're interfering with our sacred hunt?" Siek-Shirue asks, eyes sharp like her tongue.

Njorri laughs and waves a massive hand. "Oh, nooo, I wouldn't say 'interfere!' I'm fit to help you! My da use to hunt dragons all the time."

A laugh bubbles up from Ensaf, the third who has merely played the spectator up til now. "Quite the name to live up to."

"Ain't nothin' special. Not like traveling all this way out East-- across that cursed ocean no less!"

The armored Akaviri turns to Ensaf now. "And why are you here?"

The trained fighter can recognize an itchiness about her 'host's sword-arm, the way her hand sits on her opposite thigh, inches from her scabbard; she knows that, even without any apparent weapon, Ensaf could produce one out of thin-air with only a breath.

"Me? Well, I'm looking for a story of my own." She adjusts herself on the log, easing up on her posture to try and relax the other woman. "You see, in the land where I come from, just about every swordsman's done something incredible. There's nothing left to make a name for yourself. But here... I can do something no one else has. At least no one from Yokuda." Leaning back, she tears her eyes away from her host and looks up at the clear skies of the steppe where the day is giving way to nightfall. "I'd heard rumors from sailors about an island full of dragons to the West... wasn't sure they were true until today."

"You've got no dragons back home?" Njorri asks, leaning over Siek to do so.

Ensaf shakes her head. "Afraid not. Plenty of serpents, but none that fly through the air like that... I would've picked a better opening if I had realized how fast they move."

"No dragons??? Skyrim used to be lousy with dragons, and so did this place, I hear, before Sek here and her pals--"

At this junction, Siek shoves the tall Nord back with a sudden burst of force, barking out a single syllable as the thrust of her hand sends him spilling across the grass of the camp. "Siek." She affirms, curling her lip up at the boisterous foreigner. Her fellow blades look over at the commotion, hands at their swords before she waves them off, assuring them things hadn't broken down... at least not yet.

Ensaf narrows her eyes in the split second it takes place, perking an ear and trying to tune in. As Njorri's dusting himself off, she leans forward again and looks to the Tsaesci. "That was the same technique you used to disarm my Shehai, wasn't it?"

Siek turns to face her, but defensive walls are clearly still up. After a moment of eyeing her up, she replies. "Yes. The Kiai is the greatest power we wield as Tsaesci."

"It's a lot like the Thu'um!" Njorri remarks, unbothered as he returns to his seat.

Siek whips her head around to him, riled up by that notion. "NO, it is not!

"You shout, things happen, sounds like Thu'um to me."

"You are a moron and an interloper! Your know nothing of what you say!"

Ensaf interjects. "Care to explain what it is then?"

"Ooh, please! I'd love to hear a story from a Tsaesci!" Njorri enthusiastically chimes in, the two warriors looking to their interrogator with inquisitive eyes.

She stops and takes a breath to center herself, finding it important to tell this story right, even if it's only for the benefit of two strangers who meddled with their hunt.

"Long ago... these lands were ruled by dragons. Our ancestors worshiped them as gods, fearful of their power, but in truth, their power came from the spirits of the world itself. Our arbitrary masters had stolen it with their domineering language. Our Mother, Tserida-Shak, learnt this from the Teacher, Boesha, who taught her the path of Tsaescence and the secret language of creation. Using the world's alphabet, Tserida-Shak spoke the first Kiai into the world, using it to kill the word in the dragon's throat. With our new martial art, we began our hunt to destroy all dragonkind and our duty to defend creation."

Njorri and Ensaf listen intently, poring over the words of this legend.

Predictably, the affable Nord replies first. "Not a bad story, but, it's a little tired, ain't it?"

"What?" Siek asks, disgusted.

Njorri waves his hands to and fro as he talks. "Men ruled by dragons, someone teaches them how to fight back, they do-- I mean, we Nords for example, we learned it from Paarthurnax, since Kyne told him so--"

"'Paarthurnax?'" Siek grows suddenly inquisitively, as well as revolted. "A dragon??? You were taught by a dragon???"

"Well, sure! How else do ya expect a man to learn dragon’s talk?"

Siek suddenly regards Njorri with an odd mixture of pity and loathing, wondering whether his people were still living under a different sort of tyranny, or if they were all-too willing servants who traded their dignity and humanity for power over other mortals.

Ensaf cuts through the tension. "It's actually not too different from how we learned sword-singing..." She offers, successfully distracting Siek from her disgust. With both of the other warriors looking at her, she elaborates. "Our people have always had many enemies, without and within, and many gods of the sword took pity on us. Onsi taught us how to make them, but it was Leki who sang us the secrets of mastery. She made the sword our soul. From there, we learned to make our souls to swords."

The Yokudan stretches out her open hand and begins to speak, or sing, her own language, belting out a few syncopated notes. A bright glow emanates from her whole body before beginning to coalesce, traveling down her arm and taking shape in her hand. With a flash, she now holds a long, curved sword that seems to shimmer like the surface of a pond. Even as Ensaf stops singing, Njorri and Siek can still hear the blade humming the tune.

"That's..." Siek begins, her voice fallen to a hush.

"Shor's Bones! You're doin' that all on your own???" Njorri interjects, leaning in closer to inspect the weapon. "That right there's some clever craft if I've ever seen it! Never thought of usin' the Thu'um for somethin' like that!"

Ensaf laughs, taking the Nord much more lightly. "I'm not sure it's all too similar to what you two do with your voices... I'm not communing with any spirits. Put simply, this is all me." She takes a moment to admire her Shehai, a great point of pride for her as a Sword Saint. Even if the battles she's won or the quests she's gone on pale in comparison to many of her illustrious peers, this sword still stands as her one grand accomplishment, totally unique to herself.

"You're right..." Siek is still quite amazed at the display. "We use our own spirits in the Kiai as well, but we don't... at least, I have never heard of a Blade who could call upon such a well of power from within." She manages to tear her eyes away from the still-singing sword and look Ensaf in the eye. "That aerial slash of yours-- I thought Ilni's winds had carried it for you, yet it was this 'Shehai' of yours?"

Ensaf nods. "Though now that you mention it, I suppose I could've used some help in landing it. Maybe next time I'll ask them." She offers Siek a smile along with this well-meaning jest. In all honesty, the woman's story had piqued her curiosity. It could be interesting to bring a few of her tricks back to Yokuda with her.

Njorri loudly concurs with Siek's observation. "I've heard rumors-- tall tales and all that, not so trustworthy as they are entertaining-- that some Tongues can use the Thu'um to change themselves, the way we can change the Qethsegolle by arguin' with 'em."

"Arguing?" Siek interjects, glancing back at Njorri as he once more leads her to question his morals.

"Aye, arguin'. Y'see, we Nords can't go about it exactly like dragons. With dragons, they just shout so great and loud that the Qethsegolle go 'alright, alright!' and do whatever it is they want. Blast this mountain over there, blow these clouds away, set that man on fire-- that sorta thing." The way he describes the interaction so simply, like a children's game, rubs her entirely the wrong way. Whether Njorri is blissfully ignorant of this or simply affords fellow men the same irreverence as he does the spirits, she does not know, but he continues speaking nonetheless. "We men ain't as loud as dragons by nature, so we've got to be a little more subtle, eh? Persuade the spirits! It's all about spinning the right words with the right tones, making this-do-that or you-go-here or whatever it is you're tryin' for! The Qethsegolle aren't a prickly sort-- 'least most of 'em aren't. They're busy keepin' the house Shor built standin' upright, so they're distracted most of the time. It's easy to slip things by 'em if you say 'em right."

It sounds like just another deceit to Siek, but Njorri, of course, views it all in good fun.

He turns back to Ensaf and guffaws. "Guess your sword-singin' cuts out the middle man, eh?" The Nord bellows out a laugh.

Ensaf joins him, but she also notices Siek still hasn't quite come around to the two strangers just yet, fascinated as she may be by her Shehai. If they were going to have any chance of sticking around and seeing this hunt through, they'd need to find some more common ground.

Her spirit sword still singing, Ensaf looks up at the stars above them. "We have a lot in common... but there's an old saying in Yokuda: 'you can't see the view from atop his feet.'" She gracefully turns the point of her blade down to the ground, resting it against the earth. "No two people can really, truly see the same thing the same way. Right now, we can't see the same stars, because I can't sit where you're sitting. I don't know anything about dragons or earthly spirits because we couldn't be farther apart when we were all children. We could spin yarns all night and we'd still be no closer to understanding it all."

Njorri easily accepts this treatise on subjectivity given his cultural proclivity towards tale-telling, though Siek waits to hear where the Yokudan is going with this.

"But different as we may be, I've always seen two things that all us folk have in common." Ensaf smiles. "We breathe, and we sing."

"Sing?" Siek raises a brow.

"Oh yes! We Nords love to sing! I s'pose I should've guessed Yokudans do, given the sword and all!" Njorri cranes his neck down to look at their captor. "What of you, Siek? Do the Tsaesci sing?"

"Well of course." She replies almost defensively. "But I don't see why that--"

"Go on, share a song with us." Ensaf urges. "All this talk of your great hunts and dragon-slaying, you must have some raucous ballads."

At the continued insistence of these two interlopers, Siek-Shirue relents. She begins to regale them, softly at first, with some anthems of war, rhythmic lyrics that sing to the glories of Tsae and the noble cause of the Tsaesci. Njorri begins to slap his knee to the beat, while Ensaf nods her head and taps her foot. The two even start to pick up some of the words.

Their impromptu and largely unintentional revelry does not escape the attention of the rest of Siek's unit, who become easily gripped by the infectious songs of their people. Before Siek knows what's happened to her, she's leading her whole company plus two foreigners in the devotional ballads of Boesha 1-13.

It's only natural that a Tongue and a Sword-Singer would take to song so easily, learning more, perhaps, from the joint fervor of this merry ritual than they ever could have through idle conversation. As the night wears on and tensions subside, they even share some of the songs of Skyrim and Yokuda with their new fellows, and just as they had learned, now the Tsaesci learn of their new companions through the most expedient method: their breath, and their songs.

[irmakkockan]

SOMETHING’S NOT RIGHT EP 5: I AM BEING PERSONALLY ATTACKED BY THESE KBL CHARACTERS AND IT’S REALLY STARTING TO GET TO ME

Every week, a new KBL man decides to test my patience. Last week it was Min Jun (although I retracted that after cooling down a bit), and now it’s the absolute mess that is the “friendship” between Do Ba Woo and Jihoon. These characters with ZERO communication skills, constantly talking in riddles, misleading each other, and acting like emotional cryptids are seriously testing me.

Before I launch into this week’s rage-fueled breakdown, let me be VERY clear about where I stand:

Look at this CHEMISTRY. The SECOND LEAD SYNDROME is real and haunting me. I am personally attacked. It hurts. God. And seriously - LOOK at this open, honest communication. They were enemies (sort of), now friends, and they DEFINITELY should be lovers. That would be the epic shit this show needs. I want Hamin to be happy. I want Do Ba Woo to realize he can be with someone who isn’t going to send him into a spiral every three hours. I want a plot twist where the second lead wins and we all cry happy tears. IS IT TOO MUCH TO ASK?

Anyway. Now onto my actual feelings about the so-called “main couple.” UGH.

Why won’t Do Ba Woo just confess already? He’s clearly already giving up on their friendship, so why not just say it: “Look, you’re an asshole for telling people I liked you in high school - it was humiliating. And now I’m overwhelmed with all these feelings. It’s not fun anymore. I need space to catch my breath.” DONE. Is it the greatest love confession? No. Would it solve half this mess? Absolutely. The way he says he wants to end things, then meets with Jihoon again, then ignores and almost ghosts him, then keeps talking to him like everything’s normal - it’s giving PATHETIC. And not in a cute way. Honestly.

But don’t think I’m letting Jihoon off the hook. Just last week, at the end of Ep 4, we all thought he finally had a moment of clarity. Like maybe his last two brain cells brushed against each other and he finally realized something about their situationship or that he’s been in love with Do Ba Woo this entire time and was too much of a coward to confess.

But no. He’s still extremely clingy - the constant calls, never ending pressure of maintaining their friendship, LYING ABOUT BEING SICK because he saw Do Ba Woo with Hamin and got jealous - and then has the AUDACITY to say “I do this with all my friends.” SIR? WHICH FRIENDS? The ones you constantly scream at? Jesus fucking Christ. You’re either that stupid and emotionally stunted or completely unaware of your own feelings. Or maybe you’re worse of a coward than Bo Da Woo? Either way, I just want to kick you in the head.

At this point, all I want is one Do Ba Woo and Hamin kiss. Just one. That would make everything better. Let me have that moment before the inevitable “I just realized I love you too” confession from Jihoon ruins my peace and the stupid couple sails off into the sunset - leaving poor Hamin (who should’ve been the main lead anyway) behind like some emotionally well-adjusted ghost of what could’ve been.

I’m hanging on by a thread.

[fortloser]

Hello again! Sooo kinda a personal question but what was yalls childhoods like?

(Also, hope u feel better snipes!)

-Terror

Hallo everyone! I finally got my hands on those portraits! Now most of the others became rather uncomfortable when I started questioning them about their youths. I got answers ranging from “why are you so bloody intrested in how im doing! There’s nothing special about me or my childhood, now bugger off.” to more reasonable explanations. I tried calling Scout on his cellular device but he seemed very preoccupied. Oh well, he’ll get back to you on that, onto the testimonies! Brace yourself friends this will be somewhat lengthy.

I first approached herr Demo, and getting him to open up was fairly easy. His favorite alcoholic beverage and a snack did the trick!

“ It must be me birthday if yer spoiling me rotten doc, I guess I can share something about me youth if yer willing to lend an ear. I grew up in Glencoe Scotland, a great place if you like trails and hiking. Me mum and dad were professional monster hunters and me being the wee little lad that I was wanted to impress em with the greatest catch any child could give their parents, the Loch Ness monster! I did it all on me own but it came at a cost,,”

After that herr demo just stared off in the distance and I made a mental note to ask him more about that later, The Engineer was also very open about his youth! I came to him shortly after dinner knowing he would be busying himself with one of his long-term projects and would enjoy some company, his leg was still a little stiff from a rather nasty fall and so movement was difficult at times. He was more than happy to talk while I assisted.

“Luckenbach Texas, everybody is somebody there. It was recently bought by a goat farmer. Can you believe that? He called himself an Imagineer and after that, a bunch of hillbilly musicians started moving in. Can't complain though, It breathed new life into my home, I hated going back and seeing the state it was in. My mom and pop own a small pig farm there, and I still try to visit though unlike my good-for-nothing twin with his stupid fancy job at “NASA”,,

I don't think I should share his personal frustration about his twin with the public so let's move on, yes? The next day I approached Heavy, he was last on my list and seemingly already aware of me interrogating the entire team, and as he was cleaning his minigun he told me to take a seat.

“You want to know about heavy, Da? Then I will tell you about heavy. Grew up in big town near mountain, you would not know it. Had big family, many sisters and brothers but Heavy was oldest. Family was poor but happy, loved summer, snow would melt and grass and flowers would show, heavy likes this. Went to good school had many friends, now heavy works to give family same life. Doctor is happy  with answer?”

I was surprised he was so willing to talk about his youth, I politely thanked him and left to prepare for that day's battle, I suppose that only leaves me left.

I was born in Germany, my mother was German and my father was Dutch and they both moved to Germany so my mother could be close to her family, he was a watchmaker and she was an artist, this relationship did not last and they got divorced. My motherstayed in germany allowing my father to raise me on his own back in the netherlands. I spent a lot of time in my father's workshop while he was trying to fix up old clocks. I didn't have many friends but who needs them when you have books and wildlife to observe? I excelled in all of my studies and pursued medicine, and eventually ended up here writing to you after I just finished up patching the last of my colleagues.

Stay healthy

With kind regards medic

[irrevocablecondition]

hiiiii 14 for the ask game and any fic u want to yap about <3

hiii !!

writer ask game

14: Talk about the fic opening scene and how you approached it

okay you get two actually because there's two opening scenes i really like !!! the first is this one from "maybe time running out is a gift" which despite not being updated since november,,,, is my bb

it's so just !!!! so this one is just a grief fic really: terminally ill remus and an impending death they're all expecting. and when it's recurring, i think you often get like,,, people expect you to be used to it??? they expect it to be a "oh okay, this is happening again" and you "know how to prepare for it" but do you Ever Really Know??? so... ta da !!! familiary does not breed resistance, and then that kind of flows through everything. they spend all this time preparing and all this time travelling and telling themselves they know how to do this but ofc they don't. Of Courseeee they don't.

and then the otherrr one to yap about is this one here which is the prologue to my most beloved fic ever <33 that i posted a bit of las year and then got Scared !! that's the addict sirius one that follow sirius and remus post-break up and this was actually from a journal 😭 i'm a big journal fan and i was reading through an old one and found something along the lines of like "they say we can't cure it, i wonder if they know that they can't either" and, as all deranged fans, i simply had to force it onto a fictional character and this. this fic will forever be my greatest love and i keep meaning to get back to it but i want him Perfect. but the prologue? this opening scene? my bb forever and always