#also wrote this on mobile

[shoot-of-corruption]

(Oh, look a meme I wanted to send about a week ago and it's Munday again. XD I know there's kinda a lot on here.. If it's too many I starred the ones I want to know the most about. That takes off 3 lol)

icons

*dash games

shipping

*your current RPC

*your character

*an old muse

*blocking

your choice!

Oh look!! A wild munday meme, i posted monday last week, got monday this week and decided to reply to on a wednesday PFFFFGGGHHHH!!

Thanks rainy! I appreciate your asks any day of the week x'D

icons

I have a love-hate relationship with icons. I simultaneously love them for how expressive they can make a post and hate how hard the icon game is on tumblr.

Like one expression can breathe so much more life into a reply or make the intentions you have so much more evident.

Whenever i see people using icons, i see perfect borders or even banners and uniformly sized colorcore icons... and the i feel embarassed.

I decided though that the icons i have might be crooked, not perfect and all a bit weirdly shaped...

But they are mine and they feel very comfortable to use for me in the shape and with the inclusion of exactly how much expression i want!

dash games

I mean they aren't life changing to me, but i always find it sweet if somebody tags me in one and it takes some time, but i usually do them.

If i can identify with the game that is.

What i want to clarify is though that nobody should feel forced to take part in dash games and even if you get tagged in one, you have every right to refuse. Simple as that.

shipping

Gotta say it as it is, I reslly like shipping. It gives me great chances to explore my character more and also their partner.

Usually it is "no strings attached" with me on all muses, which might be because i myself am aromantic... like my muses usually don't care much for romance and are hardly social... but somerimes, there is just this one ship that makes my heart sing 😌✨️

your current RPC

- is actually the best RPC i have ever been in. I have seen a lot of drama here and shit has hit the fan so often for me... but it just feels like home.

I want to come back and go on being here again inevitably.. i have long since stopped trying to explain this. I feel seen and respected and accepted here, i also feel like i am contributing stuff to the fandom and maybe i have also helped shaping it a little bit back in the day.... 🤷‍♀️

It just feels good to be here, i barely get any anxiety and i just love my muses 💚

your character

Honestly, I can't even tell you how i came to rp this complicated miserable mess of a character....

One day i just woke up with this thought in my head that there should be a fleshed out version of Yami Marik. I pondered how this could happen, like... he wasn't fully formed inside of Marik and then obviously killed as well.... the only way in my head was to arrange something in the shadow realm, which i did right after and then the headcanons and feelings came flooding...

By now I reached the level where his brain is as much my own, when i slip him over me like a glove and the words just keep flowing... asking me for headcanons without specifics is always pure chaos, because he is so interwoven with me now, that i know in EVERY situation what he would do, but when prompted with a random i am like: ....... but i need something to react to ..... what do you want to know.... i can't think something out.... GIVE ME SOMETHING TO KNOW HOW HE WOULD THINK ABOUT IT X'D

an old muse

Well another muse which I used to play was

... i think we get the direction my muses usually take now lhjfhsihhhdfkhhx.

Anyway, Flowey was relatively recent and I don't actually play as him anymore. I used to have a love-hate relationship with that too... you know he is a very angery boi, which is cathartic, but it's always keeping tough face with him, or you are risking slipping into mental break down territory.

Also... Underzale fandom didn't feel like here. I wasn't really able to get to know people and additionally, i just used it as a replacement, because i didn't feel comfortable coming back here... i wasn't in s good mental place... like nothing felt right. I think that overflow just went into this muse and actually was what i needed to work through my bad feelings, so thanks Flowey... you seemed to be toxic but you were the healing that I needed.

blocking

What a weird thing to put into a munday list LOL that's like asking: what do you think about the reblog button?

Honestly though.... blocking might be rude to some or an overreaction to others, but I PERSONALLY find it as necessary as breathing. There is some content that you simply can't blacklist, some people, who don't sit right with you, some topics that are beyond traumatic.... and some situations and relationships that looked like a dream but ended up being unbearably toxic.

BLOCKING is a necessary and useful device and should be considered in any and all situations of doubt, fear, toxicity, drama and generally feelings of unwell. Not to forget outright HATE.

Everybody - and I repeat - EVERYBODY deserves the security and self-love in their life to remove themselves from perceived and real danger of mental, emotional and physical properties. This is hard to do in RL and sometimes you have to just deal with your problems head on there or compromise about things to survive.

You should NEVER hsve to do this, especially not online, while doing domething you love and enjoy. All of us deserve to be happy, loved and feel okay. And if there is something - or somebody - that/who causes you to feel constant anxiety, terrible feelings, like you have to give a part of yourself up that you simply can't and won't budge on, that you are unwilling to talk and compromise about, do yourself the service and use the blocking function. You don't have to compromise, you don't have to talk about it, you DO NOT have to EXPLAIN YOURSELF.

Use this knowledge and lead a happier online life. I saw pictures of self harm on my time line once, which i actually have blacklisted, which wasn't tagged and it is very okay to INSTANTLY block this person in anxiety alone. Bloggers cannot keep your timeline trigger free all the time and you deserve to give yourself the attention to remove this harmful content from yourself.

NO QUESTIONS ASKED. You have the highest priority and then everything else follows.

your choice

Oh goody... uhm... I want to repeatedly thank people like you, who are interested in me and my muses and want to know what i have to say. I don't easily leave my shell sometimrs, even though i come off as bubbly and open and social.... i am... really not.

And it's mostly because I made a lot of bad choices about toxic people in my life... people who pretended to like me, pretended to want to know me, ridiculed me and every bit of my being and never took me seriously from a very young age... and it kinda fucked with my self-worth.

That's why i am so baffled, when somebody expresses wishes to know me and that is also why i say sorry a lot and try to explain every bit of "failure" to write better, faster and longer replies ^^

So... it still baffles me sometimes, when i find out that a lot of people honestly like me now... whenever my babbling goes on your nerves, i hope this explains most of it, LOL 💚✨️

[sunsetsimon]

sleep refused to find him easily that night. simon stares up at the ceiling, watching the ceiling fan spin quickly. he knows he’s home, the comfortable bed a clear reminder, yet his anxiety is high, like something’s wrong. he thinks back through the night, retracing his steps of making sure each door and window is locked. he knows his gun is next to him on the nightstand, and it’s completely silent throughout the apartment. nothing out of the ordinary, just unable to leave his survival mode.

the sheets rustle beside him as you turn to face him. your eyes are closed, breathing light and looking so calm. he loves the way your eyebrow twitches in your sleep, your nose scrunching from something in your dream land. he takes a deep breath, laying on his side to face you, deciding to watch you sleep.

he rubs his hand up and along your arm, cupping your cheek and softly caressing the skin. simon wishes he could sleep the way you do, occasionally waking up with an interesting dream to tell him about. he feels frustrated, exhausted and just wanting to recharge, but it’s so hard for him.

you stir awake suddenly, eyes refusing to fully open but able to tell he’s off. “you okay, si?” you sleepily whisper, reaching out for him so cutely. you’re so soft in this moment, he feels himself falling even deeper.

“m’okay love, just cant sleep.”

“lemme hold you,” you offer, scooting closer to the middle of the bed to prepare for a spooning position but he laughs at you. “hold me?”

grumbling, you push on his shoulder to signal for him to face the other way so you can come behind him. he obliges, facing away and lifting his head from the pillow so you can rest your arm under his neck. his body is huge, you’re barely able to spoon him but you scoot closer, pressing your chest against his back. you can feel his heart pounding, chest rising as he takes a deep breath to calm himself. this is so foreign to him, not used to such tender care.

it takes a little, but simon feels his eyes growing heavy, catching up to you who fell asleep near seconds after getting close. your tiny body against his back makes him feel surprisingly calm and safe. eventually his brain relents, allowing him to sleep for a few more hours until the sun starts to peek over the horizon.

[destiel-wings]

Dean Winchester & hug dynamic analysis

I was thinking about how whenever Dean hugs someone he's almost always the one hugging the other and how this links to his psychological trauma of always being the caretaker of people, making himself bigger to protect them.

Because that's how Dean sees himself, as a shield for others, and then I thought about how Cas actually is the shield, and he's HIS SHIELD, specifically, the only one who's really there to protect HIM, which is why it hits so much when we see this:

The way Cas wraps his arms around him, trying to protect him with his whole body--that he'd use as a shield and give up in a second if he could spare him from any pain and save him.

(for context: Dean was about to go use the soul bomb on Amara there, it was a suicide mission)

Bobby is another one that hits, he hugs him as the big hugger because he's his father, he loves him and he's actually here to protect him (and Dean LETS him -barely, but he lets him *and Cas* - in a way that he doesn't let Sam)

I watched a compilation of Sam & Dean hugs to check if i was right about it, but it's almost always Dean the big hugger with Sam, except when he's about to die or Sam sees him alive again after losing him.

Even then, Dean mostly tries to hug Sam as the big hugger anyway, with at least one arm, like a way to comfort him, making him feel protected, like his body language is saying "I'm here, I'm okay, I'm still strong, i can still protect you" (because their real father failed and Dean thinks it's his job).

He rarely lets himself be the little one hugged with Sam, unless he's barely conscious. Which is why it kills me so much more now that in this moment (s14, when Dean was going to lock himself in the Ma'lak box cause he was possessed by Michael) and Sam has a desperate breakdown and punches him (to stop him) he forcefully hugs him as the little hugger, the way Dean always kept him, like a way of saying "I still need you to protect me, please don't do this to yourself".

In the scene below he gives Sam his blessing to do a dangerous (possibly suicidal) mission, and one of his arms is down, but the other one tries to stay up--he's forcing himself to do it and he struggles because he still wants to protect him, but (as the seasons progress) he slowly becomes more prone to let go.

So in this view the hug dynamic becomes an indicator of how Dean sees Sam (and himself) and his protector role, how adult and self sufficient he considers Sam, and how much he lets people around him take care of him, lowering his walls and letting himself be hugged.

This is also why i think hugs from characters like Garth or Charlie are so special, because they're just like us: they see Dean and they just know that he needs to be hugged a lot, and that he's not used to it, so they just go for it-- and it's so normal and kind and spontaneous that Dean's just not used to it-- he doesn't know how to respond (especially with Garth, at the beginning, but as the seasons progress, he learns to, and he even initiates the hug eventually).

I love the hugs where they're 50/50 (one arm up, one arm down both), feels like they're equals, both taking care of each other. I feel like with Sam and Dean, this indicates a healthier dynamic, because Dean lets go a little of the role that was imposed to him and manages to see Sam as the strong individual that he is. But the same applies to 50/50 hugs with other characters, like with Cas, where I feel like it testifies how equals they feel in terms of being fighters, there's a show of respect of each other's strength that transpires by the gesture (which is even more astounding considering that Cas is literally a powerful angel).

And just to end on a destiel note, I'd like to note the possessiveness and protectiveness of Dean (rightfully so) whenever he finds Cas after he thought he had lost him, and how that translates into his body/hug language:

[hoshiina]

pairing: hoshina soushirou x gn!reader (no prns)

request: Hii im the anon who ask for the wips and i saw the blurbs you have. IM VERY MUCH HOOKED with the third ones where hoshina loves reader's smile🥹 relating to that maybe i would like to add(if you want, but feel free to do seperate if you want) soft moments with hoshina x reader who felt like she being the most pessimistic person regarding love(not anti but just felt like she doesn't deserve it) so she is on denial when hoshina make a move on her

notes: reader is usually rather energetic, talkative reader, hoshina thinks you are "beautiful" at some point, TYSM FOR THE REQ!! sorry it took so long omg

wc: 1300

Something was wrong— terribly wrong. There was no way someone would want you, let alone your vice-captain who could have anyone in the world. Not your vice-captain who did everything with such care and looked after everyone so preciously. And definitely never your vice-captain you were terribly in love with.

There must be some mistake. Or else he wouldn’t have just said what you thought he said.

“Pardon me?” you asked.

He looked a little flustered and you had never seen such an expression on him, confusing you further. “I love you,” he said again, softly. “I’d love to know if you’re in a relationship.”

The way he spoke so carefully added to how nervous it made you feel— it was so different from how he usually talked to you. Now, you were lost to say the least, because you couldn’t think of one reason why he would like you, let alone romantically. Under normal circumstances, you’d assume you were being played with or that this was a silly prank or dare, but you knew that Hoshina wasn’t one to do something so horrible. So what was happening?

“I am not…” you said, still confused, but the visible relief in his eyes made your heart tighten. Oh gosh, is he serious?

“I’m… thrilled,” he said, and he wished you goodnight and left. While you were terribly flustered to know he liked you back, there was a voice in your head that wouldn’t stop making you feel anxious. Something felt so odd to you— to be loved back. To be loved back by him. You enjoyed talking to people so you talked to him often, but never had you thought he'd think of you like that. Having a naturally talkative personality, it was true that both of you had fun talking to each other, but you had accepted that your love was unrequited ages ago. When would he have possibly fallen in love with you? The more you thought about it the more impossible it sounded. As thoughts of him circled your head, it’d be morning before you knew it.

It'd be hard for him to point out exactly when he fell in love with you, because he was in love before he knew it. Before he knew it, he'd catch himself following you with his eyes. He adored watching you work, because you made everything look exciting. Of course, he saw how you groaned at the paperwork you had to do, but he'd see how the little things would put a smile on your face.

He liked the work he did, he liked all of it quite frankly. From neutralizing kaiju all the way down to the research he had to do— rarely did he think something was a chore to do, but if you were around to laugh at something silly he found or mutter about the binders and binders of files that the 3rd division just doesn't have space for anymore, he'd start looking forward to these moments.

While he knew you were like this with everyone, he hoped that you were happiest with him. It would mean everything to him if you looked forward to doing seemingly mundane work with him too.

However, while he loved so much about you, there was one moment specifically that made him realize he wasn't moving on. His heart would be yours forever at this rate. You'd look so horribly tired after all this work, and yet, if someone needed help with anything at all, you'd still smile and ask them what's wrong. You'd find the energy and speak to them so kindly. You might not have the energy you usually had, but you'd be so happy to help. Even if they couldn't tell how exhausted you were, he could. He knew how much you did for everyone in the division, and he thought you were stunning when you did so. You were the most beautiful when you had that lovely smile on your face that seemed to light up his world.

He loved you so dearly.

You loved talking to people, so there always seemed to be something for you to talk about. A new finding you wanted to share or a terribly random thought that popped up in your head. While you naturally talked to most of the people in the division, you looked forward to talking to Hoshina the most. The way he'd always listen so intrigued at your dumbest thoughts and laugh at the smallest things you said meant more to you than one would probably think.

And if you shared your daily happenings with him, he'd share his with you too. To say you loved these moments would truly be an understatement. Nothing could possibly make you happier.

However, you knew he was like this with everyone. His laugh would always manage to keep the morale of the division up and he'd never miss potential problems in the condition of any of his officers. You knew he was a sweet person, but also the best one could ask for in a vice-captain. You weren't special— he was like this to everyone. You knew better than anyone else.

You couldn't imagine anyone falling for you, let alone the kindest person you'd ever meet in your life. Let alone the person you'd probably love for the rest of your life.

Yet, here you were, alone with him this afternoon working away through paperwork and it was quiet. Eerily quiet. He was the first to break the silence.

“I rather dislike the rain,” he said, looking out the window. “It’s been raining all day.”

You paused to look outside as well. “No, you’re right. I don’t mind the rain, but I hate how dark everything is.”

“Yeah,” he said. More silence.

“Sorry, I’m awkwardly nervous now,” he said, eyes fixed on his work. “I didn’t mean to make things… weird.”

You could tell he probably didn’t want you to, but you couldn’t help but look his way. Your eyes widened and your heart filled. You weren’t afraid to say much, but you were afraid to talk about this. However, you thought you’d be able to if you were talking to him.

“I just… can’t imagine that you’re… in love… with me,” you said, looking down at your paperwork. “Sounds too good to be true. I know... sounds unlike me, right?”

Immediately he looked up at you, shocked to say the least. You could tell he probably wanted to ask why, but he thought for a moment more.

“What… would I be able to do to show that I am?” he asked. “You’re the one I love… you always will be.”

Your eyes widened. “I just… don’t know why,” you said honestly. “Why me?”

“Because I love you,” he said. “I love a whole lot about you, but I love being with you. I enjoy spending time with you and watching you enjoy the life around you. Is that too simple?”

It took you a second to reply, but you felt a lot better. “No, not at all,” you said. “Because I feel exactly the same way.”

“You’re kidding”

“Absolutely not”

“I’m going to kill you if you’re lying,” he said.

That made you laugh. “You know I wouldn’t,” you said, and yes, he knew you wouldn’t.

“Hey, Hoshina,” you said, avoiding eye-contact. “If I get worried… will you tell me again?”

“I’d tell you until you get sick of my voice,” he said while getting up to kiss your forehead. “I love you so much.”

[shovelbug]

You lived a relatively quiet life. You were never one for the luxury so many Fontainians seemed to favor, but you were fine with that. You lived in a small apartment complex, and it was more than enough for you. Not much of a view, but you make do. You kept to yourself occupied with your hobbies. It wasn’t glamorous, but you were happy.

But even you knew about the recent trial of the Hydro Archon and her subsequent retirement from her position. You felt a great grief for all the woman had been through, and you held even more respect for her, perhaps even more so than before the trial.

So it was simultaneously no surprise and a great shock that Lady Furina, of all people, was your new neighbor.

It made sense, you figured. You would want a quiet life and a place to rest after all that, too. So, with that in mind, you resolved to treat her kindly, but no differently from how you would anyone else. She had enough of being put on a pedestal for one lifetime, you thought.

The day she moved in, she had very little in terms of luggage, but you offered to bring her bags up regardless. She seemed like she was ready to insist otherwise, but she didn���t actually refuse and allowed your help with a simple “Thank you.”

She sounded tired, you noticed. But also, more genuine.

You didn’t interact with her much other than that, save for when you used the fire hydrant in the hall to spray down her kitchen afyer she burned her macaroni. Despite her embarrassment, you said nothing of the incident and occasionally exchanged polite hello’s and good mornings whenever you happened to pass each other by.

It seemed wrong to judge the (former?) god of justice. More than that, you felt she was really just starting her life for the first time, as ironic as that sounded. She was stumbling, unsure, like a baby deer on its legs. But she was still trying, and kept getting back up. There was something to be admired in that.

After some time, you noticed how she seemed to pretty much only make macaroni. Now, you were no stranger to safe or comfort foods and often would make the same things yourself when you were lacking energy, but even that got tiresome after a while. So, when you were making yourself dinner one day, you found yourself making an extra portion. You put the lasagna and a few slices of the garlic baguette into a container and covered it, before taking it and peering into the hall.

Quiet, as usual. You padded along the corridor to her apartment’s doorstep, before leaving it with a quick knock and hurrying back to your own apartment.

You hoped, in some small way, Furina would find joy in the gesture.

a/n: hi so uhhh this is basically like. Furina moves into her little apartment and you’re her neighbor who is like i’ll just treat her like a normal person but also i am mildly Concerned. i haven’t finished her story quest so apologies if this is weird or something this is just a brain worm i had. might continue it idk! anyways i love her

k thanks for reading love you bye

[aidankalenko]

dropping off my latest narumitsu here, please enjoy

title: Occurring Continuously (ao3 link)

word count: 3469

summary: Set vaguely after 5-5. Wright thinks Apollo has a crush on him and goes to Edgeworth to ask for his opinion.

notes: A getting together fic that got away from me a bit. Post time-skip Nick is too fun to write.

“I think Apollo has a crush on me.”

“I can't say I’m surprised,” Edgeworth replies without looking up from his tea.

Over the years of their friendship, tumultuous as it has been, Wright has come to find the scent of Edgeworth’s imported teas a tangible anchor for Edgeworth's heavily abstract presence. A sweet aroma of ceylon meanders through the air, a reflection of Edgeworth's indifferent demeanour.

Just the usual. At least it smells nice.

Wright shifts in his seat. The buckle of his waistcoat presses into the small of his back, wedged against the plush chair situated across from Edgeworth.

“Right,” Wright deadpans. “I forgot you lost the ability to experience surprise in your old age.”

That earns him a snort, an auditory hint of a smile.

“After spending my years with you, Wright, I had no choice. Otherwise, I couldn't have coped with your special company.”

“We're getting away from the point,” Wright complains.

“Now that's your specialty.”

“Edgeworth,” Wright whines.

Edgeworth finally looks up. His glasses reflect sunlight and obscure his dark eyes for a second.

“Like I said, I’m hardly surprised,” Edgeworth replies. “You were a role model. Then, you were a mentor. Now, you're his boss and you've got a new suit to boot.”

Wright looks down at his outfit. He smooths down the waistcoat, adjusts the chain of his locket. “The suit can't be that impressive,” he mumbles.

“Agreed,” Edgeworth says with no edge at all. It still earns him an eye-roll from Wright. “But it's a number of levels up from sweatpants and sandals. Plus, your face is completely different without the hat.”

Wright smooths a hand over his scalp. “You really think so?” he asks.

Edgeworth takes a sip of his tea and doesn't bother to hide his unimpressed expression behind his cup. “Wright,” he says, “if you came here looking for compliments, I’m afraid I’ve already hit my daily quota.”

“Is that restricted to comments on my physical features or do I get a different number for my shining personality as well?”

“Wright,” Edgeworth grunts. Wright allows himself a brief laugh.

“Okay, so I look different,” Wright acquiesces, “but, like, I always thought he saw me as a father figure.”

“And?”

Wright manages a slight blush. “Okay, that's kinkier than I was expecting from either of you,” he admits.

Edgeworth shrugs. “I don't know the boy,” he says. “I’m just saying that it might not be as much of a deterrent as you might expect.”

After some more tea, Edgeworth leans an elbow on his desk. “What gave you the inclination to believe he might be infatuated?” he asks.

“Infatuated seems kind of like a strong word.”

“Wright, stay on task.”

“Sorry,” Wright mutters reflexively. He scratches the back of his neck. “Well, I don't know. I’ve caught him staring a couple of times, but I blamed that on the new look. But he also, you know—touches me more. Dusting my jacket kind of thing. Laughs at my jokes.”

“Including that mop you call hair?”

“Firstly, what kind of mop is as stiff and clean as this? And secondly, that was kind of a low blow.”

“I had a feeling your vanity could use some taming if you're receiving such attention from your young protege.”

Wright tugs at his collar. “He is young,” he comments. “Eleven years younger than me, in fact.”

Edgeworth hums. “Ah,” he says. “You're afraid you're a bad influence.”

Wright averts his eyes. “I can't say I’ve been the best,” he says. “I’m trying, but you know. This has all been done on the fly.”

“You're an expert on that by now,” Edgeworth tells him. His sincerity softens the corners of his lips and eyes. “Have more confidence.”

Sighing, Wright nods. “I guess you're right,” he says. “I should, especially if I want to be a good role model for him.”

“You're one of the best this country has ever seen in the courtroom, Wright.”

“I could stand to hear that more often.”

Edgeworth cuts the air with a sharp sigh. Wright grins.

“I’m already pushing it by exceeding my daily quota, Wright,” he says. “As I was saying, you're already a covetable mentor and role model. Any other expectations are ones of your own fabrication. You shouldn't put so much pressure on yourself.”

A small smile curves Wright's mouth. “You know,” he says, “I came to you because you're my best friend and pretty much the smartest guy I know. I wasn't expecting actual human advice. You've really embraced the soft part of you, you know?”

“Wright, I think you forget that I have an adoptive younger sister. The circumstances have their similarities.”

“Can't you just take a compliment?”

“I’ve been told that's not exactly my area.”

“Yes, by me, many, many times. Guess that's my bad.”

Edgeworth smiles in that careful, small way of his. “So,” he says, cutting the atmosphere yet again, smile dropping, ���what's the next step?”

“Well, I got my badge back, so I was thinking I should go for my driver's license next—”

“Wright,” Edgeworth says severely.

Wright grins, but he does have the sense to be a tiny bit sheepish. “Wait until a confession comes or not?” he says. He shrugs.

Edgeworth drums his fingertips on his arm. The gesture does not produce sound, but Wright hears it regardless.

“You know,” Wright says, “I thought you would've advised against any sort of advance. He is my colleague, after all, and also eleven years my junior.”

“Wright, I’ve learned that there isn't much I can do to stop you once you've put your mind to something.”

For a second, Edgeworth expresses just a hint of discomfort. Wright almost misses it with all his shameless grinning, but his eyes are very familiar with Edgeworth's silhouette, every sigh and frown comprising a canvas he'd committed to memory with effortless ease ages ago.

Edgeworth fidgets in his seat as light glints off his glasses. He looks like a villain about to make a confession in one of his beloved historic cartoon series. Which is to say, his face moves muscles that slightly resemble some sort of emotion.

“Which is why,” Edgeworth says, “the next logical question is about your future plans. If you have any. Which I am not surprised that you lack.”

“You and your logic,” Wright scoffs. Edgeworth's brow furrows and Wright counts it as a victory. “Guess it's my bad, yet again, to hope for something that isn't a product of your infallible logic.”

A pause.

“You're asking for my personal opinion.”

“He's learning.”

Edgeworth rolls his eyes.

“I don't suppose I have one,” he says, but there's a note of hesitation that slows his lips.

“Uh huh. But you always have an opinion about me.”

“Remember what I said earlier about your vanity?”

Wright chuckles. “Alright, got me there. Still,” he presses, “I’m asking as a friend.”

Edgeworth's expression sours. “That's cheap, pulling the friend card,” he complains.

“It wouldn't be if you just acted without having to be prompted.”

“Fine.”

Edgeworth leans back in his seat. Wright observes the fading scent of ceylon and the faint hints of expensive cologne hanging on Edgeworth's shirt cuffs.

“It's your life, Wright. If you think you can be happy with him, that he can be happy with you, then I don't see how it's a question.”

Silence brews between them, hot, with steam curling at the edges.

“Edgeworth,” Wright coos, “you are so damn cute.”

“Are you asking to be thrown out of my office?” Edgeworth replies hotly, brow twitching.

“That's so sweet of you,” Wright continues, “wanting the best for me and all that. I’d almost think you had a crush on me, too!”

“Wright, with the rate at which your head is ballooning, I’m starting to doubt you'll fit through the door even if I attempt to throw you out of it.”

“That's not a denial.”

“Wright,” Edgeworth says, and the sharp quality of that warning is warmed steel against Wright's throat. “I do not have a crush on you. Don't mistake me for your twenty-something-year-old protege.”

“Oh my god, you're jealous!”

Edgeworth's eyes flash behind his glasses. The thrill of his prickling energy pressing Wright into his seat is reminiscent of those poker games Wright used to play; it's a satisfying taste of nostalgia. That's Edgeworth, through and through.

“I wasn't expecting a confession in exchange for my problem, but I guess that's one way of going about it,” Wright says. His face hurts from grinning.

“Wright.”

The name drops like a bucket of cold water atop Wright's head. Game's over.

Wright sobers his expression. Across from him is a marble statue with cracks around the eyes and mouth. Lines of age, weathering, personality. It doesn't take away from the beauty of the statue, no. In fact, it adds life, and it is there that Wright seeks out clues, truth.

He stepped out of line. He should have known. Edgeworth can be flighty, sometimes more literally than not, when it comes to his emotions. But sometimes Wright can't help himself—especially because of that flight risk.

Some of the lines on that face were carved by Wright himself. And maybe that's why Wright finds himself drawn there, searching. The statue before him is in its most permanent iteration; maybe it's habit that Wright tests that permanence.

“Alright,” Wright says. He resists the urge to put up his hands in some show of submission. “I’m sorry. I stepped out of line.”

Edgeworth's expression tightens like a canvas over its wooden frame. Were he to allow a drop of emotion to hit that pristine primer, Wright is sure he'd be marvelous.

“Perhaps,” Edgeworth allows. Tension slowly seeps out of his face. “And perhaps I should learn how to take a joke one of these days. You'd think I would have, after all this time.”

“You know what they say,” Wright replies, “old dogs and new tricks and all that.”

He finds himself surprised to feel his own body relax. He shouldn't be. More often than not, he's drawn like a bow when he's with Edgeworth.

Edgeworth adjusts his glasses on his face, replaces that mask of cool he's so fond of.

“You really are the turnabout master,” he says, and his voice is weary as he speaks, “somehow spinning this matter into a question of our friendship.”

“It was just a joke,” Wright offers. An olive branch.

Edgeworth manages a wry smile that doesn't quite breach the barrier of his glasses. “Right, and this is the part where I laugh,” he deadpans.

Wright mirrors that wry expression and pulls his phone from his pocket. “Text from Trucy,” he says. “Says she's hungry. I gave her lunch money, but I guess she just misses this newly handsome face.”

Edgeworth stares at him. Wright has an excellent poker face, practised and perfected out of Edgeworth's observant eye. Still, Wright doubts himself under that grey scrutiny.

“You'd know better than I do,” Edgeworth replies airily. He pointedly pulls out a folder from his desk drawer. “Go to her.”

“I’ll update you on the Apollo situation,” Wright promises him.

Edgeworth's expression doesn't budge. His marble is luminous in the sunlight.

“I shall wait with bated breath,” he replies in a voice that certainly does not suggest that he will.

It's an easily difficult move to step out of Edgeworth's office.

—————————

Apollo makes his move sooner than later.

They're both doing some reading from a recent conference out of state when Apollo clears his throat.

“Um, Mr… Phoenix,” he starts.

“Please,” Wright replies, “Mr. Phoenix was my father. Just call me Phoenix. Nick if you're feeling daring.”

Apollo chuckles and the sound warms Wright's belly. “I’ll just try Phoenix on for size for now,” he replies.

Wright avoids making a comment about size.

“Anyway,” Apollo powers on, the brave lad, “I just noticed the time and I was wondering if you wanted me to pick up something from the ramen cart or something. Or, uh, if you wanted to stretch your legs, we could get dinner…?”

“Not somewhere too far,” Wright replies. “These legs can only work so hard after five p.m.”

Apollo's face brightens with the brilliance of starlight. Wright doubts he could ever think of Apollo without also thinking of the galaxy, celestial beauty.

“W-Well, we have a couple of options,” Apollo says, and it's immediately clear that he's been thinking about this for a while. Prepared for several situations and possible outcomes. He can really be such a tryhard sometimes. It's incredibly endearing.

Apollo rattles off some restaurant names ranging from casual to chic. In his heart of hearts, Wright is a simple man; in his wallet, there isn't much to speak of.

“I guess it depends,” Wright says. “Are you treating me?”

Somehow the question is weighty enough to tighten Apollo’s lips.

A switch flips in Apollo’s head. He smiles, worried and weary at the same time, and replies, “Yeah, it’s on me.”

“I could use some fresh air,” Wright accepts. Apollo is the sun.

Wright hasn’t extinguished a sun before. He expects it to be an implosion, a great snuff of fire going up in smoke—he also expects that sun to burn again, a different flame for a better man.

———————————

The next time Wright ends up in Edgeworth’s office around noon, that cyclical scent of ceylon in the air, Edgeworth moves first.

“I pray you’ve come with good news?” Edgeworth asks. His tone is so flat Wright almost trips on his feet on the way in.

“God, the attitude already!” Wright accuses. “I didn’t even say hi and you’re already at my throat!”

“I haven’t had time to face you in court,” Edgeworth replies, having the gall to smile through his words, “so I’ve got to keep you sharp somehow.”

Wright feels his heart expand and deflate all at once.

“I’m not trying to sound desperate,” Wright says, “but man, I miss that.”

Edgeworth’s smile remains for a few moments longer. “Be careful what you wish for,” he says. It’s a chimera caught between promising and threatening.

“Anyway,” Edgeworth says on an inhale. His chest is stiff. Wright couldn’t be more endeared. “Have you any news regarding Apollo, or are you here simply to be a bother?”

Wright hesitates. “You’re so formal,” he begins.

“Don’t deflect,” Edgeworth presses.

Wright winces. “He… He basically asked me out,” he explains. “Like—on a date. Dinner date. He had more confidence than I was expecting, which was insanely cute.”

Edgeworth takes a cup of tea from the corner of his desk and brings it closer. He nods at Wright, prompting him to continue.

Again, Wright hesitates. “He’s cute,” he says, “don’t get me wrong. And he was such—such a gentleman, you know?”

“None of the things you’re saying have anything to do with what actually occurred that night,” Edgeworth observes. He smiles once again. There’s no time to analyze the nature of this smile.

Wright circles his thumbs around each other. “I mean,” he says, his words skipping across the surface of his tongue, “nothing happened.”

“And yet, you seem tormented by the whole thing.”

“‘Tormented’ is a strong word,” Wright comments, flinching.

Edgeworth rolls his eyes. “Regardless, it seems to be on your shoulders,” he says. “What happened? Or was it something you said to him?”

“I guess…” Wright trails off, remembering. With ease, he reels the memories of last night from his mind. The shy touches at his waist. The fluttering smiles. The vigorous blush on the boy’s face.

“I guess it was just that nothing happened,” Wright says. He swallows, and then he also says, “And—well, I told him nothing would happen.”

Edgeworth’s eyebrows fly up his forehead. “It took only one date to make you feel certain?” he asks. The incredulity from his lips is sweet.

Wright stops fidgeting his hands. He places them on Edgeworth’s desk, feeling the earth under his touch. Edgeworth observes him.

“I knew,” Wright says quietly, “that nothing would happen.”

“So,” Edgeworth says, “why did you go?”

“What was I supposed to do,” Wright sighs. He looks down at his hands. They stretch under the weight of two gazes.

There is silence in the room, bitter, aromatic. Wright’s sinuses must be inflamed.

“You know,” Wright starts, unsure of where he’s going, taking blind step after blind step forward, “this is the first time I’ve ever, in the last eight years, talked about—”

He stops. He’s afraid to continue.

Slowly, he raises his eyes to Edgeworth’s face. What meets him is pure, flawless marble—and somehow that gives Wright strength.

“This is the first time,” Wright starts again, “that I’ve mentioned anything about my love life to you, in the entirety of our friendship, and the fact that you said I should do what makes me happy…”

Wright inhales. Exhales. Spurs roll across the walls of his lungs.

“It made me—happy,” Wright says. He chokes on the word, so bulbous and contorted against his soft palate.

Edgeworth pulls forward, closer into Wright’s gravity, inclined towards his downcast eyes. “Wright,” he says softly. “Is there something the matter?”

“You really think that—that I could be happy with Apollo…?”

Wright’s question sounds so hollow, so empty, fragile porcelain that rings thinly against the blunt head of a hammer.

“Well, there’s no way I can be certain,” Edgeworth admits. “I—I could only hope for your happiness,” he adds quietly. “Above all. Indeed, this is the first time romance has ever been discussed between the two of us, and I do recognize the significance of that. And—as simple as it is, I wish only for you to be happy, my friend.”

My friend. The sound of the words vibrating against the walls of Edgeworth’s lush office feels like a succession of lashes against Wright’s spine, propelling him forward. His palms root his weight against the desk between them.

Wright stares at Edgeworth. He knows this face, this perfect, weathered, marble face. The image of that face has haunted him for decades now, in so many different iterations Wright could fill an entire library with records of Edgeworth.

He knows this face, his life’s greatest constant, his favourite everyday novelty.

Today is not a day of novelty. Today, Edgeworth looks the same as ever. He looks steady and stony.

And yet Wright takes his leap.

“You could,” Wright says haltingly, “make me happy.”

The air falls completely still.

Edgeworth inhales. Wright is certain of the ceylon aroma against Edgeworth’s senses, and that is all he is certain of.

“Pardon me?” Edgeworth asks.

“You could make me happy.”

It is an admission, and it is an admission that slides from the pit of Wright’s guts out into the ceylon air of Edgeworth’s plush and posh office.

“I don’t,” Edgeworth says with such slowness, such viscosity, “I don’t know what you mean—”

“Don’t play dumb,” Wright hisses. The noise is ugly, as is the ball of nerves knotting up his lungs and throat.

Edgeworth flushes, flustered. “I’m not—” he starts, but he can’t find the finish. His eyes begin to drown in his blush. The astonishing shade of red startles Wright into a laugh.

“I’m not playing dumb!” Edgeworth spits. His hairs are standing on end. “I genuinely have no idea what you could be insinuating!”

Wright rolls his eyes, and with it, the room spins on its axis in the second of an instant. “No, you do,” he insists. “You do. There’s no way. You’ve been around the world; you’ve met so many people. I can’t spell this out for you, Edgeworth.”

Haunches raised, Edgeworth stirs. He rises from his chair, matching Wright’s stature. His eyes are steel daggers pinning Wright to the floor, as if the weight of Edgeworth’s presence wasn’t heavy enough to incapacitate him.

“Then,” Edgeworth says, and the simple, single syllable draws Wright tight like a bowstring.

“Then?” Wright asks.

Edgeworth approaches. Wright’s breath feels crowded in his chest.

“Then you won’t mind,” Edgeworth starts, and his lips form the finish against Wright’s mouth.

Relief is the first wave to crash against Wright’s sensibilities, and with it brings clarity that lasts all of two seconds before the wave of fire crashes in after. Edgeworth is cool steel that does nothing to calm Wright’s flames—the phoenix dragged out of the ashes Wright hadn’t known had settled. Edgeworth is a beast tamer, and Wright the beast, constantly at the whims of his master.

It’s a short moment of contact, perhaps even chaste. And yet, Wright can feel fire licking at his nerves; he can feel lava pour into his joints and cool all too rapidly; and suddenly, he is a statue of stone, fixed in place as Edgeworth circles him with his eyes.

“You’re right,” Wright says. “I didn’t mind.”

[earako]

Actually hang on I like library uncle and actually have an idea now hang on

-/-

Ballister was by no means a fighter. But life on the streets, living in the lower castes, it taught him how to scrap when needed. It wasn't elegant or show boaty but it kept him alive.

And now it looked like he needed to unleash his street urchin ubringing for the sake of the child who burst into his library crying for help.

He barked out an order for the patrons to get the kid behind his desk. Meanwhile, Ballister grabbed the metal baseball bat he kept stashed under his desk, lept over it, and just managed to clock what seemed like the leading man in the group that was chasing the poor child.

Again, Ballister was not a proper fighter. He was observant though.

Over the years Ballister analyzed the different ways he saw people defend themselves. He swung his bat like a sword while still utilizing kicks, punches, and headbutts, a bastardization of the institutes fighting style mixed with what Ballister saw in street brawls. And as messy as it was, it was effective.

The group after the kid eventually gave up and ran out of the library, cursing Ballister and threatening to burn the library down.

From the corner of his eye Ballister noticed phones recording. Good. He might need those recordings later.

Okay, now that the immediate danger was taken care of best to make sure the kid's alright. He leaned his bat against one of the shelves and slowly walked up to the kid, crouching infront of them.

Wait.

Ah, figures. From the clothes alone Ballister could tell the kid was a noble. He motioned to the phone he kept behind his desk. "Is there anyone you can call to pick you up?" The kid just stared at Ballister, silent for a few moments before a large grin formed on their face.

"That was awesome!" The kid cried, and where those stars in their eyes? "That was so cool! You were all bamp! wham! And-and then you kicked their legs and there were three of them on you and mister are you a knight?!?!"

Ballister stifled a laugh into his hand. Him? A knight? Oh that's just adorable.

"No, no," Ballister said through small laughs, "I'm just a librarian who grew up in a tough area." The kid eyed Ballister with what looked like skepticism. "...Are you sure you're not an undercover knight?"

"No, I assure you, just a one armed librarian," Ballister said while waving at the kid with his prosthetic. Before the kid could get excited over that, Ballister asked again if there was a number the kid could call.

"We can also wave down-" as if summoned, a knight came bursting into the library. Ballister frowned, first the kidnappers now the knights?

"I'd appreciate it if you refrained from damaging my doors any further," Ballister said, arms crossed and not quite glaring at the knights though his expression was more....reserved than usual.

The knight that had kicked down his door scoffed and went to advance onto Ballister when an arm was held across his chest to stop him. "You are a knight, not a school yard jock. Act like it, Sureblade" hissed a knight in golden armour-hang on.

Golden armour.

Bleach blonde hair.

The crest on his armour.

This was Ambrosius Goldenloin.

Hm. So the Golden boy wasn't afraid to do the dirty work.

Now, Ballister didn't quite dislike Sir Goldenloin, he just seemed mor of the type who would rather spend their time starring in advertisements, or prancing around a stadium while adoring fans chanted his name was over and over and over again.

"Sir Goldenloin!" Ballister's attention snapped back to the child...who seemed to be attempting an imitation of Ballister when he leapt over the desk. The child tripped and would have fallen flat on their face had Ballister not quickly caught them, clutching the child against his chest as his heart raced.

"How about we keep our legs on the ground, hm?"

"But you did it earlier!" The child protested. Ballister sighed and placed the child down. The kid wasn't one of his regulars, really it wasn't his place to scold them....

"Did what?" Sir Goldenloin asked, stepping closer to where Ballister and the kid stood. The other knights made to follow but Sir Goldenoin held out an arm again, probably signalling them to stay back and to let Sir Goldenloin handle the situation.

"Oh! Oh you shoulda seen the mister, Sir Goldenloin!"

Oh no.

Oh no, no, no.

"Hey now-there's no need-"

"The men who took me-mister librarian jumped over the desk and used the baseball bat to fight-"

"It's less impressive than it sounds-"

"And he was swinging and kicking and three guys were on him-" All Ballister could do was bury his face in his hands as the child gushed over his supposedly 'heroic' actions.

Ballister's skin tone may be on the darker side but he was certain his blush could be seen through his hands.

"Well, that sounds like quite the ordeal. Why don't you head back with the other knights while I talk to Mr.Librarian here?" Ballister's head shot up. Right, the knights probably needed him to report the kidnapping. He briefly glanced at the security cameras and wondered if they'd be enough. Maybe he could ask for some of the phone recordings too...

"Bye Mr.Librarian" The child yelled as they headed back to the knights. Ballister smiled and waved back. "Take care now, and be careful next time!" He called after the child and the knights.

The kid was lucky this time...Ballister shuddered to think of what could've been. If the kid hadn't thought to duck into the library....

"So...do you actually have a name, Mr.Librarian?

"Oh, right! Apologies. Ballister Blackheart." Sir Goldenloins brow furrowed at Ballister's last name.

"Rather odd surname." Ballister frowned. If he had less self-preservation he'd have made a comment about Sir Goldenloin's own name...he couldn't afford to aggrevate the knights.

After all, he was just a commoner.

Right, time to give Goldie what he's looking for. " I can give a description of the group who kidnapped the kid along with video surveillance footage. I also saw some phones recording, I can ask them for footage as well. I assume I'll also be asked to file a kidnapping report, I have the files ready to download and can fill them out now if you'd like."

Sir Goldenloin blinked at Ballister. "You...seem very well prepared for these sort of situations."

"It's sadly not uncommon for people to flee here for safety," Ballister sighed. "It's...well, I'm just glad no one got hurt."

"Right, right. I'd like to see those tapes? And interview you if thats alright?"

Hm...Sir Goldenloin was certainly...different from the other knights.

He was stating everything as a question rather than an order. Then again, Sir Goldenloins knighting ceremony was only just this month. Maybe it's because he's still fairly new.

"Sure. If you'll follow me this way." The golden knight trailed after Ballister and leaned over his shoulder as he filled out the reports and retrieved the video surveillance footage.

He had to stop himself from being distracted by the scent of lavender.

This was just business.

It didn't mean anything.

[pyrosomatic-metamorphosis]

apocalypse au. cannibalism. corpses. Offscreen loss of loved ones

-

“Some leather armour,” Bad notes, tugging curiously at the straps of the corpse’s armour. “Euagh, almost broken, though.” The armour gets tossed to the side. “A granola bar? Okay, we’ll take that.”

Cellbit twitches at that. He wants to ask, “Do we have to?” but there’s several reasons why he doesn’t. Protesting a backup food supply is never a good idea, for one. It’s not worth it to risk starvation just because he’s worried that the backup food supply will become their primary. He tightens his hold on the bloody sword and insists again. It’s not worth it. Instead, he says, voice rasping, “There’s too many. It’s all going to rot.”

“You think so?” Bad looks up at him, then runs a critical eye over the little encampment. Ten bodies, some larger, but all fat deposits slimmed by lasting hunger. Bad licks at the blood left on his hand from looting the corpse, considering their haul thoughtfully. “I don’t think things rot that fast, Cellbit.”

He twitches again when Bad says his name. It wasn’t an admonishment- it was barely even an opinion Cellbit should validate, knowing how long it takes Bad to consider something rotten -but there is something yearning and grieving and desperate slinking between the muscle fibers of his heart that squirms to hear that disagreement. He’s shaking. He hasn’t stopped shaking. He wants to bite the edge of his sword hard enough that his teeth will crack into sharpened splinters. He wouldn’t need the sword, then. “I don’t- we should cook it,” he says. “Some.”

Bad snaps his fingers triumphantly, as though he’d remembered something. “Pre-digestion!” he exclaims so loudly that Cellbit flinches. No birds fly away- they’ve already been scared off. “Oh! You want to save some for later? Yeah, sure, we can do that. But we should eat what doesn’t fit in the car.” Cellbit doesn’t know how to explain that he can’t eat as much as much as Bad. Not even cooked. It fills him with- it’s not envy but it isn’t not envy, either. Some dissatisfaction.

Back in the— when he was small Cellbit had always assumed that it was Bad’s size that lead him to take the larger portion of their meals. It made sense, and he always got his fill so he was happy with it. Then, when he was grown, it was frustrating. Bad could eat an entire corpse in one sitting; Cell couldn’t even get through an entire leg. He’d realized then, gnawing at bone and just waiting to be done, that Bad couldn’t have possibly eaten an entire corpse. It was childish dreams made memory, morphed by the horror and the trauma and the things he didn’t think about. And now they’ve met up again, and these are their first corpses but Cellbit knows that despite their looting Bad’s share of the resources are always depleted, even when they come across a feast and- The clever part of him is wondering how much he’s really misremembered after all.

Bad seems oblivious to Cellbit’s thoughts. “We can smoke some of this and it’ll last you a bit longer,” he suggests thoughtfully, starting to dig through the corpse’s clothes again. “It might take us some extra time, but this place is safe enough that they set up camp, and we don’t know when we’ll get the chance again. Good idea. Do you want to carve the meat or set up the smoker?”

The thing in Cellbit’s heart writhes almost giddily at the praise. He thinks that he hates it. He misses when he could fool himself into thinking he deserved it. “The meat,” rasps its way out of his throat, proving him right.

Bad lights up. Cellbit can immediately tell that he’s up to something. “In that case- I have something for you that might make it… a little bit easier.”

“What is it?”

“Close your eyes!” The bleeding part of him wails at the thought of the vulnerability, but this is Bad. He’s only alive because of him. Fitting to die because of him, too. Cellbit closes his eyes and continues to shake. The back of his teeth are dry. There’s the sound of rustling as Bad does whatever, and then a triumphant, “Ta-da~!” Cellbit gratefully takes this as his cue to open his eyes again.

Badboyhalo is holding a knife.

Badboyhalo is holding a kitchen knife. Thumb and fingers pinching either side of the blade, handle out, an offering. It’s clean, except where Bad’s hands have stained it red.

Cellbit had been calm, before, the way you are when you’re doing what you were made for. Then he had been satisfied, and excited, and then jittery and bad and happy and satisfied and dreadful. Longing and hatred and benediction and fulfillment. The sight of the knife fades all of that out. When he grabs it, those feelings turn to static. Still there, still hunting him, but forced to back away in the face of its armed prey. The world smooths out a little and hurts a bit less.

Badboyhalo has given him a knife.

“Bad-“ he says, and doesn’t choke up about it.

Bad smiles at him. Bad beams at him. “I was waiting for a good time to give it to you. I know you’ve got your sword, but I remember you telling me that knives are your favourite. Is that still true?”

Overwhelmed, Cellbit nods a little. “Thank- thank you. Obrigado, Bad.”

“De nada!” Bad chirps, cheerful as anything. He pats Cellbit on the shoulder, gently, as his tone shifts. “The sky is still blue, Cellbit. Remember that.”

He wanders away before Cellbit can bring himself to mutter, “Mas às vezes está nublado.” But it’s just Cellbit now, and his knife, and the bodies, and no one living can hear him.

He’s already dropped the sword, he realizes abruptly, clinging to his knife with both hands. He needs to pick it up and clean it before the blood coagulates. There is meat in front of him, still warm and waiting to be processed. Still, he manages to pick up the sword and wipe it in the vicinity of cleanliness on the body’s clothes, his other hand still clinging to his knife. He cuts the clothes, and drops the sword to the side.

When the knife cuts flesh, he starts to grin again. The world turns into a loving red, and he gets to work.

-

Bad feels bad.

He doesn’t dwell on it. Guilt or grief- they both started with g. It’s probably even better, even, feeling guiltier than griefier! Take away the question of accountability entirely, hold control, do what he has to do. And he has to do this.

The log in Bad’s hands cracks. He giggles at it, then takes several quick breaths as tears rapidly pool in his eyes. He doesn’t wipe them, just carefully lays the log down into his makeshift fireplace.

Bad doesn’t like hurting his friends. It’s like a bad prank that leaves lasting damage; it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. But it’s not really all that bad, all things considered. Bad isn’t hurting him or putting him in more danger. If anything, Cellbit is safer with him. They’ve done this before- anything Cellbit can’t eat, Bad can, and they know Cellbit can eat Bad. It’s better. It’s what needs to be done.

There’s a loud lowing in the distance. Bad stills as he listens to it. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Cellbit still carving. They found someone else tonight. Bad feels some tension leak from between his shoulderblades. They’ll be fed and full, and slow in the morning. Cellbit and Bad will have more than enough time to get packed up after a rest.

Cellbit has someone left. Bad is giving him a gift, but he can’t give it yet. Bad knew exactly what he would do if it turned out his own loved ones were still around, and he knows what Cellbit would do, too.

If Cellbit knew that Roier was still alive, he’d leave.

[delladuck]

so who got della’s life insurance?

[greenerteacups]

What do you think as Hermione's career would be post battle of Hogwarts? To me her being minister for magic really doesn't make sense. She does not have patience or tact to wade through murky waters of politics 😭😭

So hard to say! The Trio are so, so young when we leave them, I find it almost impossible to project their futures farther than a few years out. The job that suited me at 17 would be radically unsuited to me now. That's why of all the Trio, Ron's ending strikes me as the most realistic — he jumps straight into the save-the-world business again, burns out, realizes he's actually Done The Fuck Enough, Thanks, and pivots into a low-stress career where he gets to see his family a lot. Feels accurate! The others are weirder to me because they do seem to just... pick a lane and stay there.

With Hermione, you could spin her a couple ways. You could say that she leans into her bookish side and does research or teaching, which is not my preference for a couple reasons (namely, I don't think Hermione would like academia as a profession; she finds her classwork interesting and enjoys intellectual validation, but she'd be stifled and wasted in a DPhil program, and she'd be infuriated by the administrative politicking of your average higher-ed faculty). You could say that she gets disaffected with politics and ends up as a barrister or a lobbyist of some kind, but if anything that requires more political finesse, because you don't actually have institutional power, you're just handling the people who make decisions and trying to persuade them of your goals. This is not Hermione's preferred method of influence. She's not even particularly good at persuasion, she just happens to be smart enough (and right often enough) that people take her ideas seriously.

Or you could say her brashness fades with the years into a softened flavor of tell-you-like-it-is honesty, which some politicians actually do successfully trade on; as we see in British politics today, you don't have to be all that charming or clever to get ahead, you just need to be really driven and well-connected (which Hermione completely is; she fought shoulder-to-shoulder with the first postwar Minister and her bestie, the Literal Messiah, runs the Auror Office.) But I don't know if Hermione especially wants to be Minister, after the war. She's just watched years of horrendous bureaucratic incompetence plunge the country into a violent civil conflict. She's had not one, but two Ministers of Magic try to bully or shame her friends into complicity with fascism. Her view of government is... likely extremely dark.

But Hermione also isn't the kind of person who sees her life as a quest for happiness. Babygirl has a savior complex that makes Harry look selfish. (She basically kills her parents — yeah, obliviating is a form of murder, #changemymind — "for their own good," and justifies every batshit, vindictive, mean-spirited move she ever pulls on the grounds that it "helps" one of her friends.) She is a mean, lean, dragon-slaying machine, and she needs a dragon. After Voldemort, the Ministry is the no. 1 threat to muggle-borns and non-wizarding Beings. As a war heroine with basically infinite political capital, I'd be surprised if she didn't try to do something there. That said, Hermione is so vivacious and dynamic that she could potentially grow in a hundred different directions; it's possible that all of this, while true of her at 18, becomes completely inaccurate by 22. That's why I'm not too fussed about any particular fanon interpretation.

[jadewritesficshere]

MDNI thinking about alpha!Steve and a/b/o dynamics just

sfw:

• Alpha!Steve who's parents were super excited and proud when he first presented. He chased that feeling and wanted to make his parents proud, leaning into the alpha stereotype, becoming King Steve. It didn't work, just ended up making him more angry and a dick. He woke up and changed, but he had a reputation at that point.

•Steve who got with Nancy before she presented, thinking demure, shy Nancy Wheeler would be an omega. Nancy who presents as an alpha and Steve who was in love willing to make an alpha/alpha relationship work (which is possible but rare). After they broke up, they had a long discussion about everything, and agreed they were better off just friends. Nancy helped Steve work through some internalized issues caused by his parents. Nancy helped him let go of the alpha stereotypes, and now Steve does things that make him happy, even if it is more an omega stereotype.

•Steve who accidentally becomes a pack leader to a bunch of unpresented pups. They joke he's like a mom, but they all see him as a leader and dependable. Dustin knows he can call for a ride anytime or get advice no question asked (maybe a bit of bickering and joking). Will finds comfort in the Alpha and sits in silence near him, sometimes he's painting while Steve reads and Steve praises his work and he feels really happy he made their leader happy. Max, who gets in fights with other pups, reluctantly gets guidance from Steve, who gives her the most disappointed mom look and then gives her pointers on her swings. Steve is whining to the older teens that he doesn't have a pack and everyone is like ???? (Robin also swings at him for acting like they aren't pack bonded, yelling at him about being a bonded pair and Steve is just like well ya platonically but that doesn't count, which causes a whole new argument)

• Steve who is extra sensitive to scents because of getting hit too many times and losing part of his hearing. He is very attentive to the slight changes, and can tell when someone he's close to has different emotions. Steve especially can tell when someone is about to go into rut or heat, and he gives them a care package (because let's be honest half his friends don't take care of themselves, hell he doesn't even take care of himself).

nsfw:

•Alpha!Steve who is so nervous about hurting his partner. He tends to want to be with omegas as they are more prepared to take him, biologically speaking of course. He has slept with every type, but omegas tend to be his favorite.

•Steve was already slightly bigger then average before presenting, and after? Big. Anytime someone sees him for the first time and their mouth drops, he can't help the pride that builds up in him. He knows he needs to get ahold of his ego as these people never stay, but he also loves the dumb look on their faces.

•Steve who wants someone to bond with him, to the point he's a little reckless and baring his neck when he really shouldn't. Of course, no one has been bold enough to attempt to bond with him, but he wants nothing more (he is absolutely reckless and just wants to belong to someone :( he just wants love ok).

•Steve already had a breeding kink, but it becomes 10x stronger after presenting. The thought of filling someone up with his pups, stomach swollen from his seed? The thought alone makes him groan and become hard.

[starry-bi-sky]

Debuting Preparations

To avoid confusion, Danny will be referred to as ‘Danny’ rather than Thomas. This is a little snippet I thought of for my ‘Danny Fenton is Thomas Wayne au’ (different name pending)

OG Post

Miscellaneous Stuff P1

Miscellaneous Stuff P2

“How do I look, Boo?” Danny asked, his hands falling away from the tie wrapped around his neck as his eyes dropped to the little two year old next to him.

Bruce grinned toothily at him, raising his arms in a silent demand for uppies that Danny naturally had to follow. “Awesome, daddy!” He yelled, his voice layered with a toddler accent while his small legs hooked around Danny’s waist the moment he had him settled on his hip.

Danny matched his grin tooth-for-tooth, fingers digging into his ribs for a quick tickle as he blew a raspberry into Bruce’s cheek. Bruce squealed with laughter, and Danny dipped them both, laughing as he straightened up and Bruce tried to wriggle out of his arms.

“Good!” He said, removing the fingers from Bruce’s ribs and twisting to face the floor-length mirror. “We wouldn’t want daddy to look not awesome today, would we?” His cheek pressed against Bruce’s little black curls and Bruce leaned his head against his shoulder.

Bruce shook his head, his cheeks red with laughter. “Nooo.”

“No.” Danny agreed, his ghostly core purring low in content as he planted a kiss on the top of his son’s head. “We would not.”

Ask him three years ago when he was in the prime of his ghost-fighting days if he knew that he’d be living in Wayne Manor with a clone-son under the name Thomas Wayne, and Danny would have straight up just called you crazy. But here he was, in Wayne Manor, under the name Thomas Wayne, with a two year old son on his hip.

Some things are just too good to be true.

(Of course that’s if you ignore all the bullshit that happened along the way that ended with Danny being here.)

Now he was standing in a bedroom that was as big as the lab back home, preparing for his debut as the newly adopted son Thomas Wayne. Anyone who was anyone would be there, his new family seldom threw parties that weren’t charity balls, and even now his debut would have donation boxes for the various programs and charities in Gotham and outside of it.

He was in the nicest three-piece suit that he could afford (which was a lot now that he was part of the Wayne family,) and his normally fluffy black hair was slicked back and styled, showing off the pearl studs that Danny stole from Mrs. Wayne’s jewelry box.

(“Stole” as if Mrs. Wayne “call me Miriam” hadn’t gifted them to him.)

He looked like an entirely different person in the mirror. He didn’t look like runaway teen dad Daniel Fenton, ex-vigilante Phantom.

And that…

That was good. That was so good.

He looked like Thomas Nightingale-turned-Wayne. Still a teen dad, but just a regular one. Not a vigilante, not the son of ghost hunters. Just the adopted son of the very rich and philanthropic Wayne couple. He looked like just Thomas.

He smiled at himself in the mirror, a wriggling feeling of awe thrumming through his chest as he turned his head this way and that, looking for every little reminder of his past afterlife that didn’t take the form of his scars. The pearls glittered in his ears, adding to him an elegance that he didn’t know he possessed.

Danny wondered… if he changed now to Phantom, would he still look the same? Identity was everything to a ghost; who they were and what they present as is all that remains of them after death. It shows the world what the most important aspects of themself was. It shows the world what they thought was important.

If Danny’s changed, does that mean Phantom did too?

A loud series of knocks dragged him out of his introspection. Bruce wriggled out of his arms, and Danny put him down before he could be dropped, and then he faced the door. “Come in!” He called, his nerves igniting under his skin and he folded his hands behind his back in response.

The doorknob twisted, then clicked, and then the door swung open. Alfred Pennyworth, the new butler and predecessor of the old butler, also a Pennyworth, stood stiffly under the frame. “Master Thomas,” he greeted, the picture of butler formality in a suit, “it’s nearly time for you and Master Patrick and Mistress Miriam to leave for your debut gala, the car has been parked out front and is ready to leave when you are ready.”

Danny smiled easily at Alfred, watching Bruce from the corner of his eye as he exclaimed ‘Alfred!’ before darting toward him and latching onto his legs. Alfred’s only been with them for a few weeks and Bruce had warmed up significantly to the young man. Which was saying something because Bruce never warmed up to anyone that wasn’t Danny, or Mr. and Mrs. Wayne.

“Thanks Alfred.” He said, walking over in just a few quick strides, “And please, it’s just Thomas.” He’s been having growth spurts ever since he joined the Wayne household last year and now was edging closer to his dad’s height at a solid over-six-foot. Albeit with none of the muscle, apparently he inherited his mom’s litheness.

Plucking Bruce off of the ground, his son automatically reached for Alfred, and Danny saw the barest of smiles on the corner of Alfred’s mouth as he took Bruce from him. “I’m afraid I will have to continue referring to you as Master Thomas, Master Thomas.“

“One day I’ll convince you.” Danny joked, waiting for Alfred to step out of the doorway before moving down the hallway. “You can’t keep calling me Master Thomas forever!” He’s annoyed stubborner people into doing what he wants before, he’ll wear down Alfred eventually.

“I do believe I can, Master Thomas.” Alfred quipped lightly, adjusting his hold on Bruce so that he was better situated on his hip. Bruce was playing with his tie again, ignoring their conversation in all the ways a two year old can. An easy sort of innocence that Danny never failed to be endeared by.

He pulled on the sleeves of his suit-jacket thoughtlessly, the small silvery cufflinks shimmering from the corner of his eye, trying to demand for Danny’s attention. He knows it got Bruce’s, his son’s head snapping away from Alfred’s tie to watch his wrists. Like a cat watching a laser-pointer.

Danny laughed softly and twisted his wrists slowly, letting the cufflinks glitter under the lights. Bruce’s pupils began to dilate, and the tips of his ears — rounder than Danny’s but pointier than a regular human’s — twitched very slightly.

Bruce held his arms out towards his wrists, leaning out of Alfred’s grasp to grab them. “See—! Let me see!” He demanded, nearly falling out of Alfred’s hold. Alfred’s hand shot out to grab him before he could tumble out of his arms, a look of momentary panic flashing over his face.

“Master Bruce!” He exclaimed, and then he took on a more scolding look. “You have to be careful, you can’t throw yourself out of someone’s arms like that!”

Bruce wriggled with a loud, child-like whine. “I wanna see! Pretty!” He said, then tried reaching for Danny again.

“Please, Boo.” Danny reminded, circling his palm over his chest, but he was already holding his arms out to Bruce to take him. Bruce might be as close to human as he could get with the extra benefits, but he still had some ghostly habits. Being attracted to sudden shiny things was one of them.

“Please.” Bruce repeated, pressing his hand to his chest and making a small circle. It wasn’t a perfect please, but it was the best he could do at two. Danny took him from Alfred and gave him his wrist as he settled him on his side.

Danny ran his fingers through Bruce’s hair and stroked his cheek. Bruce merely played with his cufflinks, pulling on the silver buttons and turning them this way and that to try and catch the light. “Alfred’s right, you can’t lean out like that, Boo. You could get hurt.”

Bruce didn’t look up and didn’t respond, so Danny lightly pinched his cheek. Although ‘pinch’ wouldn’t be the right term for it. He mimicked the pinching gesture and held his cheek, but didn’t actually use any pressure. It was just to get his attention. He lightly shook his cheek, “Did you hear me, Boo? We ask to get down if we want to get down, okay?”

“Okay.” Bruce said, glancing up at him briefly only to look back down at his cufflinks a moment later. With a soft huff Danny dropped his hand and tightened his hold.

“Can we say sorry to Alfred then? It really scared him when you nearly fell.” Scared was an exaggeration, and Danny saw Alfred give him a bemused look from the corner of his eye.

Again, Bruce looked up for only a moment, and this time he looked at Alfred. “Bruce is sorry Alfred.” He said, tiny fingers crunched around Danny’s sleeve. His ‘Alfred’ sounded more like an ‘Al-fed’, and Alfred smiled endearingly even when Bruce dropped his head back down a second later.

Danny huffed low again, shooting Alfred an apologetic smile as he pulled his hand out of Bruce’s little grasp and stroked his hair. “We’re getting there.”

————taglist————

@vipower001

@storm-and-fire

@blankliferain

@chrysanthemum9484

@mnemovoid

@blueflipflops (why not? I remember mentioning i’d tag you if I make a oneshot, lmk if you dont wanna be tagged)

@steampunkunicorn01 (I remember you asked for a tag too in my og post)

@the-legal-shipper

@skulld3mort-1fan

Its not exactly a fic but its a oneshot so it kinda counts. Lmk if any of yall dont wanna get tagged in any future oneshots or continuations (or if you would but only for specific posts)

Extra note: Bruce’s behavior and dialogue is based off of how i’ve seen actual two year olds act and speak (which can differ based on where they are developmentally and as a two year old. If they’ve recently turned two, they could still be speaking essentially broken english. Then as they get closer to three they start speaking in more complete sentences. I know two little girls who referred to themselves in third person for a while, hence the ‘Bruce is sorry’.) I’m a daycare teacher so I’ve seen a lot of two year olds, so its written to my best abilities while avoiding common ‘child writing stereotypes’.

[promptingyou]

(blank) to lovers

classmates who always end up sitting beside each other bc their last names start with the same letter

comedic duo side character friends who seem very platonic in group settings but show more vulnerability when they spend some time alone

academic rivals who eventually find out they both work hard for the same (usually tragic) reason

co-workers at a very fancy (and expensive) cafe who originally only know each other based on their customer service persona but eventually get to know the real them

town tarot card reader and local newspaper skeptic

star athlete and the (physically), weakest assistant manager known to exist

strangers who meet on the last train out of town: one having had the best day of their life and the other having had the worst (like that meme lmao)

best friend of the class clown and best friend of the class president

chronically online nerd and off the grid farmer

friend of a friend of a friend of a friend

fake dating (but as spies or something in a life or death situation)

penpals since they were 13, vowed to never meet in person, but did so accidentally

airport crush to crush at the resort your family is staying at for a family reunion to return flight airport crush

neighbours who end up helping each other since each of their weaknesses are perfectly supported by the other's strengths

minimalist friend and maximalist friend

small craft supply store part-timer and camp counselor

two friends who have endlessly convinced themselves that they have no romantic feelings for each other but eventually realize that theyre the only one for them when it's almost too late

exes to platonic co stars in a movie/show/play

met on a dating app and eventually went on a date bc they thought it would result in a funny story but actually it led

caterer and florist who both work with an insufferable wedding planner

new years kiss with a stranger at a grubby local bar

[remarcely]

I'm frothing at the mouth between the narrative reflections of Morpheus's journey after his capture, Hobs persistence in life and the demolition of the old Inn. Like

The familiar comfort there was meeting every 100 years in the same building with controlled change. The bricks and wooden supports stayed the same, but the walls were painted over and over, wallpaper torn down as times changed, and new chairs to replace the old ones.

Then it closed down permanently, scheduled for demolition.

But Hob remained and built the New Inn to cling onto the hope his dear old friend would return. It was a big change, likely harrowing at first, but Hob wasn't one to give up at the seven-hundreth hurdle.

Morpheus had everything taken from him, his pride and domain, but he fought to reclaim his belongings and repair the damage caused in his absence.

He may have needed a visual reminder of why he should want to survive in spite of everything by reuniting with his friend, but his own will to live didn't disappear entirely. It was demolished and then rebuilt.

[hnyibee]

wonder how priest feels knowing she has some of the coolest women ever in her character roster

[movietonight]

While there are things to criticise mash for and those conversations are important to have some of what I read can be explained very easily by reminding yourself

It was a TV show

On a budget

From years ago

From America

Written by a variety of human writers

Who used characters and plots to tell stories

Within a certain number of minutes