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teyamskxawng · 11 months

Text

What Once Was [II]

Lo'ak Sully x Fem!Omatikaya!Reader

Neteyam Sully x Fem!Omatikaya!Reader

Previously: I

The rundown: You're confused and Lo'ak is skating around his feelings and everything is a mess.

Warnings: language, love triangle (but this chapter is Lo’ak heavy), jealousy, suggestive themes, miscommunication, angst, Lo'ak can't handle change, Lo'ak is emotionally immature, everyone is kind of oblivious, characters are aged up

WC: 6.0k

A/N: heating up one side of the love triangle in this chapter! and i finally know how i'm going to end this fic...it's not how i initially intended and it'll be kind of really sad for one of the brothers, but you'll just have to wait and see ig >:)

You're only half paying attention as you trail behind your friend, Näatoä, as she skillfully navigates through the rows of your fellow clanspeople gathered around Hometree's center. Everyone's deeply immersed in their evening meals, chatting and laughing together just like any other night. Näatoä's eyes scan the surroundings intently, searching for a vacant spot for both of you to settle down and eat. All the while, she animatedly chats away about something or the other from her day, the words just spilling out as she talks to you over her shoulder.

Honestly, you're doing a fairly decent job of feigning interest in the conversation—occasionally throwing in a well-timed "mhm" or an enthusiastic "wow" every so often. You're committed to being a good friend; you swear you are. However, tonight your mind is all scattered, entirely preoccupied with the events from earlier in the day.

Ever since returning from your excursion, there's been this nagging sensation tugging at the edge of your conscience—a feeling you can't quite shake off. It's like a massive, dark storm cloud that stubbornly refuses to dissipate. Your nerves are all tangled after witnessing what was undoubtedly the catalyst for yet another heated exchange between Lo'ak and Neteyam. Though you only caught a mere fraction of the confrontation, there's no questioning its inevitable intensification in your mind. Lately, it feels like they're always at each other's throats like that. No matter how hard you try to dismiss it as trivial sibling rivalry or youthful indiscretion, it's impossible to ignore the fact that their confrontations have grown increasingly frequent as of late.

You genuinely hate seeing their relationship deteriorate this way. The mystery of how Jake and Neytiri manage to cope with such constant friction between those two is beyond you. It just doesn't make sense. The fact is, Lo'ak and Neteyam are brothers, and they seriously need to start acting like it. They should be learning to embrace their bond instead of perpetually defying it.

As you wander through the bustling crowd around Hometree with Näatoä still chattering away by your side, all these concerns refuse to leave you alone—spiraling around and around in your thoughts.

Straining your neck to see beyond a towering group of Na'vi gathered in front of you, your eyes scan the dimly lit den with an intensity fueled by your need to find any clue of the Sully family's whereabouts. Admittedly, your search is probably a little frantic and unfocused, a fact only underscored by your inability to avoid tripping over your own two feet. Except they’re not your feet—no, those feet belong to Näatoä. And there you are, gracelessly hurtling straight into her back.

"Vonvä'! Watch it," she hisses irritably, swiftly spinning around on the very heel you had stepped on. As she turns, her hand darts out to flick you hard, right in the middle of your forehead—an act that may have been deserved but still caused you to wince and bite back a curse at how painfully it stung.

Staggering backward a little from the impact, fate would have it that you manage to step on the tuft of yet another unfortunate bystander's tail.

The resulting commotion catches the attention of several curious onlookers, their judgemental gazes swiveling in your direction as you scramble to play off the debacle with a hurried apology.

"Sorry," you mutter hastily to both Näatoä and the poor unsuspecting Na'vi, attempting a feeble wave in their general direction while simultaneously trying to soothe the now-throbbing spot on your forehead. Näatoä clicks her tongue disapprovingly, but you notice a faint smile playing on her lips as she loops her arm around yours and pulls you down to sit next to her on the floor.

"Eat," she commands, firmly nudging your bowl of food in your direction with one hand while simultaneously grabbing her own with the other. "Before your clumsy ass knocks out the entire clan," she adds under her breath, though still audible enough for you to hear.

"It's not like I intended for everyone to be directly in my path," you mumble defensively, your words slightly garbled due to the generous mouthful of food you're trying to chew.

She rolls her eyes, and you're not entirely sure if it's because of your lack of table manners or the thick layer of sarcasm that coated your previous statement. One thing you're certain about, though, is that she's currently employing her best imitation of sympathetic understanding by nodding her head in faux agreement. "Mhm, sure, sure," she plays along. Pausing to study you for a moment, she finally inquires, "Who were you looking for, anyway? You clearly were not listening to me."

A mix of curiosity and amusement momentarily replaces her irritation as she watches your eyes conspicuously dart away from hers.

"I wasn't looking for anyone," you say, shrugging your shoulders dismissively and giving your head a firm shake. You hope it comes across as more convincing than it sounds to your own ears. And as if the universe has a twisted sense of humor, that's precisely when the whole Sully family decides to enter the den.

Your eyes quickly dart across the room as you watch all six of them make their way toward the spread of food occupying the center of the room. Instantly, your ears perk up in curious anticipation, and your gaze somehow inevitably finds its way to Lo'ak, who appears just about as pissed off at the world as he did earlier that afternoon.

It's unnerving.

Sure, Lo'ak tends to slip into these little moods every now and then, but he usually snaps out of it within a few hours or so. More importantly, he doesn't let these moods get in the way of your friendship. Yet this time feels different; he's been like this for most of the entire day—just stewing in his silent, stony sulkiness. All that just because you decided to invite Neteyam to join you.

You're yanked back from your momentary reverie by the sound of Näatoä's laughter ringing throughout your ears.

"Oh, Eywa, y/n," Näatoä says, shaking her head in disbelief. "You could not lie to save your life," She tries to stifle her snickers, but they continue to escape her in a stream of unabashed peals. You whip your head around to find Näatoä's eyes trained on the very same spot yours lingered just moments ago.

You sneak one more furtive glance at Lo'ak's deadpan face before reluctantly turning back to confront Näatoä. Her eyes are wide, brimming with amusement, and you can't help but roll your own eyes in response. Eager to avoid the conversation, you begin devouring your meal like it's a lifeline. It's a distraction–something, anything else to focus on apart from her relentless teasing.

However, as you hurriedly stuff a piece of sturmbeest into your mouth and sneak a peek back at Näatoä, you're met with an unimpressed expression of disbelief staring back at you. As she tilts her head, she gives you an expectant look that reminds you of a parent waiting for their guilty child to come clean and explain themselves. With a heavy sigh that seems to escape from the deepest depths within you, your eyes once again flit upward to Hometree as though seeking divine intervention.

Feeling cornered, you manage to say, "Okay, I was looking for Neteyam," even though it's kind of a lie. Näatoä is right—when it comes to lying, you're notoriously bad at it. With this sudden realization gnawing at the edge of your consciousness, you shift uncomfortably in your seat. Feeling self-conscious and eager to defend yourself, you scramble for something more convincing.

"He looks good today," tumbles out of your mouth as an afterthought, and it's definitely a little bit less of a lie.

You're admittedly suspicious of Näatoä's peculiar and uncharacteristic silence as you nudge at the remaining food in your bowl. You fully expected some kind of snarky response or at least a little quip in response to your admission. The unnerving silence hangs heavy in the air, stretching out for a few seconds too many. Your curiosity eventually gets the better of you, compelling you to hesitantly lift your eyes from the remnants of your meal to take a peek at her face.

As expected, Näatoä is already staring right back at you—her yellow eyes all narrowed and her lips pulled up into a self-satisfied grin.

"What?" Your voice comes out as a hesitant whisper, unable to conceal just how thoroughly disconcerted you are by her unreadable expression.

Entirely out of the blue, Näatoä casually remarks, "So you think Lo'ak looks good, too."

For a moment, you're completely baffled by the statement, unsure of how she even arrived at that conclusion. You let out a scoff, probably a little louder than necessary. She always seems to do this—persistently attempting to insinuate that there's some sort of unspoken chemistry between you and Lo'ak, despite your constant reassurances that absolutely nothing is going on. It has never been like that between the two of you.

"I said Neteyam," you clarify with an exasperated tone, firmly grasping her ear and speaking into it in a bid to make your point penetrate through her thick skull.

With some effort, Näatoä wriggles away from your grip and manages to free her ear from your pinching fingers; however, her expression remains unchanged. If anything, it broadens into an even more sinister grin—all her sparkling-white teeth on full display—seeming to feed off the frustration reflected in your expression.

"You do not think they look alike?" she inquires innocently, her gaze drifting towards the two subjects of your conversation. Casually and needlessly clarifying the glaringly obvious fact for you, she adds, "They're brothers." You bite back the urge to sarcastically retort, 'No shit,' out of pure spite.

Your eyes can't help but follow suit, and you watch Lo'ak and Neteyam as they trail behind their family, each carrying a bowl of food in their hands. They both wear similar bored expressions on their faces. It's like they're perfectly synchronized as they sit down in unison and pick up identical pieces of fruit from their respective bowls. It's at that very moment that their eyes find yours, which are already gazing intently in their direction.

It's too late to pretend you weren't watching them, so you just offer a weak smile, trying to play it casual. You then quickly avert your eyes, focusing back on the food in front of you.

And now you're all conflicted, because admitting that Lo'ak is handsome was never something you allowed yourself to do. He's just Lo'ak. You see his stupid face every single day without it ever bothering you. However, deep down inside, you know he's undeniably good-looking. In fact, he's probably very good-looking by most people's standards, given how you hear some of your friends go on and on about him. But there's a huge difference between finding someone objectively attractive and being genuinely attracted to them.

You're not attracted to Lo'ak. Maybe you're attracted to Neteyam, but definitely not to your best friend. They don't even look remotely similar; Näatoä is just being a skxawng for the sake of humor, right? Right. At least, that's what you keep telling yourself in an attempt to calm down your sudden uproar of emotion.

It's really no surprise when you hear the unmistakable chime of Näatoä's laughter filling the air beside you.

"Shut up," you whisper under your breath, not even bringing yourself to look in her direction. You're well aware that your face is turning a deep shade of purple, and that would almost certainly spur her on even more. As much as Näatoä tries to suppress her snickers with the back of her hand, she's failing miserably at it, and you have to pinch her leg hard to finally get her to knock it off.

Fortunately, as the meal progresses, Näatoä manages to rein in her teasing antics, allowing the atmosphere to shift into one of relative peace. Your previous stress starts to wither away, the pressure that was once heavy on your shoulders begins to ease, and you're relieved that things seem to have settled down for the time being.

And surprisingly, Lo'ak's demeanor seems to have changed for the better. Amidst all the quiet munching and chit-chatting, as your fellow clanspeople are concluding their meals and winding up their conversations, you can't help but feel his eyes on you. Curiosity gets the better of you, and you catch his gaze once more. You regard him with a puzzled expression, your face scrunched up in confusion.

Lo'ak genuinely smiles at you—a warm and sincere smile that makes you instantly feel at ease. Then, he subtly tilts his head toward the outskirts of Hometree. Your gaze naturally follows the trajectory of his discreet gesture, and you find yourself filled with an unparalleled surge of joy.

You don't even need him to say anything else; you understand what Lo'ak is proposing: another one of your late-night adventures through the forest after dinner. It’s always been one of your favorite activities from your childhood—the memories of you and Lo'ak stealthily slipping out past Hometree, blatantly defying curfew and avoiding the watchful eyes of your elders with adventurous hearts still bring a smile to your face. Those shared moments built the foundation of the unbreakable bond between the two of you—a bond so special that words fail to do it justice. And even still, each of your late-night treks serves as a reminder of your unwavering closeness. The mere thought of it makes your heart race with anticipation, and it's like your mood instantly heightens tenfold.

There's no need for further discussion or confirmation; your enthusiastic nod toward Lo'ak speaks volumes about your eagerness to accept his invitation. That simple gesture reveals the child-like excitement bubbling inside you as visions of rediscovering the forest with him flash before your eyes.

In record time, you stuff the last remaining bits of food into your mouth

and offer a hasty farewell to a perplexed-looking Näatoä. Then, with an invigorated spark in your eyes, you swiftly rise to your feet and navigate through the crowded den full of Na'vi toward the exit.

The anxiety that had been plaguing you earlier now feels like a distant memory as you emerge onto the well-worn path just beyond the edge of Hometree. The encroaching darkness makes it difficult to see, so you squint your eyes, scanning your surroundings in the hopes of spotting Lo'ak. Almost on cue, you're greeted by a familiar four-fingered hand mischievously wrapping around the back of your neck. The sensation tickles, causing an involuntary squeak to escape from you as you instinctively hunch your shoulders for protection, which only succeeds in trapping his hand even more firmly in place. You probably look stupid, and Lo'ak's snort of laughter basically confirms your suspicions. Despite numerous instances of this exact situation playing out in the past, you never learn.

"You're not allowed to touch my neck," you gasp out between gritted teeth while struggling to dislodge his hand from its entrenched position. In your efforts, you dig your nails into his hand with a little more force than necessary, but he deserves it.

You could swear that Lo'ak is quietly mocking you under his breath as he hastily withdraws his hand from your vice-like grip with a pained grimace.

"Come on," he says, this time clear enough for you to hear. He casts a glance your way and good-naturedly shakes his head at you, amusement dancing in his eyes. His grin is infectious as he takes the lead, plunging boldly ahead into the dense forest—and without any hesitation or delay, you happily trail behind him.

Together, under the forest canopy dappled by moonlight and shadows stretching along the dirt path beneath your feet, you forge ahead through rich foliage and night sounds carried on a soft breeze. Like always, you take deep breaths of the fresh evening air as you move through the lush flora. The crisp night air fills your lungs while nocturnal critters rustle in the underbrush nearby like a comforting symphony of life.

It's completely dark out, save for patches of bioluminescence shimmering within the forest's depths, by the time you and Lo'ak finally find a spot where you can stop for a while and just revel in each other's company, completely immersed in the natural world around you.

Here in this hidden corner of the forest, the two of you sit side by side on a moss-covered log, your legs swinging gently off its side. You're resting on the edge of a steep drop-off, the quiet world unfolding beneath you. The breathtaking panorama of the entire forest landscape lays out before you–trees stretching out as far as the eye can see, their leaves shimmering under the light of a million stars. The cool night air brushes past your skin, almost as if the forest is whispering its secrets just for you.

The beauty of your surroundings envelops you, and for a moment, you feel completely at ease. Just for a moment, though. Because just as soon as you start to settle into the tranquility, an eerie quiet settles in, and your brain begins to race, pulling you forcibly back into the confusing chaos that is reality. Your thoughts ricochet between the palpable tension stewing between Lo'ak and Neteyam—a tension that you're about 95% sure is entirely of your own making—to Näatoä's quips that are seemingly light-hearted and casual but at the same time carry weighty truths within them. You're increasingly aware of the fact that you might find your best friend—the guy sitting next to you at this very moment—attractive. All these thoughts and realizations crash together until there's so much tension in the air that it suffocates the once-peaceful landscape.

As you sit there ruminating on all these complex emotions, memories of countless nights spent side by side with Lo'ak—your closest confidant—flood your mind. Nights where both of you basked in each other's company, wrapped in a comforting silence that now feels so foreign to you. The silence that envelops the two of you now is anything but comfortable—a stark contrast to the past. It's thick and heavy with unspoken emotions threatening to swallow both of you whole.

Your heart pounds in your chest as every tiny detail around you seems to come into focus. You're suddenly hyper-aware of yourself, of the way you're sitting, of the way you're breathing, of the way you're fidgeting. And just like that, you convince yourself that Lo'ak can undoubtedly sense your escalating anxiety. And he is, you decide, definitely acting weird, too, which only fuels your growing unease. This strange dance between silence and apprehension leaves you feeling like you're floating outside the realm of reality. You're surprised by how much you regret agreeing to spend time with Lo'ak tonight. It's a disconcerting thought, given how close the two of you are. He's your best friend, But even now, as he sits right beside you, he seems far, far away. This newfound distance looms like a mountain between you and him, something imperceptible yet undeniably real.

This dissonance starts to gnaw at you from within; confusion swirls through your mind until it's nearly suffocating. You feel a desperate need to distance yourself from Lo'ak before things spiral out of control and you do something stupid.

Gathering every ounce of willpower, you force yourself to stand up and walk away for a moment, hoping to regain some semblance of composure. Distracted by your inner turmoil, you barely avoid tripping over a protruding tree root in your path. The unmistakable sound of beads clashing together in Lo'ak's hair reaches your ears, and you know he must be whipping his head around to watch your graceless departure. Muttering a curse under your breath, you resolve to pay more attention to where you're stepping and make a genuine effort not to fall flat on your face.

Choosing to ignore Lo'ak's watchful gaze, you shift your focus to the ground beneath your feet. You inhale deeply; take a moment of respite. You need it. The nocturnal world vibrates with life as dimly glowing flora light up your path, and each one of your steps awakes a spark of luminance beneath your feet. On any other night, this moonlit scenery would have you pausing at every flowering plant and reaching out to brush every radiant leaf in captivated wonder.

But tonight, none of it seems to stir your emotions. Your thoughts are far, far away.

To shake off this suffocating feeling, you feign interest in a nearby bioluminescent plant that glimmers in the corner of your eye, its surface shimmering with residual moisture from an earlier downpour.

You zone out slightly as the rhythmic pitter-patter of water droplets falls onto the illuminated leaves. Half-heartedly watching the display before you, each time a droplet makes contact with the plant's surface, it changes colors and brightens the surrounding shadows just a bit. Mesmerizing greens and blues dance over its exterior in hypnotic sequences. Yet even amidst such beauty, you find yourself feeling disconnected from it all.

Lo'ak's voice interrupts your thoughts as he asks from his position on the ground, "What are you looking at?" You barely register his question as it reaches your consciousness and floats around like another leaf in the wind. You don't even bother to turn around to look at him; you know his curious gaze remains fixed on you.

"Nothing," you respond nonchalantly, and it's not even really a lie. You're lost in your thoughts, letting your eyes bore aimlessly into the swirling colors of the bioluminescent plant before you.

Lo'ak seems to accept your answer at first, staying quiet as if giving you your space. You assume he's decided to drop his probing at that, leaving you to your wandering thoughts. But it's not even ten seconds before you hear the soft crunch of his footsteps gradually approaching from the distance. Soon enough, you sense the warmth of his presence right behind you. Like, seriously right behind you.

He's so close that you can pick up on every tiny inhale and exhale he takes as he breathes, and it sends goosebumps across your skin. The air feels electric as Lo'ak wraps his arms around your middle, his chin nestling comfortably in the crook where your neck meets your shoulder. He fits there perfectly, as if that little spot was made specifically for him.

"You okay?" he asks in a soft murmur, genuine concern lacing his voice. As he speaks, you can feel the rumble of his words resonate through your entire being from your closeness.

This level of closeness isn't entirely out of character for you both; you were naturally touchy from years of friendship. But something about this particular moment feels different: more profound, more intensely charged. It's a heightened sensitivity that causes your heart to skip a beat.

You don't trust yourself to speak, so you simply nod in assurance. But that makes your cheeks inadvertently brush against one another's, which in turn makes your heart feel like it's about to explode from your chest. Every part of you seems to react to the minute touch. Your ears twitch nervously, and your tail thrashes wildly, smacking Lo'ak standing behind you. Your gaze falls to a random spot on the forest floor, as if it could somehow calm the rapid beating of your heart.

But Lo'ak doesn't make things any easier. Instead, he starts tracing dizzying little patterns on the sensitive skin just above the edge of your loincloth with his thumb. It makes the muscles in your stomach tense up, but before you can even begin to gather yourself and process what's happening, Lo'ak's lips softly press against the curve of your shoulder. It's hesitant, but it's there. It's a kiss, not just some figment of your imagination.

Lo'ak grows bolder with every tender kiss he plants—first onto the jut of your collarbone and then gently into the crook of your neck. Somewhere amid this flurry of tender affection, your eyes close without your permission and your breath starts coming out all airy and high. Each point where his lips come into contact with your skin sends shivers down your spine, a storm of tingles so strong and still somehow so delicate. Lo'ak's arms tighten around you, and in response, you tilt your head to the side in an unspoken invitation for him to continue doing whatever the fuck it is that he's doing to you. You're not sure what it is or what it even means at this point. All you know is that it feels so good.

A murmured "Lo'ak" escapes from your lips without any real forethought. You're so out of it, not even sure of the intended purpose behind saying his name aloud, but the breathiness of your voice only seems to spur him further into action.

As if compelled by an unseen force, Lo'ak's hands slide from your front, his fingers fluidly tracing the curves of your hips. They travel upwards, following the contour of your waist and pulling you even closer into his embrace. Your head dips forward, and Lo'ak takes advantage of your momentary shift to nose at the nape of your neck. He's soft and insistent as he breathes you in, pressing tender kisses into the delicate skin there.

He's like an anchor. You willingly sink into his touch, allowing yourself to be consumed by it as you press yourself closer into him, closer into the firmness at the front of his loincloth. Lo'ak's shuddering breath brushes warmly against your neck.

You can feel his fingers dancing across your skin, exploring every contour and curve as they move lower, down towards your stomach. Just barely grazing over the fabric of your own loincloth, his touch comes tantalizingly close to that one spot where desire pools and threatens to overflow. It wouldn't even take much; all he'd have to do is just nudge your legs apart, slip his fingers beneath the hem of your loincloth–

Your entire being seems to crave him with an inexplicable intensity. This sudden longing is all-encompassing, completely overwhelming in its power, unlike anything you've ever experienced. You feel overwhelmed by the very idea; just contemplating the possibility is enough to push you to the limits because you've never let yourself feel that way about Lo'ak. Ever.

As if on cue, reality asserts itself with a sharp jolt that clears away any lingering fogginess from your mind. The scene that moments ago felt like a hazy dream now stands starkly before you in sharp relief.

This is Lo'ak—the same Lo'ak who has never displayed any signs or shown any inclination of wanting anything more than a pure, platonic friendship. Yet, here he is, just inches away from crossing that line.

"Wait. Lo'ak, stop." Your voice is firm, no longer caught in the confusion that clouded your mind moments ago.

And that brings Lo'ak to an abrupt halt, his lips lingering on your neck for half a second before he pulls away with lightning speed. He almost pushes you away from him in his haste, taking a full step back and blinking down at you like an idiot. You'd laugh at him if the situation wasn't so dire.

"What are you doing?" you question him point-blank, devoid of any humor. Your voice feels like it's lodged firmly in your throat.

For a moment, Lo'ak stands there before you as if shocked by your question. His chest heaves with how hard he's breathing, and he stumbles over his words as he attempts to find an explanation that'd make sense of his actions. "Shit... I'm sorry... I just..."

His voice trails off into nothingness. It's like his brain has suddenly given up on trying to form coherent words. Observing his evident difficulty in explaining himself, your expression shifts to a mix of annoyance and confusion at his sudden hesitance. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing just moments ago when he had you all pressed against him.

With growing frustration, you decide to push Lo'ak even further. "You just what?" you demand impatiently. Lo'ak can't seem to maintain eye contact, his eyes darting away from you as he nervously licks his lips. You can almost see the gears in his mind turning, attempting to catch up with the pace of the conversation.

At long last, it seems as though he finally manages to gather up his scattered thoughts.

"You seriously don't know?" he asks, which only serves to confuse you even more.

"Obviously, I don't know!" By this point, your irritation with Lo'ak is reaching its peak. You're about two seconds away from strangling him.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he admits quietly, leaving your breath hitched in your throat. "It's not like how friends think about each other, though. It's been building up inside me, and it all just...came out. I don't know."

His unexpected confession takes you entirely by surprise; however, that tiny flame of anger still flickers within the depths of your soul, refusing to be snuffed out quite so easily. You weren't born yesterday—you're well aware that this sudden whirlwind of emotions has something to do with your recent closeness to Lo'ak's brother. You've sensed the palpable tension between them whenever you're in their company. The only thing puzzling you is why you hadn't picked up on Lo'ak's apparent feelings for you sooner. It's not like your conversations had ever veered into this kind of territory before.

"Why did this suddenly surface now, of all times? As soon as I start to get close to Neteyam?" you ask, completely overwhelmed with uncertainty and confusion. "You've never shown any interest in wanting to do–"

With a futile sweeping gesture of your hand, you try to wordlessly convey everything Lo'ak did to you, every complicated emotion and tingling sensation he evoked. None of it could be put into words.

"–all of that stuff," you finally say, even as the memories send a flush of heat crawling up your cheeks.

Lo'ak seems to recoil from the conversation. His voice lowers to a barely audible whisper, and his eyes shift away, uneasy about meeting yours as he mutters his next words. "Because I never let myself believe someone could come in and take you from me like he did."

This sudden confession sends your emotions spiraling into new territory. A part of you fills with warmth as you realize just how much Lo'ak values your connection and how deeply he cherishes what lies between the two of you—something truly heartwarming. But an entirely different part of you wants to slap the taste out of his mouth for even insinuating that you're some kind of commodity, an item that he has claim over. The urge flares and fades as quickly as it arrives. That's a conversation for another time.

You press further, seeking clarity: "And what if Neteyam never came into the picture…? Is this just some stupid game you're trying to beat your brother at?"

A deafening silence hangs in the air as Lo'ak's ears pin flat against his skull. His eyes flicker all over your face, revealing an array of emotions difficult to decipher, and you're unsure if you even want to understand them. You don't know if it'd break your heart or not. He attempts to reach for your arm—a familiar gesture that usually brings you comfort, but you instinctively pull away, letting out a heavy sigh of frustration.

"I'm not a toy for you to mess around with, Lo'ak. Just spit it out. What is this?" You wave a hand back and forth between the two of you, almost frantically, desperation overpowering your self-control. You just need a clear answer.

"You're my best friend," Lo'ak says, but that isn't what you're looking for. If he's actually serious—if this isn't just a ploy to one-up his brother—then you need to hear him be honest about his feelings. So, you press him further with a pointed inquiry: "And?"

Lo'ak's eyebrows knit together as he stares at you like you've just asked him the most bizarre question.

"And what? What else is there to say?" As soon as those words leave Lo'ak's lips, you know he knows he fucked up. His eyes widen in panic as his mouth opens and closes like a stupid fish, scrambling to save face.

With an unimpressed huff of laughter, you shake your head at him—not a hint of genuine amusement present in the sound. Because he said it himself; you were just his best friend. Nothing else, nothing more than a tool to serve his chronic lack of self-confidence. Now that he's gotten his lick, he can go brag about it to his brother, and then he can go fuck himself.

You stand there, arms tightly crossed over your middle, gripping your elbows with such intensity that your skin turns pale beneath your fingers. But this only serves as a reminder of how Lo'ak had his arms around you, and that makes you want to throw up. Hastily releasing your grip, you uncross your arms and swallow back the sickening feeling of being used.

Your mother always tells you that you're too friendly, too naive and vulnerable for your own good. It's part of the reason why your parents encouraged you to be a warrior—so you could protect yourself from the people who have the wrong intentions. But you never let yourself think it'd be Lo'ak who would try to hurt you.

You feel yourself becoming increasingly detached from the present moment. There's nothing left here for you, no reason for the charade to continue any longer.

It's all so stupid. Everything about the situation is a mess; you can't stand being in Lo'ak's presence anymore. It's like you're seeing straight through him, like your best friend has suddenly morphed into someone you can barely recognize.

"Please just go away," you say to him, and to your embarrassment, your voice quakes with the intensity of emotions coursing through you. The overwhelming feeling is enough to make you avert your eyes from Lo'ak, choosing instead to turn completely around and refocus on the vast expanse of forest stretching out behind you. It doesn't really matter what you're looking at now—it could be an endless black void, for all you're aware. Your mind is consumed by a whirlwind of thoughts, and as you fight back the tears threatening to spill over, all you can think about is how much you want to crawl into the nearest hole and die.

"Y/n," Lo'ak tries, but your resolve remains steadfast, even more so as a burning tear leaves a trail down your cheek. Thankfully, Lo'ak isn't as stupid as you thought he was. Soon enough, his retreating footsteps echo away until they ultimately fade into the deep forest's embrace. You take this time to silently count in your head—

One... two... three...

—pushing yourself all the way up to one hundred before finally giving yourself permission to break this self-imposed stillness. Hastily, your hand darts up to erase any hints of tears from your cheeks while desperately trying to sniffle back those that still insist on escaping their confines.

Even though you heard Lo'ak's retreat, you can't help but cling to the irrational fear that he might still be lingering somewhere nearby. So, with a heavy sigh and reluctant hesitation, you decide to face your fears and take a good look around, just to put your mind at ease.

The forest is just as it was before: bathed in shadows and silence, save for the gentle humming of Pandoran night sounds that fill your ears. You're completely alone, and the weight of solitude hangs heavy on your shoulders.

You're still trying to decide whether you should be happy about that or not.

A/N: next chapter should be much more Neteyam-centric. that's all i'm gonna say tho

Taglist (ily <3):

@taleiak, @ineedafictionalman

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adobe-outdesign · 24 days

Note

have you reviewed the meditite line?

Meditite is one of my favorite types of Pokemon, that being the weird creature that's vaguely humanoid but in a way that makes it really hard to describe easily. In this case, it's an onion-headed creature that has meditation as a theme, with two swirls on the sides of its head and a primarily blue body.

As a whole, while I like Medicham more, this design is pretty good. I like the shape of the head, especially with how perfectly the eyes interlock with it. Speaking of eyes, they have a very distinct look to them, as does the mouth.

My only real issue with Meditite is that the white around the waist looks a bit weird—maybe if the white just extended down the leg a bit more. Also, I do wish it resembled its evo more. There are a few small similarities—gray skin, flat doll-like eyes, weird head structure—but I feel like the resemblance could've been better. I think this mostly could've been fixed by just swapping out the blue for Medicham's pink.

The shiny basically does this, and it works perfectly (though I would still keep the skin the neutral gray).

Medicham is such a weird looking 'mon, but I've always found myself really liking it. Something about those giant-ass legs and skinny body just gives it a really neat shape, and it's the right combo of strange and elegant. The baggy "pants" have just the right amount of gold accents and markings on them, which are accented by the same colors and shapes being used on the head.

My one complaint here is that the head thing doesn't go around the back of the head, so it's just kind of stuck in the front.

The 3D model up top actually makes this worse, as the pink used to extend down the head to a degree back when sprites were being used. I guess they changed it to be more accurate to the official art, but frankly I'd rather it not line up one-to-one if the overall model looks better.

And Mega Medicham's also really good; by far my favorite of the line. A lot of megas struggle with just being the originals with Stuff(TM) added to their designs without rhyme or reason, but Mega Medicham's got a very clear theme with the addition of psychic arms, which are vaguely Buddist/Hindu-esq and also make sense for a partial fighting-type.

But the other thing that works about it is that it feels like it improves and expands upon Medicham's base design in just the right way without going overboard. The somewhat awkward head piece has been replaced with a more turban-like design, and the arms have gained two golden bands, which carry the color through the design better than the original. The sheer size of the legs has been reduced down without loosing their visual punch, and they've been given a more natural shape as well. A few extra layers of gold bands have been added above the "pants" along with a row of blue beads, which accent its new blue eyes. It's better balanced in both color and form.

Another little detail I like about it is that it also makes the entire line look better by harkening back to Meditite—note how the blue accents are the same color as Meditite's body, or how the white hat matches its head better, or how the gold bands on the arms are placed similarly to Meditiate's white stripes. Good stuff.

My only little nitpick is that the pink plume on the top of the head looks a bit odd. It's meant to match the three plumes on the base design, but I feel like you could've extended the middle piece above the gold center, then made that and the two on the sides pink to achieve a similar effect. That's minor, though.

Overall, I like this one a lot. Meditite's got a few coherency issues with the rest of the line but still manages to have a unique design that continues into Medicham. Mega Medicham expands on the theme and improves the overall design in a meaningful way. Good stuff all around.

#meditite #medicham #mega medicham #pokemon #pokemon reviews

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mbrainspaz · 1 year

Text

this isn't meant to be @ anyone. I've wanted to rant about this for a minute.

In defense of Harry Dresden, a kinda toxic hero—

I've had several instances where I recommended the Dresden Files and got replies like 'oh I tried that but the main character seemed kinda chauvinistic' or 'those are guy books.' I'm not gonna argue with that assessment. I agree that Harry has some prevalent issues of the toxic masculinity variety. He admits as much. He doesn't do much about it in the first 17 books but he admits it.

I do get annoyed when I interact with guy friends who read him as a perfect role model. There is a toxic fandom element out there, not unlike with Star Wars or Harry Potter. People who got the wrong message from a complicated piece of media. I was actually dating the guy who introduced me to the series as way of excusing some of his toxic behavior, which he had directly based on Harry. I started reading the series to try to understand why he thought that was a good idea, and after reading it we had a talk about why it probably wasn't. He's living his best life with his soon-to-be husband now but we've stayed in touch just to chat about new Dresden books when they come out.

It's not only okay to read and enjoy books with problematic characters, I think it helps people develop a greater appreciation for nuance. Even when the actions of those characters aren't immediately and unequivocally condemned by the narrative, enjoying a 'problematic' book isn't an inherently bad thing. But Harry usually does get kicked in the pants for his bad takes and that is a reason I enjoy the series. Yes, he has chauvinistic views, but those almost always come back to bite him. In fact it's hilarious to me how many times the scenario: 'Hitting on a hot dame? Whoops she's a fae queen who just stabbed you.' plays out. It's not hilarious to Harry but unlike the Supernatural bros at least he learns from his mistakes and starts to get suspicious of supernaturally hot women pretty quickly.

As far as female rep goes, it does go borderline on the 'strong yet sexy female character' tropes at times but ultimately it's leagues better on that front than adjacent media like Supernatural, Libriomancer, or any series I've read about Druids where every dame in the book is apologizing for being an inhuman supermodel while still being an inhuman supermodel. Women in Dresden Files have a huge amount of depth and agency, and only about 7 out of 10 are supernaturally hot. Their narratives are rarely centered but oh well, some stories are allowed to be about guys being dudes. Dudes and their supernaturally sexy male model besties.

Harry is very much meant to be a hero character in the story but we mainly get that from the way other characters interact with him. Usually when he's confronted with the fact that other characters see him as a hero it makes him uncomfortable. Internally he's hugely critical of himself. He's also deeply introspective and empathetic, which would be good things for men to model. Anyone reading Dresden Files and going 'aha, see—toxic masculinity is based actually' is thoroughly failing at media analysis. Which is the norm, granted, but don't blame that on Harry. Heck, one of the central themes is him being at war with himself and his baser nature, both in a relatable real-world sense and as a guy with the potential to be a mega powerful dark wizard.

Personally Harry's struggles helped me to unpack a lot of the feelings I was having about religion as I tried to distance myself from evangelicalism, but maybe that's just me. These thoughts aren't perfectly refined and I wanted to go into the cop worship issue to but I can't waste another hour on this.

#harry dresden #dresden files #jim butcher #books I like to re-read #feminism #toxic masculinity

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knickynoo · 11 months

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marty loves his father just so so much. to the point where his father's death, even in a timeline that they were already going to have to fix, was the point where Marty is the most emotionally devastated in an entire trilogy full of tragedies. how immediately we see him stand up for his father when he so much as thinks Old Biff is calling him a loser in the Cafe 80's. how proud he is both times he sees his dad finally stand up to Biff, the moment he always wished would happen his entire life. the sheer emotion in his voice when he says "my father's alive!" marty loves his dad so much.

cannot believe I forgot him literally jumping in front of a moving car to save his dad with zero hesitation, as if it wasn't the main catalyst for the entire plot of the first movie. I love this kid and he loves his dad - pants anon

Hello again, Pants Anon. Nice to hear from you. Also, yes. I love thinking about this.

I've written a dozen posts about my thoughts on the core of the trilogy being love, but I don't think I've ever focused in on Marty and George before. It's true, though. Marty's love for his dad runs so deep in parts I and II.

The scene of him stumbling around the graveyard and finding his father's tombstone is absolutely the most emotionally intense version of Marty we get in all three films. He's already seen and experienced so much terror by that point, and we've seen him in tears and scared out of his mind at several moments, but none of it compares to the way George's death shatters him. It's a Marty who has truly hit his breaking point, and MJF's acting in those scenes is so good.

It makes sense of course—how else would a kid react to the sudden news of his dad's death but by screaming and crying like that—and at that point, Marty doesn't know what's caused the timeline to skew, so that sense of despair is real. But I feel like even if he knew what was up, even if he knew he and Doc would end up fixing things, George's death still would have hit him that hard.

As for the scene in front of the Baines's house, there's that part of me that goes, "Well, wouldn't anyone rush into the street to push their parent out of harm's way? Marty was just doing what most people would. It's instinct." Then there's the other part that does see Marty's reaction as a conscious act of love. He could have panicked or frozen up and just let things play out the way they were supposed to, but he made that split-second choice to "sacrifice himself" instead.

Which, by the way, is one of the themes of the movies that makes me lose my mind. So much of this trilogy centers on sacrifice. Doc and Marty in particular are constantly having like...a tennis match back and forth of, "No worries, I'll just go ahead and die for you," "No, no, I'll die for you." "I insist that I die for you." They just take turns putting their life on the line for each other.

Out of the plethora of lovely qualities Marty has, the intensity of his emotions is high on my list of why I like him so much. There's just such a depth to the love he has for people. It's what drives so many of his actions throughout the movies.

It's love that urges him to put himself in the path of a car in order to save his dad.

It's love that pushes him to storm up to Biff in the cafeteria in an attempt to protect his mother from the unwanted advances, even though Biff is twice his size.

It's love that makes him sit at the diner the night of the lightning strike to agonize over how to write a letter that can save Doc's life

Rushing at Biff in the hotel to (once again) protect his mother from abuse, falling apart at his dad's grave, willingly going to the Old West when he's been explicitly told not to? All acts of love.

I really don't even think the kid has a choice in the matter when it comes to people he cares about. No matter how scared or unsure he is, the enormity of his love for his family and friends automatically overrides it.

I truly think that's what makes Back to the Future, and Marty as a character, so special.

Thanks for the ask!

#asks #back to the future #bttf #marty mcfly #IT'S ABOUT LOVE. IT'S ABOUT LOVE‚ PEOPLE #*sticks marty into a snowglobe and shakes him* (gently!)#i should write a marty and george centered fic one of these days

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aquarius-stories-and-story-ideas · 1 year

Text

Discoveries.

((I’ve officially been sucked into ‘The Stanley Parable’ fndm. I watched Markiplier play the first game years ago and was actually uninterested in it. What pulled me back in and got me to like it were the vids made by the incredibly talented @blackkatdraws! After watching them I gave the game a second chance and watched Mark and Jack play it. SAD-ist’s vids sealed the deal!

I’ve decided to make my own version of the Narrator. As for Stanley, after looking at the different versions of him I decided to go a different route. Since I’ve hardly seen any gender bends of him (and female characters in general in the TSP fndm) I chose that. So, instead of Stanley I’m going with Starlla. Both start with Sta and her theme is going to be pink shooting star.

As a way of introducing Starlla and my version of the Narrator, named Nathan for the sake of convince, I decided to include Blackkat’s version of the Narrator and Stanley. I thought it would be fitting since they inspired me to give the game another chance. Plus, I really enjoy their versions of those two and I’m still exploring other versions of them.

Just FYI, things are subject to change since this my first time introducing Starlla and Nathan. So, hopefully I nail this and get Blackkat’s versions of those two men right.))

“This is a story about a woman named Starlla.”

A woman dressed in a pink shirt with a white shooting star on it, dark blue jeans, and black shoes sat at a desk in an inclosed office. The computer that sat in front of her was turned off. Her waist length copper hair was tied back and her green hazel eyes stared down at her lap. A silver chain with a cross, a small pink heart shaped diamond in the center of it, hung around her neck. A black smart watch was strapped to her left arm.

“Starlla worked for a company in a big building where she was employee #427. Employee #427’s job was very important. She sat at her desk in room 427 and checked security codes and firewalls for other companies. Orders for projects came to her on her monitor on her desk telling her what to work on next. This is what employee 427 did everyday, every month, of every year and although others might of considered it soul rending, Starlla relished every moment a new project came to her as though she had been made exactly for this job and Starlla was happy.”

Starlla said nothing as that rich voice filled her enclosed office. Truth be told, she wasn't happy. Not today. She honestly didn't want to do this today. But, she knew how much the Narrator loved playing this game with her. So, she’d suck it up and let him have his fun. This is what made him happy, after all.

“And then one day something very peculiar happened. Something that would forever change Starlla. Something she would never quite forget. She had been at her desk for nearly an hour when she realized that not one single project had been sent for her to work on. No one had shown up to give her a project, call a meeting, or even say hi. Never in all her years at the company had this happened. This complete isolation. Something was very clearly wrong. Shocked, frozen solid, Starlla found herself unable to move for the longest time. But, as she came to her wits and regained her senses, she got up from her desk and stepped out of her office.”

With a sigh, Starlla stood up and walked out of the room. She glanced at the other desks in the area. All untouched and clean. Nobody has used them in a long time. Probably never will.

“All of her co-workers were gone. What could it mean? Starlla decided to go to the meeting room. Perhaps she had simply missed a memo.”

Not wanting to put up a fight today, she did what the Narrator said. She trotted down the hallway and came to the room with the two doors.

“When Starlla came to a set of two opened doors, she entered the door on her left.”

Okay, this time she didn't want to listen to him. She wanted to try to get herself more in the mood to play this game. Maybe taking a detour would help her mood? Only one way to find out. She took the right door instead.

“This was not the correct way to the meeting room and Starlla knew it perfectly well. Perhaps she wanted to stop by the employee lounge, just to admire it.”

This was doing nothing to get her into the game. Dang it. It seemed she needed to try harder. While she didn’t want to do anything stupid and dangerous, there had to be a way to lift her mood.

When she walked into the blue themed room she expected the Narrator to say his usual lines of annoyance. But, instead she was greeted to the sight of the man himself. He was tall with short gray hair with gold highlights. Rectangular glasses sat in front of his beautiful gold eyes. A black three piece suit and dress shoes with a gold colored tie is what he chose to wear today. A gold pocket watch chain could be seen on his suit jacket connecting to his pocket.

Even though she felt depressed today, she still blushed at the sight of the older man. A look of concern painted his face. “Is everything alright, my dear? You aren’t very active today.”

The woman lightly sighed. “Sorry Nathan, I’m really trying. I’m just…..not very chipper today. You don’t have to worry about me, though. We can still-”

She was cut off when Nathan walked up to her and wrapped his arms around her. “Of course I’ll worry about you. I love you so much, my darling. You don’t have to play today if you don’t want to. Is something bothering you? Do you want to talk about it?”

She returned the embrace and buried her face in his chest. “I don't feel good today, that’s all. It has nothing to do with you, work, or anything.”

“Do you want to cuddle while I read to you?”

Starlla could’ve cried at the sweet gesture. She didn’t deserve him. He was too good for her. “…..Yes, please.”

With that said Nathan led her to the couch and sat her down. Before she could get comfortable he bent down and began unlacing her shoes. This took her by surprise. “Um, Nathan? What are you doing?”

“Making you more comfortable, my dear. I thought it would help you relax if your shoes were off.”

He did have a point. Taking off her shoes was a good idea. “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

After he took off her shoes he sat down next to her and took his off too. “Let’s both get comfortable. Forget about our little game today. Let’s relax and enjoy each other’s company.”

He placed his shoes next to hers and laid down on the sofa. Starlla had to scoot over a bit to make room for his legs. Before she could say anything she found herself being levitated off of the couch. Instead of saying anything she stayed silent since she knew this was Nathan’s doing.

She was gently placed on top of him and he stroked her hair as she laid her head on his chest. In a brief flash of glittery, golden, light a yellow and pink quilt was draped over both of them.

Nathen wrapped his arms around his girlfriend. “Comfortable, sweetheart?” She nodded. “Good. What story would you like to hear today?”

She thought for a moment. “Something relaxing. A fairytale?”

“Sounds good. Do you want to hear that spin-off novel from Frozen?”

“Yes, please.”

He kissed her on the head. “Of course.”

With that said he summoned the book and kept it floating in the air. Now he could read to her and not let go of her. He made sure she was comfortable before starting the story.

In the offices, a door that was usually kept locked turned red and opened. Two femininely dressed men stepped into the room.

The older one had short gray hair and golden eyes. Yellow earrings hung from his ears. He wore a white shirt, yellow tie, black trench coat that was yellow on the inside, black slacks that went up to his abdomen, and black high-heeled boots. He tightened the slights tightly around his middle to make his hips look wider. Makeup was applied to his face and black lipstick. His nails were painted black as well. His name was Black.

The other man was shorter and looked a bit younger than his companion. His short brown hair was styled back. Yellow arrow earrings decorated his ears and a black choker with yellow lace was tied around his neck. He wore a strapless black dress, black gloves that went past his elbows, and a white feather boa. His shoes of choice were black high heels with yellow on the bottom of them. His brown eyes glanced around the room. His name is Stanley.

“I’m so excited!” Exclaimed Stanley. “I’ve been waiting for this all week! I hope-”

Black held up a hand. “Hold up, sweetheart. Something doesn't feel right.”

He gave his partner a puzzled look. “What do you mean? Is something wrong?”

Black was silent for a moment. “More like different. I don't think we’re in the right place.”

“Really? That's unusual. Maybe we can still make it before the fun starts.”

Just as Stanley turned around Black spoke up. “Hold on. Let's explore. I would like to meet this place’s Narrator and Stanley. I don't think we’ve met them before. This place is very different.”

Stanley blinked before answering. “Okay. Maybe they’ll want to join us. The more the merrier.”

The two of them walked through the offices and came to the set of two opened doors. Stanley spoke first. “Which way should we go first? The left one?”

Black hummed in thought. “I haven’t heard this one's Narrator just yet. Let’s take the right one. Maybe this Stanley is exploring and went off the path.”

Back in the employee lounge Starlla was fully relaxed on Nathan, listening to him read and his heartbeat. Just as he was turning the page he froze. Something was incredibly wrong. He felt two unknown presence’s in his domain.

Starlla felt him stiffen and looked at him. “Honey? Is everything okay?”

“.....I feel two intruders in my domain.”

She sat up. “What? How did they get in here?”

Nathan could hear the sounds of heels clicking down the hallway already. He gently pushed Starlla off of him and slipped on his shoes. The laces began tying themselves as he grabbed the quilt. “Hide under here. I don't want to take a chance. If these people are aggressive then things will get ugly fast. This is my domain. Leave everything to me.”

She nodded. “Right.”

Nathan draped the quilt on the corner of the couch, making a pocket for Stella to hide under, and motioned her to crawl inside. As she did that he took her shoes and hid them on the side of the sofa.

He turned to the open doorway as Black and Stanley stepped inside. Nathan crossed his arms and glared at the unexpected guests. While he wanted to immediately toss these people out, he’ll restrain himself. He didn't want to get violent with Starlla in the room. “Who the hell are you and how did you get in here?”

Black spoke first. He put on a friendly face. “Hello. I’m Black and this is my partner Stanley. We were going to visit some friends to have some fun, but it seems we ended up in your place instead. Sorry about that. We were hoping to meet you and your Stanley.”

When Black spoke Nathan was shocked to hear his voice come from this man. What the hell?! Why did this man have his voice?! Not to mention why did he kinda look like him?

Shaking those thoughts from his mind Nathan spoke firmly. “Instead of turning back and leaving you both decided to roam around my domain without my permission? You’re trespassing on my property. Leave. Now.”

Stanley spoke up. “We don’t mean any harm. We merely want to meet you and your Stanley.”

Nathan wasn’t having any of this. He could feel his anger levels rising by the second and his self restraint was becoming more challenging to hold onto. He uncrossed his arms and tightened his hands into fists. “I don’t know anyone named Stanley! Even if I did I wouldn’t introduce him to people who trespass on other people's private property! If you two don’t leave right now I’ll throw you out myself!”

Things were getting heated quickly. Black tried to think of a way to get this man to calm down. But, he did have a point. They were walking around in his game without his permission. He has the right to be angry. The best thing to do was to respect his wishes and leave.

Black took a breath. “We’re sorry for trespassing. We really don’t mean any harm. We’ll leave.”

Under the quilt Starlla listened to the entire conversation. One of the men sounded exactly like Nathan! How was that possible?! Was it just a coincidence or something? Deciding to push her luck, she bent down and peeked outside.

As Stanley was about to turn around to leave he happened to glance at the quilt draped on the couch. He caught movement underneath it and saw someone peek out. He smiled and gave a small wave. “Oh. Well, hello there.”

Black and Nathan both looked at him. He pointed to the quilt. “I take it your Stanley, or whatever his name is, is under there?”

Nathan growled and his eyes briefly glowed. “Leave now!”

Seeing as she has given herself away, Stella crawled out of the quilt and stood up. Both Black and Stanley were taken back at the sight of her. This version of Stanley was a woman?!

Starlla gave an awkward wave. “Um. Hello.”

Black recovered from his shock and smiled brightly at her. “Hello, darling. I’m Black and this is Stanley. It’s nice to meet both of you. We apologize for coming uninvited.”

She lightly smiled back. “Thank you for apologizing. I’m Starlla and this is Nathan.”

“Starlla.” Said Nathan stiffly. “Don’t encourage them to stay longer. They need to leave. They shouldn’t have been able to get in here in the first place.”

Stanley smiled sheepishly. “I guess it was dumb luck?”

“I think we’ll listen to your Narrator and take our leave.” Said Black. “With your permission, may we come back and reintroduce ourselves properly?”

Nathan was silent for a moment. He wanted to say no, but he saw Starlla giving him puppy dog eyes. Dang it. He hated it when she did that. Obviously she wanted to get to know these two men more. He couldn’t say no when she was giving him that look.

He sighed. “Very well. You two may come back.”

“Wonderful!” Exclaimed Black happily. “I’m already looking forward to it! Have a wonderful day you two.”

Stanley waved. “I’m looking forward to our next meeting as well. Take care!”

Starlla waved bye at the two men and looked at Nathan. “Glad they were friendly. They seem very nice.”

He hummed, feeling himself simmer down now that they were gone. “Perhaps. I’m glad they didn’t destroy anything and hurt you.”

She giggled and kissed his cheek. “You’re so overprotective. But, I appreciate it. Want to continue where we left off?”

With a smile, Nathan kissed her forehead. “Of course, sweetheart. Let’s get comfortable again.”

#the stanley parable #tsp #tsp stanley #tsp narrator #tsp female Stanley #oc #Tsp oc #blackkatdraws #writing #fan writing #fanfiction #tsp fanfic #short story #Starlla #Hopefully I corrected all the grammar errors

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riboism · 2 years

Text

frontier psychiatrist- [discontinued]

pairing: yunho x f!reader genre: angst, thriller, suggestive? still not sure yet

warnings: mentions of mental illness, reader is a psychiatrist and yunho used to be her patient, abduction, stockholm syndrome if you squint, themes of violence

wc: 0.9k

disclaimer: the actions portrayed in this story are NOT reflective of those who suffer from BPD, depression, or anxiety as a whole. please do not generalize people suffering from these illnesses based on what you read in this story. this is all purely fictional.

a/n: I’m still not sure how many parts I will be adding to this series, or if I’ll even continue it. this has been sitting in my drafts for a while now so I’ve decided to post it. feedback is much appreciated! I don’t really know what I’m doing with this.

series m. list

“that boy needs therapy”- the avalanches

Yunho placed your dinner plate in front of you. White rice, grilled asparagus, and what looked like a grilled chicken breast, were all carefully placed onto the plate.

“Tried out a new recipe for the marinade,” he said as he filled your glass with wine, “thought maybe you were tired of the lemon basil so I thought I’d change it up tonight. I hope you like it.”

Yunho shuffled around you, carefully adjusting the small floral arrangement at the center of the table before taking a match and lighting the tall candlesticks that stood next to it. The soft jazz ballad filled the dining room, a nod to when you told him how much you enjoyed jazz music during his therapy sessions. He always put a lot of effort into making these dinners special for you; he wanted you to know that you were well cared for and that everything you could possibly need was right in front of you.

He finally sat down and placed a napkin on his lap. “Please,” he said, motioning you to start eating. You picked up your utensils, still getting used to the feel of the cool metal against your fingertips. Usually, your hands were restrained in shackles and Yunho would have to cut your meat for you and feed you himself. You remembered spitting out every morsel of food, making him huff in frustration before he’d storm out, leaving you all alone in the dark and cold corner of his basement.

After showing some changes in your behavior, Yunho allowed you to join him for dinner upstairs. The dining room was small but comfortable. The warm glow from the candles and the yellow lightbulbs from the wall sconces gave you a false sense of security.

You chewed on the chicken breast, savoring the fresh taste of rosemary along with the sweetness of maple. You had to admit, he was a fabulous cook.

“It’s delicious Yunho. Thank you.”

Yunho blushed at your compliment, pleased that you enjoyed his hard work. He made sure to be extra attentive to you, noting what you liked and disliked so that he could adjust his menu accordingly.

Suddenly, you saw a flutter of white in the corner of your eye. Your eyes darted to the window, alarmed to see snowflakes falling. Yunho followed your eyes, chuckling when he saw the flurries collect onto the windowsill. “Look at that, the first snow of the season.”

You frowned a little. It was already winter and you had no clue. You couldn’t remember when you stopped keeping track of time. All you remembered was thinking that it was useless and that there was really no point in knowing if it was a Saturday or a Sunday. The days just blended into each other and Yunho had become your clock. You knew it was morning when he’d come down with your eggs and coffee. And night time when he’d wish you goodnight from behind the basement door.

“Dr. Y/L/N? Are you alright?”

Your head snapped back at Yunho. “Oh, yes, I’m fine, sorry…It’s just been a while since I’ve seen snow.” You raked your fork over the rice, playing with your food as you thought about your favorite snow days. How badly you missed going outside and feeling the cold air against your cheeks. You hated shoveling out your car after a bad storm, but now you thought there was nothing you’d rather be doing than plowing snow off your driveway.

Yunho shot you a worried look. You reached over and placed your hand over his, giving it a small squeeze. “Really, I'm okay.” He wasn’t sure if he believed you but your warm smile melted his heart and he soon forgot about the whole thing.

After dinner, Yunho walked you back to the basement. You hopped off the last step, looking down at the sad, dusty old mattress before you. Yunho had tried his best to make your space as homey as possible, but nothing could make the eerie environment any more comfortable than a prison cell. You turned around, looking up the stairs at where your captor stood.

“Yunho?”

“Yes, Doc?”

“Can I…”

Come on, you thought to yourself, you’ve been holding back for weeks, just do it already!

Clearing your throat, you forced yourself to continue on. “Do you think I can sleep in your room tonight?”

You tried hard not to shiver at the thought of Yunho’s bedroom. It was the one room you never wanted to unlock, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Yunho’s eyes widened at your request.

“M-my room? You want to sleep in my room?”

“Yes.”

He looked as nervous as a teenage boy on his first date. You watched him fiddle with his fingers while he weighed the pros and cons.

“I don’t know Doc…”

“Please,” you moved up a step, careful not to get too close, “It’s just…It gets so lonely down here and sometimes I can’t sleep. And I like it upstairs, I like being with you. I feel safer when you're nearby.”

Yunho’s heart fluttered. He took a deep breath as he mulled over your sudden request. Of course, he trusted you more now, but he still had his doubts. He worried if escape was still on your mind. The first few months were tough for him and you, but then there was a shift in your behavior. You were more caring, thankful, and accepting towards him. He figured you finally understood that this was for the best. He couldn’t have been happier.

After a short while, Yunho finally gave in and nodded his head in agreement. “Okay. You can sleep in my room tonight.”

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#yunho x reader #yunho angst #yunho smut #ateez x reader #ateez angst #ateez scenarios #yunho scenarios #yunho fanfic #ateez fanfic #ateez smut

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vickyvicarious · 1 year

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The Couples in T&T Represent Phoenix/Dollie

I played through the second investigation day of Recipe for Turnabout the other night, and it made me realize something properly for the first time.

All of the couples in Trials and Tribulations parallel one another. Honestly, it makes sense that they would - T&T has more canon couples than any other game as far as I can recall. The series typically focuses on familial or friend relationships rather than romance of any kind. But this game in particular has a lot of couples, all of a sudden; there's gotta be meaning to that. And there is.

Every single couple in T&T reflects some aspect of Phoenix's relationship with Dahlia/Iris, and the progression of them as you go through the game reflects his journey as he heals from the betrayal, as well as exploring possible other ways Phoenix's relationship could have turned out instead (both good and bad). In doing so, it also ties in really nicely to the themes of the other two games in the trilogy.

This gets pretty long since there are a lot of couples to talk about, so I'm putting it under a cut. Read on if you like!

First off, here's a list of the couples, in order of appearance:

Feenie/Dahlia (3-1) *

Doug/Dahlia (3-1)

Ron/Desiree (3-2)

Gumshoe/Maggey (3-3)

Tigre/Viola (3-3)

Mia/Diego (3-4)

Terry/Dahlia (3-4) **

Godot/Mia (3-5)

Phoenix/Iris (3-5) *

*I'm counting these as the relationship as it was presented at the time, as well as how Phoenix thought of the relationship. I'll get a bit more into the nuance of Dahlia vs. Iris later.

** This relationship is pretty upsetting in several ways and there's a lot that could be said about it. However, for the purposes of this meta, I won't be really getting into all of that fully, instead briefly discussing the thematic/interpersonal relevance.

There's at least one couple per case (typically two which contrast one another), and no matter how you count up characters, a minimum of 5 reciprocal relationships (meaning established couples, not necessarily reciprocated feelings). Every single one of these relationships has strong importance to the plot, and what's more, we see all of the characters alive onscreen and get to interact with them (with the exception of flashback couple Doug/Dahlia). This is a significant departure from the first two games. In PW, Larry/Cindy is important, and Yanni/Polly has relevance for motivations, but in both examples one of the characters is already dead, and they don't have impacts on other cases. In JFA there's a whole love triangle at the circus centering on Regina, as well as a different sort of percieved 'love' triangle in the final case involving Adrian. Neither of these actually show a reciprocal relationship onscreen, and while you could talk about the ways they contrast one another that's a different post. We get closest with Juan/Adrian and Maggey/Dustin, but again only one person is still alive in both those pairs by the time their cases start. (Granted, I'm not counting Larry's other infatuations or Oldbag's with Edgeworth in any of these metrics. But they have a very different feel, you know?) Even games released after this one don't have the same density of romantic relationships as far as I can recall. This game stands out.

As I said before, I think the reason why is clear: all these relationships reflect Phoenix. For the first time, a main character has a romantic relationship. Not only that, but the player character, the one the series is named after, and the one whose arc this game in particular is meant to tie up. Previous games centered far more around the Feys and Edgeworth's arc, and Phoenix grew in ways related to his relationships with both of them. And that's certainly still true, don't get me wrong, but T&T puts Phoenix's own personal feelings and motivations more front and center via the throughline of his relationship in college and the aftershocks thereof. This is why there are so many romantic relationships... and why they all reflect the central one of Phoenix/Dollie (meaning both Dahlia and Iris). The exception there is Miego, which is significant as well for the fact that this game's prosecutor/rival's entire motivation is tied up in a romantic relationship. And it still ties into some of the themes going on even if not as directly as the other couples.

I'm going to break this down couple by couple, going down the list chronologically by case. Then there's a final wrap-up at the end.

Feenie/Dahlia

This is the catalyst. In the first case, we flash back to when Phoenix was Feenie: quick to fall in love, naive, willfully blind, very emotionally demonstrative, very emotionally vulnerable, dedicated... betrayed.

As far as Phoenix understands his relationship, it was one of deep and real love. The person he knows could never have done the things she's accused of. The person he knows loves him back. Phoenix is willing to take the fall for her even when all the evidence points Dahlia's way, even when she seems to be turning against him, because he believes so completely in the person he knows. He's even willing to destroy evidence to save her. But finally, by the end of the trial, he's forced to surrender to the facts. They don't match up to his perception, and the conclusion we (players on their first playthrough as well as the characters themselves) have to draw is that Phoenix was wrong all along. He was fooled; Dahlia used him and then tried to get rid of him when his usefulness ended. She never cared about him at all, and in fact hates him. She thinks he's an idiot.

This has lasting scars for Phoenix. He is far more closed-off after this case, far more prone to hide his feelings, or at the very least be less demonstrative. He develops a deep hatred for two things: betrayal, and poison. And it seems pretty clear that he has a harder time trusting people, at the very least in a romantic capacity.

In terms of some specific details that later on get echoed: Phoenix fell in love at first sight. His partner lied to him, and he didn't realize for a long time. She tried to poison him. Even when he had lots of evidence, he couldn't bring himself to confront the truth for quite a while.

Doug/Dahlia - BAD END 1

This relationship is the only one in the entire game where we don't get to see and interact with both characters. Nonetheless, this is an important early contrast to Phoenix/Dahlia, in two significant ways.

First, Doug realized Dahlia was up to something, and he broke off his relationship with her. He was able to look past his feelings to become suspicious of her.

Second, Dahlia killed Doug. When he tried to stop her from hurting someone else instead of just keeping his distance from her, he paid the ultimate price.

Doug's entire story is a look at "what could have been" if Feenie had been less trusting of Dahlia in the beginning. But it's a bad end. Doug never came forward about what he suspected Dahlia had done to Diego, possibly because he felt complicit given the poison was his creation (an early parallel to Iris); when he did try to help the second time around, he fatally failed.

Doug trusts evidence over emotion, unlike Phoenix who believed in 'Dollie' till the end. He is at once a cautionary tale of how Phoenix could have been killed by her (/representative of Phoenix's love being 'killed'), and also a kind of model to trust the facts over your feelings. Their relationship reflects Phoenix's feelings of betrayal and reluctant acceptance of the verdict immediately after his trial. As such, it's fitting that we see this couple at the same trial - it represents Phoenix's initial trauma and pain.

Ron/Desiree - IDEAL END

There's already a really fantastic meta about how the Delites parallel Feenie's relationship by @eggpngg, and I don't want to just retread all of what she said. Please go read that post instead - suffice to say, there are parallels between both Phoenix=Ron + Dahlia=Desiree, and Phoenix=Desiree + Dahlia=Ron.

I do, however, want to add on slightly. Just as Doug/Dahlia was a "bad end" for Phoenix, this is a different kind of 'what could have been' scenario. In this case, it's the ending he hopes for. The partner who was lying (Ron/Dahlia) was revealed to have been doing so out of love all along, and was innocent of murder. The partner who fell in love at first sight (Desiree/Phoenix) had their affection returned and their faith in their partner rewarded in the end. Though there were still lies and betrayal, everything turned out okay in the end and they were stronger than ever.

The Delites represent the kind of relationship Phoenix hoped for. They are his last kernel of uncertainty about the trial, the part of him that stubbornly, even after so long, can't help but think about how different the Dollie he knew was from the Dahlia he saw on the stand. It's his wistful daydreaming and doubting, something he wanted but never got. This would be a recurring dream in the time shortly after the trial, as Phoenix dwells on his college relationship.

Gumshoe/Maggey - HOPEFUL END

Gumshoe's affections for Maggey aren't returned. In fact, she feels as though he has betrayed her when his testimony is unhelpful, and is angry at him for most of the trial. However, they are both good people who care about others. Maggey's anger is based on a misunderstanding, and by the end of the trial, Gumshoe's earnest affections and dedication to her is able to reach her. She may not feel the same way, but their relationship isn't broken. And there's hope that she may return his affection in the future (the gifted trenchcoat).

Maggey is Phoenix in several ways: accused of murder, feeling betrayed. But Gumshoe is Phoenix too: he believes in the person he loves, she doesn't love him back, he investigates and learns the truth for her sake. This time around, no one is really playing the role of Dahlia/Iris. Instead, both parts of this couple still represent a better outcome Phoenix wishes could have happened for himself.

However, once we are looking at them purely in terms of metaphor for Phoenix's relationship, Gumshoe/Maggey as a couple is asking for a lot less. Phoenix has over time given up on the idea of a true happy ending like the Delites got. Maybe it's true that Dahlia never loved him. Maybe it's been long enough that he's almost okay with that. But what if she weren't truly all that bad? What if she at least weren't a killer - what if he could have saved her? It's still a hope... just a smaller hope, something more tempered. Phoenix eventually moved on from still being in love with his Dollie; at the same time he never quite got over hoping she truly was the person he knew.

Tigre/Viola - BAD END 2

In the same case that we see Gumshoe/Maggey as a kind of softer hope, we get this couple as a harsh, even brutal, reminder of the reality of how Phoenix/Dahlia turned out. Tigre/Viola are sharply divided in who they represent, for the first time. There isn't any mixup between Phoenix mirroring both people in the couple, or even between Dahlia/Iris really. Instead, for the first time, Iris/Phoenix both share a representative. But I'll get to that in a moment; first, Tigre.

Tigre is firmly Dahlia. His only callback to Iris is when he impersonates another person to cover up his own crime - and that could be seen as relating to Dahlia too, given she later impersonates Iris. Tigre was the first one to approach his partner and initiate a romantic relationship, in an attempt to avoid consequences for a crime he had just committed (car crash/poisoning Diego). He stayed with Viola out of a fear of the consequences catching up to him, but despite her devotion, he looked down on her. Tigre even insulted her as soon as the jig was up, much like Dahlia expressed contempt for Phoenix once she was no longer pretending to love him. Tigre's weapon of choice was poison, just like Dahlia. And just like Dahlia, he used someone's love for him to help him get away with a murder he'd already committed.

Meanwhile, Viola is an amalgam of both Phoenix and Iris (and someone else, but I'll get to that later). She is Phoenix, once again, in that love at first sight. In trusting and believing her partner even against her own doubts. However, this time, that trust isn't warranted, and she's eventually forced to confront that fact. She is betrayed and injured by the one she loves... and all because she just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time (car crash/courtroom meeting). She's also Iris - despite knowing what she's doing is wrong, despite knowing Tigre is a murderer, she loves him and wants to protect him from being arrested, so she impersonates someone else (Viola faking being a waitress poisoning someone/Iris being 'Dollie' ).

This bad end comes later for a reason. Because Phoenix has to be the one to help Viola face the truth about Tigre. He's very gentle about it too, guiding her along with evidence in a Psyche-Lock conversation as he says things like, "But do you honestly believe that to be true?" and "Do you want to know what I think...?" leading into him asking her if it's possible Tigre is only with her because he's scared of Bruto. Phoenix doesn't often talk this way. He isn't usually callous or anything, but he generally speaks confidently when presenting evidence, making statements as opposed to questions. But in this moment, he just gives Viola the option gently. He leads her to the truth, just like he was led in his own trial - but not forcibly (unlike his trial). He's obviously empathizing with her feelings in this moment of horrible acceptance.

And then comes this exchange:

Viola: I wanted to believe him... I wanted to trust what Don Tigre said... He said it had nothing to do with my grandfather being Bruto Cadaverini... I wanted to believe he helped me because he cared about me. Not about my grandfather... But I knew... That wasn't really true... Maya: Wow. I'm so sorry. Viola: What he did to get the money was... It was... evil! Phoenix: ...! Viola: He said it was all for me... So I... I helped him...

Viola hands over her medical records, and as soon as she leaves, Phoenix exclaims, "It's inexcusable!" out loud, before going on to think, "(There are two things that I consider inexcusable. Poisoning, and betrayal! Only a coward would hurt people using either of these tactics.)" He's obviously visibly upset, because Maya asks if he's okay. And then right after this, when they meet Tigre, Phoenix gets so angry at him. In the second game, Phoenix mostly got over his tendency to show vital evidence to murderers and reveal his hand too soon, seeing as it never worked out for him (White, von Karma). But he does it again here, and the only reason the evidence isn't stolen from him is because of Gumshoe stepping in. Tigre demands the medical records back, and Phoenix shows them just to tell Tigre he won't be getting them. He brings up the betrayal of Viola's trust. He swears that he'll convict Tigre. It's no longer just about defending Maggey - Phoenix wants revenge this time.

And that's the big difference between this bad ending and the last one. Doug represented the pain Phoenix felt in the immediate aftermath. Viola represents the anger Phoenix feels when all is said and done. The hatred he has for Dahlia, the desire to confront her and get revenge for how much she hurt him. Viola isn't dead like Doug in the aftermath; instead, it's heavily implied that she poisons Tigre in prison, acting out the kind of revenge Phoenix wants to have. (But using a method he considers cowardly and would never do, foreshadowing how revenge isn't his primary motivator even when he gets the urge.)

This is also foreshadowing for Phoenix's urge to defend Iris later on. By merging Phoenix and Iris's roles together here, instead of Iris/Dahlia, Viola opens a path to putting them on the same side for the first time. Thematically we are shifting towards Phoenix/Iris reconciliation and Phoenix/Dahlia enmity, just in time for things to all start fitting together.

Mia/Diego - HOPEFUL BEGINNING

This brings us to the next flashback. Miego stand out among all the other couples in the game, because they actually hold nearly an equal share of narrative weight as Phoenix/Dollie. Their relationship is key to Mia's hatred of Dahlia (which lead to her and Phoenix inspiring one another), as well as motivating everything Godot does after he wakes up from his coma. As such, Mia and Diego don't quite reflect Phoenix's relationship in the same way that all the other couples do. Instead, they hold their own. In fact, some of the other couples reflect them as well, though to a lesser degree that more concerns things echoing what happened to Diego (e.g., an entire case revolving around poisoned coffee).

However, the difference between Miego when they're both alive, and the state of affairs in the present time, is a distinct contrast as well. Miego in 3-4 aren't a couple yet. Instead, their relationship is something hopeful, something that develops out of a comradery and dedication to the truth/justice. Every couple in this game has a relationship that is hurt by lies or misunderstandings. Miego and the Delites are the only established couples where those secrets are entirely about helping the other person, and were forgivable without costing the relationship. Yes, Diego meeting up with Dahlia ends up putting him in a coma and their relationship isn't resumed after that, but we don't see any evidence of Mia resenting him for continuing to work on the case, or anything like that.

Of course, none of that happens yet - that's for later, chronologically in between 3-4 and 3-1. During this trial, Mia and Diego's relationship is most importantly one of equal partners, both supporting and encouraging one another.

Terry/Dahlia - BAD END 3

Every time there are two couples in the same case, they contrast one another, as well as represent one good/bad possibility each. Everything about the Terry/Dahlia relationship is completely different from Mia/Diego.

Miego are just beginning; Terry/Dahlia are finished both as a couple, and also never going to see one another after this. Mia and Diego both want the same things, and work together to get them. In their initial relationship, Terry wanted love, Dahlia wanted money, and she actively sabotages him. When they met again, he wanted the truth while she worked to hide it. Miego are partners. Diego is a bit older, and more experienced than her initially, but they're both adults, clearly mentally on a level and even over the course of just this one trial he begins to start working with and supporting her as an equal rather than a subordinate. Contrast that to the many layers of inequality in Terry/Dahlia, from the pedophilic age gap (20/14) to Dahlia's cleverness vs. Terry being portrayed as slow/possibly disabled (a not-so-great portrayal to say the least), to him being her teacher and her his student, etc.

This relationship of course culminates with both possible bad endings Phoenix later avoids in his trial: Terry refuses to admit the truth that Dahlia betrayed him, and dies from drinking poison on the stand. Phoenix comes alarmingly close to both outcomes, but manages to escape physically/legally unscathed despite the trauma he experiences.

Neither of the couples in this flashback case directly correspond to Phoenix's recovery from/emotions about his relationship with Dahlia after the fact. That makes sense given that it is a flashback set before he even was in said relationship. However, they both represent one final "what could have been" contrast, one Phoenix learns about when he is in the hospital, preparing to defend Iris in court. Before he learns the full truth of the matter, he gets one final look at how things could have gone for him. Either a supportive partnership (what he wanted, but which could never happen with Dahlia), or a dismal end (what he nearly got).

Godot/Mia - BAD END 4

The thing is, as soon as he learns about Miego, Phoenix realizes who Godot is. And while he may not instantly know that he was the one who killed Misty and why, as soon as he knows Diego's identity, seeing Godot prosecute Iris has got to be ringing alarm bells. Godot at the very least could be drawing the same connections between Dahlia and Iris as Phoenix. (In fact he's way ahead of him for a while.)

Mia/Diego doesn't get to remain a simple "what if" of a happy couple for Phoenix. As soon as he realizes who the people involved are, he knows they ended in tragedy as well. But Godot's storyline doesn't represent a possible bad end for Phoenix/Dahlia back in the day anymore. Instead, his actions which lead to 3-5 are a continuation of what we saw with Viola/Tigre in 3-3. We're picking back up on Phoenix's current-day emotional arc, and Godot is following in Viola's footprints in one very specific way. He is obsessed with getting revenge on Dahlia (remember, Tigre = Dahlia. As I said, that distinct split there was significant in multiple ways, and Viola parallels one more character).

And Godot is the final bad ending. Sure, he gets his revenge... but it's at a terrible cost. A cost that both he and others are forced to pay. This is what comes of being more focused on the anger and pain you feel, instead of moving on and focusing on the people you still have. The comparison can go even farther because just like Phoenix always has a client he is protecting, Godot was 'protecting' someone in Maya. The plan that he/Misty/Iris use is bonkers and not the best way to keep Maya safe at all, but as @queergodot said once, that's kind of the point. It makes sense for all three characters, and for Godot specifically, it's clear that his drive to protect Maya got twisted up in his wish to be the one who protects her (a different thing than making sure she is protected) and of course his hatred of Dahlia and desire for revenge. Godot/Mia in the final trial is the counter to Phoenix/Iris in the same trial, because once again we have a bad end and a better one.

Phoenix/Iris - TRUE END

Phoenix finally learns the truth at the end of the game. His intuitions/hopes were never wrong, exactly: the woman he loved wasn't the Dahlia revealed to him in the courtroom. Iris loved him back, and would never have tried to murder him. And yet, the betrayal he felt was just as real. Iris knew what Dahlia was up to and willingly went along with it. She lied to Phoenix for their entire relationship, and then was too afraid to admit the truth to him in all the years since. Just like Doug, her inability to admit to her complicity in her first crime with Dahlia put her in danger later.

Phoenix learning the truth and protecting Iris is the better end than what happens to Godot and Mia, but it's not a good ending. It's at best hopeful, and if we take the following games into account it's clear they never resume any kind of romantic relationship after this. That's not really any surprise, though. If we follow the 'good ends' leading up to this point, they have been getting less and less hopeful for that. It's been years, and Phoenix is no longer in love with Iris. But he still cares deeply for her, and for what they had. This 'true ending' is most importantly closure for him. It marries together the evidence/facts of the case with what Phoenix's intuition/heart always said. He wasn't wrong to doubt; he also wasn't wrong to accept the facts. Everything makes sense now, everything is out in the open, and he can finally move on.

Phoenix and Iris somewhat contrast Mia/Diego in this final case, by being on the same side. It isn't immediate, far from it... for a long time Iris refuses to fully cooperate despite allowing Phoenix (well, first Edgeworth) to defend her. But she does agree to be defended, she listens to Edgeworth's request that she tell Phoenix the truth, and later does in fact do so as much as possible without betraying Godot, before finally being ready to tell him all after the trial is over. In contrast, Mia and Diego are literally on opposite sides of the courtroom; as soon as they begin to work together even somewhat it's the 'death' of Diego as it leads right to what he did, whereas Iris cooperating helps Phoenix win the case. When Diego finally admits the truth, it's an admission of guilt, not innocence. Neither pair are exactly a team of in-sync partners like Miego were in 3-4, but Phoenix and Iris at least come closer to having a 'positive outcome' (though honestly, the death of Godot and resuming the identity of Diego is much healthier ending for his character than escaping repercussions would've been).

Really though, far more than 3-4 (generally more of an outlier case), both of them follow 3-3 better. Phoenix could have gone down the same route as Viola (is implied to have) and Godot did, becoming wrapped up in revenge. But just as, even in the midst of his anger, he felt so much compassion for Viola helping Tigre out of love, so too does his compassion for Iris win out over his anger towards Dahlia. This is what shifts Phoenix away from the track leading to a final bad end, and instead lands him on something much closer to the resolution of Gumshoe/Maggey from the same case. While Iris is actually guilty of crimes other than murder, and so doesn't walk free at the end like Maggey did, she's not guilty of the crime of trying to kill Phoenix, the most central one to their destroyed relationship. In the end, just like Gumshoe/Maggey, the misunderstanding is cleared up and they end on positive terms. In the final visit to the Iris in the detention center, there's even a hint that he may still have feelings for her, just like we got a hint that Maggey may feel something for Gumshoe. Neither turns into anything in this game (and indeed ever, for Feenris; I believe there's room to read into Magshoe in AAI but it's still not like a confirmed thing), but they don't really need to, because that isn't the point.

The point is that closure. The truth. And choosing compassion over anger. That's the final culmination of Phoenix's arc, and while it does result in Dahlia losing one final time and that's very satisfying, the most important thing is reconfirming his dedication to truly protect people and ensure justice. Justice, not revenge, even when the lines may start to get blurry between the two.

Wrap-Up

Phoenix loved Dollie, and was betrayed horribly. In the immediate aftermath he felt deeply hurt (Doug/Dahlia), though a part of him still longed for it all to have been a mistake and for things to end happily (Delites). As time passed, he eventually got over being in love, but still couldn't completely let go of the idea that she hadn't been evil (Gumshoe/Maggey). At the same time, the pain he felt slowly transitioned into anger for all she'd put him through (Viola/Tigre). Finally, he learned the further truth and saw how much more was lost than he ever knew (Mia/Diego) as well as how much worse things could have been for him (Terry/Dahlia). He learned the last missing piece of the story and gained closure at last, choosing compassion (Phoenix/Iris) over revenge (Godot/Mia).

All the couples in the game tie in really well to his arc (with Miego as one partial exception). And not only that, but this storyline helps to conclude the trilogy by marrying themes from the first and second game together. In PW, Phoenix is driven by a belief in Edgeworth that initially flies in the face of the person he's become. It's 'I know my Dollie would never do that' in another guise, and while that faith is justified somewhat, it only goes so far. In JFA (as well as RftA, honestly) Phoenix is confronted with the limits to that sort of belief/motivation. @96percentdone wrote a really good meta about the themes of JFA, I highly recommend you read it. Not going over everything he already said again here, but in the end Phoenix's choice in the Engarde trial shows him the limitations of saving everyone and forces him to choose the truth. T&T now takes both those ideas and first pits them against one another in Phoenix's trial, before resolving the conflict in Iris's trial. We go from "heart" to "truth" to finally, both together instead of being in conflict.

#ace attorney #aa meta #phoenix wright #feenris #phoenix/dahlia #doug/dahlia #delites #magshoe #tigre/viola #miego #terry/dahlia #my meta

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wavesoutbeingtossed · 5 months

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So while I’m on my “You’re Losing Me” riff, another thing that really strikes me about the song is how pervasive loneliness is in it.

This isn’t inherently unique in Taylor’s music; she is after all the narrator in most of her songs. They are inherently self-centered and not in a selfish way, but in a literal way: these are songs about her and her perspective. It makes sense then that YLM is uniquely about her experience in this relationship and this breakdown.

But when I talk about the theme of loneliness, it’s how alone she as narrator is throughout the story. Even in the opening salvo, where he says, “I don’t understand,” and she says, “I know you don’t,” the conversation represents two people fundamentally pushed to their own corners.

There is a clear split between we and I throughout the story.

We thought a cure would come through, now I fear it won’t. We loved this room cause of the light, but now I just sit in the dark and wonder if it’s time. Should I throw out everything we built?

There’s a divide between when they were on the same team, and when she’s been cast adrift. They were working on fixing their problems, but now she alone is burdened with the knowledge that they’ve passed the point of no return. They chose a home to house their future dreams together, but now she’s left all alone in the dark feeling those dreams slip away. They built a life, but now she’s the one having the make the call to take it down.

But it gets progressively darker than that. The line about being a phoenix mending all her own gashes has always jumped out at me, because it connotes her dealing with blow after blow by herself, having to put herself back together each time, the onslaught relentless even if she ultimately overcomes. Yet it’s him who tears her apart for good. The image it paints is of a person continually facing her own struggles on her own, dealing with the fallout like a lone wolf (sorry for the continued animal allusions?), but whatever it is that the subject he does breaks her worse than the thousand cuts she’s experienced before. Even here, the idea is of a person who shoulders her burdens by herself and being praised for it (something something when I used to fight you’d tell me I was brave etc. Even though I know that’s an entirely different situation but it’s also not) or at least being expected to do it, but the subject’s actions — or lack thereof— cut deeper than any of those lonesome fights. She keeps fighting for herself, trying to grow from the hurt, but his “blow” threatens to undo it all in one fell swoop.

Of course, as the song continues, the story expands and becomes one about miscommunication and apathy. I’m not one to believe that every single line in Taylor’s songs is literal; she’s a master at metaphors and scene setup, so as much as some commentary interprets the line about glaring and sending signals as literal and therefore putting the onus on her for not communicating effectively and expecting the person to be a mind reader, I feel like this is where her affinity for being flowery paints a far sadder picture.

She glared at him with storms in her eyes could mean she’s acting pissed but not saying why, but it could just as easily be a metaphor for sharing anger/upset with your partner who refuses to acknowledge its weight. (How can you say that you love someone you can’t tell is dyin’ when it’s right in front of you?) I sent you signals and bit my nails down to the quick could be seen as again not saying what’s wrong and expecting him to pick up on her behaviour, but I also feel it’s an instance where her penchant for emotive language is at play: it’s not that she expected him to read her mind, it’s that she tried every way she could and he still didn’t care. The signals could be that like a lighthouse in a storm: clear and guiding, but dangerous if ignored. She told him in all the ways she could, literal, emotional and physical, that she was wasting away, but he wouldn’t take it seriously. It once again details the experience of a person living through this tragedy completely on her own, whose pain is dismissed at every turn.

Which brings us to, “My face was gray but you wouldn’t admit that we were sick.” It could mean, she was making herself ill and he ignored the reasons why, but as I mentioned in my post earlier, death hangs over the entire song. (There’s a larger essay to be written about that theme alone.) To me, it’s not just that she’s grey because she’s ill, her face is grey because she’s (metaphorically) dead. She’s already died (or the relationship is dead) before he’s even admitted there was anything wrong to fix. She alone is sitting with this realization.

As the song continues, the loneliness with the burden of this knowledge shifts to the loneliness of everything she feels she’s done or felt that’s been ignored or dismissed.

My pain is an imposition. (On you.) I gave you all my best me’s. (And I didn’t get yours in return.) I bled and tried to be the bravest soldier only in your army frontlines. (But you didn’t fight in mine when I needed you.) I’m the best thing at this party. (But you’d never acknowledge I exist.)

By the time she gets to the end of the bridge, she’s fading fast but even as she’s losing the battle, she’s still imploring him to fight for her and them in a last-ditch effort. Show me you’re still with me. But she never gets that answer, because ultimately they’ve lost the pulse, and her heart has stopped. While the song begins with them fundamentally misunderstanding each other, it ends with her confirming her fears in the opening: there is no more we, but there is no more her either. She’s gone, all alone, without anyone there to see it.

In spite of the fact that the song is super catchy and uptempo, with a characteristic banger bridge that is fueled by anger and seeping with resentment, “You’re Losing Me,” is incredibly sad and kind of morose. It leaves such an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, which I imagine is only a fraction of the feeling of the person experiencing the story is.

#me thinking too hard about taylor lyrics #lyrics analysis #taylor swift #Midnights #you’re losing me #writing letters addressed to the fire #Sadly i relate a lot of this song to my mother minus the marriage stuff lmao #it makes me so sad for Taylor because the feelings of loneliness pain and apathy in this song are just so heartbreaking #especially for someone shouldering it alone #and not to compare to current events #but it must be wild to feel some lightness after sitting with all this for so long #Again the death imagery is a lot and I don’t think I’m the person to discuss it #but it’s definitely A Thing

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dawnrider · 7 months

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Been a while since I've done one of these!

Hello friends! It's Friday, so F#ck it! Have a snippet of a random story that I may never follow up with, or may post tomorrow. No one knows!

In this case, a sci-fi theme original piece called Scratch and Sniff.

Still unsure why she had been called to this tiny town for no apparent reason, Eliana leaned her chair back against the wall of the old building at her back, keeping a sharp eye on the people around her. Her commander told her to be here, that something was supposed to be going down here that she had to see. Which didn’t make sense as it didn’t seem like much of anything ever went down here. This was one of the most po-dunk towns she had ever had the misfortune to visit and it wasn’t endearing itself to her at all with its small town charm. The people were clearly suspicious of her and watched her out of the corner of their eyes and over the tops of newspapers. It was like a bad cop movie set-up. Eliana didn’t like set-ups, regardless of how obvious they were.

But as she continued to watch the way the crowd was moving, the direction of their stares, she noticed it was becoming less focused on her and more on the squat building to her right. It was a nondescript gray stone building, probably the town bank. Which made sense. If something was going to happen in this tiny little town, it would be at the bank. Her coffee on the table in front of her steamed as she tried to listen for, feel for… sense anything that seemed out of place. Other than the strange tension she felt in the air, there was nothing to indicate she should be heading in a particular direction. Staying in the center of town was her best bet.

Hot breath on her neck suddenly made her stiffen. “He knows you’re here SHATASU, you won’t be disappointed.” Before she could turn to identify the speaker, he was gone. Who knew she was here? She didn’t take the time to dwell on this development, straightening her spine and keeping her hand on her weapon attached to her hip. Movement in the bank window let her know something was indeed up in the innocent looking building. She couldn’t interfere unless there was a distinct Super Human presence, but she wasn’t sensing one and it seemed like everyone else in town seemed to know something was wrong. Why weren’t they calling the police or the feds? Something about this whole situation was wrong.

As a SHATASU, or Super Human Ability Tracking and Sensory Unit, more commonly nicknamed Sniffers, Eliana had an uncanny sense of those with super human capabilities. Technically she was one as well, but her “powers” were latent, and so she could only track those who used their abilities to do exactly the things they weren’t supposed to. Steal, murder, kidnap… all the things normal humans were capable of, but super humans could be even more adept at.

It had been the hope of the government in the middle of the twenty-first century that the genetic mutations they engendered in certain parts of the population would increase productivity, increase intelligence, help the population survive the slow destruction of their planet and work to reverse it. As the mutations got out of control, or at least the government’s control, more and more people were born with abilities that they couldn’t track, couldn’t make work for them. Thus the birth of the SHATASU division of the military. Find them, disable them, bring them in for mental modification...

or execution.

#dawnrider original fiction #fuck it friday #sci-fi theme #writers on tumblr #Scratch and Sniff

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clatoera · 1 year

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Always Remember We’re Burned for Better Chapter 3: Checkmate, I Couldn’t Lose.

alright alright. Chapter Three. Thank you ALL so much for your endless support and love in this fic. I cannot even begin to put into words what it has meant to me and how much it inspires me.

AO3 Link

Masterpost link and earlier chapters

First I want to thank the anon for the chapter title who helped me keep in theme of Clato and Taylor Swift. Alternative chapter titles included

1. You should see me in a crown: Billie Eilish

2. Blood Upon the Snow: Hozier.

Secondly, Happy Birthday to my OG Clato bestie @ms1818. Thank you for sharing bestie glimmer with me, Ily.

Third, thank you to @cyansadness for the constant stream of consciousness Clato thoughts about this au. You’re a real one and im so glad you reached out to me.

This chapter was toned down because I worried I was going to get on a stabby watchlist.

Thank you again. Please scream at me with thoughts and comments.

This was what Clove was made for. She knows it in the exact moment she feels her knife sink into flesh for the first time, with a startling lack of resistance that was both satisfying and exhilarating. Sure, they practiced on the carcasses of animals, to learn the way skin swallows a knife in a way that a firm practice dummy would never. She memorized it at fourteen, when they placed a half of a pig in front of her for the first time. The way a blade penetrates skin, the gelatinous texture of subcutaneous fat, the sound of fascia ripping from muscle, the splitting of muscles against the grain, the feeling of metal on bone. Clove reveled in it then, and now, as hot, sticky blood shoots from a severed artery and right onto her face, she throws her head back in an open mouthed laugh as warmth coats her face.

She pulls the knife backwards, and pushes the bleeding boy backwards onto the snow, leaving him to make those disgusting yet enticing gurgling sounds as the blood suffocates him.

For just a second, Clove watches the way the blood stains the snow around the fallen boy, spreading like watercolor on a canvas. It is more beautiful than she could have imagined.

Next is one of the girls from 11 or 12, she isn't sure which, but she easily hits the dead center of her chest. If the pulsing squirts of blood are any indicator, she cut right through the vessel behind her heart, letting her bleed to death in seconds.

She got the boy from 11, a quick slice from ear to ear that leaves him bleeding out like livestock.

With knives locked between her second and third and also her fourth and fifth digit, she takes out two kids at once when she releases the blades with a single flick of her wrist.

Clove couldn’t really tell you where her allies were, or who killed who. The boy from six, maybe, she isn't really sure and doesn't care, came up behind her when her back was turned. She was focused on retrieving one of her knives, but she could sense the intrusion in her space. It takes less than a minute to run her leg under the boy’s knees, knocking him flat on his back in a bed of plush snow. She stabs the tip of the knife right at the base of his sternum, and then gives a long, slow drag down the entirety of his abdomen, viscera and blood spilling out through the sliced fabric and flesh.

At some point the blood behind her eyes stops pulsing, and she takes in her surroundings. The snow is stained crimson, truly giving the illusion of a bloodbath. Bodies litter the ground, and deep footprints head towards the barren trees, leading right to where the rest of her competition would be. Absently she notes the girl from one dead with something lodged in the back of her skull protruding from her left eye. Pity, to lose an ally so fast. One less body between her and home.

Clove is mentally taking stock of what they have in the cornucopia, the conical shape that really is barely more than a glorified igloo. She can practically hear Enobaria in her brain, screaming that she won in an extreme climate, to stay alive and nature would do the rest. True survival of the fittest, Enobaria would tell her.

When Clove finally looks up, the realization that it is snowing hits her at the same time that the flakes begin to cleanse the blood from her skin.

It would be a lie if Cato said that the feelings in his chest during this game were any better than during his own. At the very least, in his own he was able to make the calls. Where to stake out, what supplies to use when. Actually, the longer he thinks about it he never felt like this during his own games. There was nothing but pure, unfiltered confidence when he was in the arena. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was rage. Maybe it was the way he blacked out for a week and saw nothing but red around him, felt nothing but fire in his chest and pride in the depth of his soul. Of course he was going to win, that had never been a doubt.

There had never been a doubt she was going to win, either, so why did he have this nagging tightness in his throat whenever the camera panned away from her for too long?

It’s morning in the Capitol, and for now the games are following the same cycle of day and night as the rest of the country. The first day passed and the tribute count was already cut sharply in half.

The initial bloodbath had been a strong start for the careers, save for the girl from District One who literally slipped on a frozen patch of ground and ended up with an ice pick in her eye. What an embarrassment for a career, something he would definitely be mentioning to Marvel and Glimmer, the current reigning mentors of one, when he saw them tonight.

Overnight the temperature had dropped, and instead of taking the usual approach of hunting out the tributes stupid enough to light a fire, Clove had pushed to stay put inside the cornucopia they had claimed for themselves.That fight very well may have kept her alive, as when the sun went down in the arena the weather shifted rapidly. At least three kids froze out overnight, taking the grand total from the first twenty four hours to thirteen dead. Ten to go.

A whole six of those thirteen had been hers. Not that he counted or anything.

He’s laying on the couch as the emblem of the games appears again. He grabs the white fleece blanket off of the back of the couch, crumbling it into a ball before settling it under his head like a pillow. The cornucopia appears on screen the exact moment he feels a sharp tug on the top of his ear that pulls him completely up and off of the couch.

“Ow! What the FUCK-” Cato smacks the hand away only to have that same dexterous hand wrap around his wrist and sharp, filed nails dig into the flesh below his hand.

“What are you doing?” It’s Enobaria, practically hissing as she squeezes the hand on his wrist like a python around its prey. “Isn’t the whole point of you being here to help get her home?”

“Help? What am I supposed to do? I can’t climb into the fucking arena, Enobaria. Aren’t our hands kind of tied right now?” Cato tugs his hand out of her grasp, and rubs at the back of his neck to distract from the fact that yeah, he absolutely wishes he could waltz right in there and pull her out.

“You want to bring our girl home? Here's what you’re going to do.” Enobaria leans back to get a look at him, decide what she’s working with. Maybe that attitude of his would have to work for them.

Cato leans forward, elbows on his knees while he digs the heels of his hand in his eyes to wake himself up. Enobaria gets an eyeful of the broad expanse of his back that is covered in fine scratches in various stages of healing.

Amazing, Clove.

“First, you’re going to get dressed. You’re what they all want to see. Give them intimidating, give them brutal, bloody Cato. You’re going to go down there, and you’re going to show them the boy they rooted for last year. You’re going to give them cocky smiles, remind them you were the best.” She waves her hand, emphasizing the need to flourish his story. Show off, she says without needing to even use the words.

“Recap your best kills, how it felt the moment you felt warm blood on your hands the first time. Remind them of who you are. And then? You are going to do nothing but talk about how she is even better than you.” Enobaria doesn’t give him a moment to refute it, and there's a dark look in her eyes that tells him the fight would be moot anyway. This isn’t the time for coy comments or debate. It’s literally a matter of life and death for the girl they both care for more than they’d currently admit. “You had the look that she doesn’t. You were a big, scary boy from District Two. You were their golden boy, their ideal victor. Remind them of her scores. Of her training. She is a force, despite the fact she is the smallest one out there.”

She grabs him by the chin and sharply jerks his face to look at her. “I won in an extreme arena, Cato. The weather is going to take out most of the field. Three of my competitors died of dehydration, and another three from heat stroke. She is small. That weather is officially her biggest competition in there. She needs to stay warm. She needs to stay fed. We keep her warm and we keep her alive.” Enobaria waits until he gives her the slightest nod in understanding, before she drops her hand from his face.

“And put on a fucking shirt, I don’t want to see this shit,” She waves a hand in a circular gesture towards the angry red flares on his shoulder. Risking her ire, Cato smirks anyway.

Cato rises from the couch, and intentionally raises his arms over his head in a long, drawn out stretch that emphasizes the musculature of his back. “I don’t think that will be too hard. There's no one better than me and her…never will be, either.”

He can brag about them, all that's been said for years is how great they are. The best in their

classes, the best in their entire district. That’s who they have always been. When all is said and done by the end of the week, they’ll be the best duo in the eyes of the entire world, too.

He’s shuffling down the hall, mind already wandering to the way the world would see them hand in hand as victors within the week, the way that side by side they’d be enough to strike fear into people for the rest of their lives.

“Cato?” Enobaria calls out, leaning back on the couch, now covered in the white blanket he had been manipulating. “Don’t come back without money in your hands.”

There is a whole other world on this side of the games, Cato learns fast. Victors from the last fifteen years weave through crowds of the Capitol’s richest, dressed in what is surely the finest outfits in the country. There is a lot of skin showing and even more loud fake laughs that filter through the air. Various degrees of desperation, or maybe manipulation, to secure sponsorships for their tributes. The method didn’t really matter, he supposed, when the end goal was the same.

“Oh I remember you!” Comes a high, feminine voice that comes only seconds before Cato has long, manicured fingers on his shoulders. The feather light fingers twists him around to face a tall, notorious blonde girl.

The recognition is almost immediate, when he sees the blonde curls framing her face, the whitest smile he’s ever seen, and eyes that were green in the opposite way of Clove’s. More like spring grass than evergreen trees.

Cato always preferred winter to spring.

There is a man behind her, that he also recognizes. The same height as him, yet a stark contrast in appearance. Dark hair to blonde, brown eyes to blue. The two of them probably would have had it out had they been in the same games after their time as allies came to an end. Yeah, Cato and Marvel would be a respectable fight.

“I’m Glimmer!” She gives a little wave of her fingers, an inviting grin on her face. Glimmer then gestures to the man, who hovered just slightly beside and behind her, as if he were more loyal than her shadow. “This is Marvel. District one, but you know that already!”

Glimmer, the name is as familiar as the face. She had won the 68th games with a combination of charm and a ferocity that was so easily hidden beneath a shimmering smile. It was admirable, if not typical, for a District One Career. Her sister had won the same way, and her brother, the year before that. The three of them had been the longest line of related victors, and were three of the four victor from one within seven games.

There was always something to be said about the differences in the way one and two presented their best trained tributes. One with unmatched beauty and the other with unmatched brutality.

Marvel had won the 69th games, a joke Cato soon finds is a favorite of his to bring up. He had a charisma and a knack for making people laugh on his side, something that evidently still had sponsors lining up in his favor.

“You won last year, yeah? I remember the end, with the sword and the eyes, man that was awesome.” Marvel grabs a champagne glass and a mini sandwich from the tray that goes by, momentarily distracted from the introductions. “We wanted to find you earlier, but you were talking it up with the sponsors. Usually people don’t go that hard when it’s early enough in the games that the supplies are still stocked up. You can usually wait for a few days…you know, see if yours are even going to live long enough to need extra” He pops the mini sandwich in his mouth, and with a pleasantly surprised raise of his eyebrows he chases down the tray for another.

Glimmer’s got a look of what Cato can only describe as amused affection in her eyes as she watched Marvel chase down the snack. Interesting. For a girl who is known to have the entire capitol in her hand…she sure does have a spot in her heart for that goofy kid from her district.

“So,” Glimmer redirects, raising her eyebrows in a knowing smirk. “I hear two’s got another promising one?” She takes a long sip from the champagne flute in her hand, but there's a mischievousness in her eyes that does not falter. She had noted just the slight shift in his body language, how his shoulders tensed when Marvel suggested his tributes may not even survive to need sponsors.

“She’s the best girl we’ve had since Enobaria. I’ve never seen her miss.” The proud smile is one he’s worn all morning, and it makes its way back to his face the second he gets to share more about the girl. “And she was my training partner, I would know.”

“Hmm. Funny. I never specified it was the girl.” Glimmer flashes a grin and he knows she knows can tell something, that her perception of the change in how he held his shoulders when mentioning her was absolutely correct. She didn’t get this far by not knowing how to read a man. “I already knew she was a favorite, she killed it in the blood bath. I just wanted to hear it from you.” Glimmer shoots him a playful wink, and his secret is all but exposed to her now if the way his jaw clenches is any indication.

“Clove? That's her name? Cute. Cato and Clove.” It rolls off her tongue and Cato has never considered quite how much he likes to hear those words strung together until he hears them said by someone else. “Well, If it’s not our boy winning then I hope it’s her. God knows our girl is already tapped out.”

“An ice pick, that was graceful.” Cato scoffs, drawing the attention away from Clove and hopefully away from the warmth that was creeping up his neck from the Glimmer’s knowing looks.

“Even if she survived, she was done for. Nice girl, but nothing without her pretty face.” Glimmer sees Marvel and her siblings waving her over to some previously loyal district one sponsors. “I hope we get to meet her. Clove. I think the four of us could be great friends.”

–

Clove isn’t sure how much time has passed. The days go slower in the arena. Or, maybe they’re faster, she can’t really tell anymore.

She’s on her own now. The boys from one and her own district have taken each other out in what she can only describe as a cockfight. Hell, they hadn’t even finished the job on each other. Her district partner landed a fatal blow to one, only to succumb to hypothermia and hypovolemia himself before morning. That always did wonders for interdistrict relations when the allies turned on each other this early in the game.

If her count is right they were down to three or four. Her, that giant kid from eight, and maybe a girl or two from some mid level district. She isn’t sure.

Clove isn’t sure of much right now, except for the fact that she’s fucking cold. They’ve sent her in a couple blankets, some one-time-use hand warmers. She can feel Enobaria screaming at the screen, telling her to hurry it up and end it already. While she flips a knife through her fingers, she can’t think too long about the fact that the metal is almost imperceptible in her numb hands. She cannot afford to think about what that will do to her accuracy and precision.

She leans her head against the icy cornucopia, and considers closing her eyes for just a few seconds. Clove wants these games to be over as much as anyone. She wants to warm her fingers in front of the fireplace, take a bath in water that scalds her skin, and curl up under a down comforter that traps the body heat of her and the man who will be next to her inside of it.

As much as sleep calls her, there's part of her that fears she will not open her eyes again if she allows them to shut.

Light beeping draws her green eyes upwards towards the sky, squinting as heavy snowflakes block her view.

For fucks sake, can they cut this blizzard shit out yet?

The little pod lands in her hand, and her fingers are a little clumsy to open the freezing metal. It could be more hand warmers, or maybe extra gloves, based on the size.

When she opens it though, she can’t even be annoyed when it isn’t one of those things. Clove actually smiles when the marshmallow cereal bar lands in the palm of her left hand.

For a minute Clove lets herself think back to when they began this little tradition. He was thirteen and already a head taller than her. She was 12- turning 13 that day, mind you- with all the anger of someone thrice her age. Until that point they’d barely been able to tolerate each other beyond the training room floor. It’s what had made them such strong competitors.

“Everyone has a cake they like. You seem like a chocolate girl.”

“Why do you care? Go home, Cato.”

“Come on, it’s your birthday. Maybe you’ll actually have a shot at winning against me this year.”

“Will you just shut up? Birthdays only matter when you’re twelve and nineteen.”For them at least. What else did it matter except your first and final chances at the games?

“Vanilla then?” He’s had that same teasing, taunting smile since they were kids.

Clove nearly tossed the knife she smuggled out of the center, warning to wipe that infuriating grin off of his face. “I don’t like cake at all.”

He paused to look at her, really look at her, with narrowed blue eyes and a little tilt of his head. Maybe he hit another nerve of hers, he’s pretty good at finding them. “What do you like then? Come on, we’re partners. We should know something about each other.” Cato blocks the door out of the training room, and not even her tiny body could slide past him. “I'm not moving until you tell me.”

She gave him a solid shove in the center of his chest, and he did not falter. Clove groaned, and rolled her eyes as she shoved her backpack over one shoulder. “Those little bars. With the marshmallows and the cereal. My mom used to make them, I guess. I always liked them more than cake.”

Cato actually smiles–not smirks, smiles– at her. “That wasn’t so hard now was it. I like white cake myself. Chocolate icing.” He steps aside to let her pass. “Happy Birthday, Clover.”

And as much as she hates that stupid, mocking nickname, she doesn’t have it in her to snap back.

Clove runs her thumb over the plastic packaging, and when she goes to rip into it the wrapping with her teeth, the little white note falls into her lap.

Happy Birthday. Finish this already. -C

The end of the games is not spent in the district’s apartment, Cato learns that very last night. Once the game makers decide it’s time to end, the past Victors gather in a central headquarters on the ground floor of the tribute center. It’s the party of the year, according to Brutus.

There’s an endless bar in one corner, where the singular victor from twelve practically resides. Enobaria is conversing lightly with him, before slipping back towards Cato and Brutus with a handful of variously colored drinks.

She hands Brutus the short glass with a tawny toned liquid draped over a round ice cube. In her hand she maintains the slightly pink tinted beverage, with berries of some sort floating to the top. To Cato she hands the only colorless liquid, and as soon as it gets close enough to his hands he can smell it’s far stronger than water.

“You’re going to need it.” Enobaria warns. “It’s always brutal in the end.”

Cato nods, and continues to survey the community of victors he has yet to fully assimilate into. The games may not have formally ended but Enobaria and Brutus are on the receiving end of many congratulatory remarks.

“I like that one.” Johanna Mason, the District Seven winner from 71 says quickly, nodding towards his girl who’s pale freckled face filled the screen. “There’s something in those eyes. Something not right, but it makes her a hell of a fighter, whatever it is.”

Finnick Odair, the star of the capitol ever since the 65th games, congratulates Enobaria directly. “You’ve outdone yourself with this one. I’d know she was yours from a mile away. She’s got that same…aggression, we’ll say.”

“How do you feel!? Oh I am just so excited to meet her!” Glimmer whispers excitedly, settling herself to sit on the back of the couch next to his head, her legs and feet dangling by his right side. “She’s going to make the best addition, don’t you think Marvel?” She leans back, and while the couch would not support her, Marvel did. Cato would have noticed the way he had held the girl up by her waist if it were not for more pressing matters at hand.

Cato tries to tune out the Victors babbling around him. He leans back into the couch with his knees spread just a little, twisting the drink in his left hand to hear the ice swirl against the glass. Enobaria joins him on the left, with Brutus next to her. Together the three of them- as well as Glimmer and Marvel– actually focus their attention to the end of the games.

As Clove’s only remaining competitor enters the field across from her he is thankful for Enobaria’s preparation. Yeah. He was going to fucking need this drink. With that he finishes in one long drink, the burning in his throat nothing compared to the tightness in his chest.

She’s got the advantage, or so everyone thinks. Clove’s got the benefit of distance, lucky for her considering this man is nearly as big as Cato.

When Cato notices the way her fingers struggle around the handle of the knife, he feels his breathing hitch and his heart stop.

She aims. She throws.

She misses.

She misses the boy’s head by inches, more than Clove has ever missed a target by.

“No..” Enobaria gasps, and for the first time since the games began her face falls. “Oh no no no…”

“What, what are you no-ing?” Cato snaps, his relaxed posture immediately tensing up as he leans forward, desperate to get a clearer view, as if leaning in allows him to peer into the arena.

“It’s too cold. Her hands are too cold.” Enobaria growls, finishing her drink in a quick jerk of her head before the glass is shattered against the wall holding the screen. “She doesn’t have the control she should.”

The thrown glass shattering silences the entire room.

Cato knows all eyes are on him when he folds forward, head in his hands. He tugs sharply at the root of his hair, in a desperate attempt to control the utter rage he felt bubbling to the surface. He can’t watch this, and yet he doesn’t want to look away. He will not abandon her.

It’s the gasp from Glimmer that has his head snapping back up, but oh he wishes he hadn’t.

The boy from eight has her by the throat, body slammed against the cornucopia. She’s two feet off the ground, and the strangled sound that comes from her is the worst thing he has ever heard in his entire life. He knows then, that he’ll kill this kid if she doesn’t.

“I can’t watch this..” Comes from Glimmer, who’s turned to look in any direction but straight ahead.

Enobaria, Brutus, and Cato however, cannot tear themselves away.

“Cato-” Brutus begins, and he knows his own mentor is about to brace him for the worst thing that will ever happen to him.

“Shut up. She knows what to do. I’ve had her like that, ” If his voice falters his face does not. He’s not going to betray her by doubting her now.

The room is deathly silent, and Cato feels his blood run as cold as the arena itself. He isn’t sure when he pushed himself to a standing position, or when he took three or four steps forward.

“Come on, baby.” He whispers for himself and himself alone, wishing for all the world he had gone harder on her in training. “Foot to his chest,” She’d worked herself out of it a million times before, albeit not with the air in her lung being choked out of her.

When Clove places the heel of her foot on the boy’s solar plexus, and shoves him back with all the force in her leg, he has no choice but to stumble onto his back with a groan. She falls multiple feet back to the ground, but she doesn’t stop to catch her breath or address the bleeding that is coming from some unnoticed wound to her abdomen. Clove regrips the knife in her hand, and with everything left in her, she manages to get her knee on his throat.

Noone says it, but everyone knows that it was the years of training against Cato himself that probably just saved her life.

Clove could choke him with her body weight driven into her knee. She could take him out in the way he wanted to her.

That isn’t Clove.

The crazed look, the very same one from the moment the canon announced the start of the games, fills those fiery green eyes. She grabs the boy by his hair, tilting his head to the sky. Into the center of his forehead she carves a script C, identical to the one dangling from her neck.

There is no more fanfare when she plunges the blade between his eyes with all the strength in her body.

The canon booms.

Clove stands. Blood from both herself and her opponent covers her skin. She makes it half a step back before she falls to her own knees.

The scarlet liquid makes her green eyes all the brighter.

Her freckles shine through the sheen on her face.

When she falls back, her dark hair surrounds her head as a sharp angelic contrast to the paleness of the snow and of her skin. Clove is smiling, bright and brilliant, as the perfect snow under her body bleeds red with her. She’s won, she’s won. She’s won.

The announcement finally comes and she lets herself laugh. There is no stopping them now.

Ladies and Gentlemen may I present to you the winner of the 73rd annual Hunger Games.

The announcement fills the otherwise quiet room of victors.

Cato is first to break the silence.

He slams his hand together in a single clap, and now he is the one who cannot wipe that big, proud smile off his face.

“That’s my girl!” He all but screams, the reality of it all actually hitting him as if he were the one slammed against the cornucopia. Cato pauses, catching the breath he did not know he was holding. His heart races but in a way completely different than only moments before when he felt his life slipping from his hands as hers slipped from her eyes. “...that's my girl.” Cato repeats, much quieter, and his smile is unnervingly genuine.

The world can know, for all he cares. In fact, let them.

“That's our girl.” Enobaria agrees, a voice other than his finally chiming in. She rises next, and while she notes the knowing smirks from Glimmer, Marvel, Finnick, and Johanna, she doesn’t address them. The shocked look from Haymtich Abernathy is accompanied by a half-raised glass in Enobaria’s direction.

She can deal with the rumors later. (Were they really rumors anymore, Enobaria wasn’t sure).

Cato wastes no time for congratulations, or from commentary from the other victors he was sure would be coming his way if the smile on Glimmer’s face were anything to say about it.

He does not even wait for Enobaria and Brutus before he is out of the room, and half running down the hall, not wasting another moment of his life without her.

Enobaria tries to make him sleep in the hours between the resolution of the games and her clearance by Capitol medical staff.

“You better shower. And take a nap. After that little declaration of yours, you’ll be lucky if they don't drag you out during her interview for a very public reunion. She’ll love that, knowing you went and blabbed to all of her new co-victors.”

He obliges, not because of the threat of public eyes on them, but because he’d rather not look like hell when he sees her again. When he gets out of the shower there is a pressed suit waiting for him, the shirt underneath a deep shade of burgundy.

He’s unable to wait, and only interested in occupying his mind, so he dresses before climbing into bed fully clothed and ready to go.

He manages to sleep for about twenty minutes on account of the excitement buzzing in his veins that would not be quelled until his arms were around her. He’s staring at the ceiling, a whole new version of their future unlocked now that they are done with the games, when there is a knock on the door that has him flying out of bed.

They were victors now. They could move forward with the rest of their lives.

Enobaria and Brutus are with him, when they’re escorted through an underground tunnel to wherever she was held.

“We’re going under the stage. They’re going to interview and crown her after.” Enobaria explains once she recognizes the fluorescent lit tunnel they’re entering. She must recognize something in the surroundings, because she flashes those teeth at him in a terrifying smile. “You ready, loverboy?”

The car stops almost immediately, and he nearly pushes past the guards to get out. Brutus is chuckling at his eagerness, and Enobaria is only a few steps behind the frantic man.

There is nothing else in the world that matters the moment he sees her again.

She’s in a deep red dress that he can almost identify as the same color as the shirt that was laid out for him. It’s a tight velvet from a few inches below her collarbones until the top of her hips, where it transitions to thick layers of blood red gossamer fabric that falls to the middle of her calves. The sleeves are only a finger length past her shoulders, and are puffed up and girlish. Tall heels raise her just slightly closer to his height, but do not distract from the overall femininity of the look. She looks young, but as if she has been dipped in the blood of her competitors. Pale skin, dark hair, and green eyes are highlighted by the crimson shade.

Red is her color.

She doesn’t process that she’s moving towards him until they meet halfway across the room. Any disregard for years of their facade are out the window the minute his hands wrap her waist.

Cato lifts her effortlessly and Clove’s legs wrap around his hips just as naturally. One of her hands is in his hair while the other cradles the angle of his chin, leaning until their foreheads are pressed tightly to each other.

He holds her up with one arm around her waist, the other holding her face like she is the most priceless thing in the world.

“We did it, baby.” Cato whispers, for her and only her, before years and years of their carefully crafted resolve shatters. “God, I fucking love you.”

She kisses him like she wants to consume him, like he is the first breath of fresh air she has ever felt inside her lungs. He kisses her as if she is fire and he is ready to be burned to ash. Clove nips at his lower lip, claiming and possessive, and his hand around her hips tightens enough that she knows he will never let her go again. They’re lost at sea in the arms of each other, brought back to shore by the sound of someone clearing their throat.

While they pull apart, their foreheads still rest against each other, stupid, childish smiles plastered across each of their faces. They could go back to coy smiles and smirks when it was time to go back on stage.

For now, they soaked in the pure bliss of simply being together.

Enobaria comes forward and clears her throat again. She tries to look disapproving, but instead there's a little smile that comes through and breaks any mask she tries to wear.

Clove reluctantly drops her legs, though her arms stay looped around his neck. Cato’s hands rest on her waist, and she leans her cheek to his chest as Enobaria reaches up to take her hand and tug her away,

Her mentor pulls her into a hug of her own, crushing and tight in the arms of the woman who trained her. “I am so, so proud of you.” Enobaria promises, and lowering her voice she whispers further, “Your mom would be, too.” She smooths her hand over Clove’s soft curls, giving her a comfort she will never admit to needing. “I’ve never been prouder of anyone. You did it, Clove.”

Clove tightens her grip on her mentor, in a wordless understanding. She nods against her shoulder, squeezes her eyes tightly shut to ward off any emotions she may feel brewing underneath. “Thank you, Enobaria.”

Brutus is next, even going so far as to give her a crushing, albeit fast, hug himself. “Good job, Kid. You deserve it.”

Clove cannot stop smiling for once in her life. When Cato wraps his arms around her, pulling her back to press against his chest as he leans down to kiss her again, openly and unashamedly in front of their long time teachers and friends, she understands why.

She’s finally won.

–

“May I present to you, the victor of the 73rd Annual Hunger Games, Clove Kentwell!” Caesar Flickerman stands to welcome her, as Clove nearly floats across the stage. The smile on her face is the picture of pride, the picture of a flawless, perfect victor.

The cheers are deafening, as Caesar raises one of arms above her head to present her to the crowd.

“I told you I would be back, didn’t I?” Clove reminds him slyly as she settles in the chair directly across from him, referencing back to her three minute interview a mere week ago.

The fans eat that up, and Caesar uses it as a moment to segway into her highlights of her games.

They recount her initial kills and her survival instinct not to leave into the night, which she openly attributes to Enobaria’s endless training.

He goes through each step of the final confrontation, and when his tone shifts Clove immediately knows what is coming.

From the way Enobaria bristles off stage, so does she.

“Now, I don’t know if you all know this.” Caesar addresses the audience. “But this is not the first Kentwell girl we’ve had on this stage. Does anyone here remember Sevina Kentwell? 58th games, ring a bell anyone?”

Clove's smile does not fall, and she gives a small nod as various reactions ripple through the audience. Most notably are the loud gasps and occasional confused murmurs, as Caesar holds up a finger to silence them.

“Plenty of victors have children. But you all are looking at the only known child of a tribute.” He gestures to her, and encourages a round of applause to distract from the notable confusion of the audience.

A video begins to play, and Clove whips her head to look behind her as she hears a voice she could never forget but at the same time does not remember. They are playing the interview of a girl who looks alarmingly like her, right down to the specific dark freckle under her left eyes. Even her voice– Clove realizes she hears herself– is both foreign and like home.

The girl on the screen has the same assured confidence as Clove, but a softness Clove herself lost a long time ago. Maybe she never even had it at all. There's the same soft curls, eyes the same indescribable shade of green.

She does not talk about her skills with a knife, or about the victor she is bound to be. Instead she talks about a little girl, a toddler with a nose that scrunches when she smiles, who likes her mother’s rice crispy treats as her favorite snack.

“I named her Clove, she’s my little lucky Clover. My token is actually a little clover on a necklace, right next to a C. She’ll be with me.”

“You sound like you love her very much.” A version of Caesar, 18 years younger yet looking exactly the same, prompts.

“I love her more than anything. I’m going to win for her.”

It hits Clove in that moment, in front of the entire world, that she didn’t remember her mother saying her name.

She cannot remember her saying that she loves her.

The next picture stops her heart, though it never once shows on her face. She maintains cool and collected, as a photo she has never seen before, of a girl smiling at a grinning toddler is flashed across the screen.

If Cato didn’t know any better, he would have sworn that it was Clove in that picture, not as the child but as the teen holding her. Suddenly, he feels furious. They took her moment of Glory and turned it into a chance to exploit a relationship with a woman she never even got to know.

“I’m going to kill him.” Cato growls, taking a step forward, stopped by Enobaria’s hand on his shoulder.

“Stop. Look at her. She’s handling it perfectly. Not a tear in sight. She’s flawless.” Clove would likely not forgive him for walking out there anyway.

Now, Clove may never have seen the photo, or the interviews, but she is entirely prepared as they pull up the final moments of her mother’s life.

She had seen it millions of times. Her mothers death was her bedtime story from the time she was three until she moved into the academy to train. Her grandmother blamed her for the death of her mother, naturally. She claimed it was the love Sevina had for her daughter that made her weak. That the existence of Clove alone stole a valuable year of training away from her. Maybe it was true.

Clove watches, unblinking, unwavering, as her mother is slammed against the cornucopia, by a big boy from district eight. Once, twice, and Clove has never known if her mother’s neck snapped from the force or if she bled into her brain until she stopped breathing.

All she knows is that in that moment the boy from eight became a victor. Her mother died in the final two, despite being the absolute favorite to win. And Clove lost the only person who had loved her.

“What a full circle moment, right!” Caesar brought her out of her thoughts, out of her emotionless wall, as he brought the audience back to life. “Incredible! Tell me, did you think of your mother when you were in that final showdown, in that same position she was in?”

“Yes.” She answers honestly. Of course she had, she’d seen it enough times to know how terrible her mother had looked in those final seconds of her life. She won’t give him more, she won’t elaborate on the way she thought that maybe this would be the way she saw her mother again.

“We know your mother made it to the final two, and lost. A tragedy for such a young mother and her child back home.” He feigns sympathy, and Clove can literally hear the stifled sniffles and sobs from those in the audience. How dare they cry over her life when she doesn’t even do so. “Do you remember her?”

She could be honest. She could say no, the games took her mother and left her with the endless weight of proving her and her mother’s worth on her shoulders. No. She could not remember the way she smelled or how tall she was. Clove chooses not to give them any more than what she’s already lost, and deflects the question.

“My mother loved me.” Clove answers, and that much she is sure of. Enobaria reminded her constantly. Her existence alone is proof enough, in a world where she certainly did not have to actually have her in the first place. Even her grandmother, who resented Clove from the time her mother took her final breath, kept her because she was the baby that was so loved by Sevina Kentwell. “She loved me. She was not a victor herself but she made one. I don’t think I'd be sitting in front of you, had things gone differently.”

Sevina had been the only one to want her. Not her grandmother. Not her father, a boy a few years older than her mother who never even was good enough to volunteer.

She knew what happened once she died. Her mother was buried in a box in the tribute cemetery. No mention of the dark haired little girl she left behind on her grave marker.

She cried for her mother. For weeks, months, maybe. Noone came to comfort her. Noone told her she was worth it, without Sevina there to kiss her nose and hold her in the crook of her arm as she slept.

Her mother died and no one came to comfort her.

Eventually, Clove learned there was no use in tears. Noone was coming to help.

No, if her mother had come home a victor, Clove would not be sitting here a victor herself.

“Clove, do you remember where you were?”

“It was my third birthday. No, I don’t remember where I was.” There it was, the venom dripping into her voice now.

“They were bringing you on the train! You were on your way to be reunited with your mother on stage, when she so tragically died.” Caesar revealed, and if Enobaria hadn’t been holding Cato by the arm off stage he would have strangled Caesar Flickerman at that moment. “You are the only tribute to be on that train twice, isn’t that so crazy!”

Clove’s hand balls up in the fabric of her skirt, the only sign she is anything less than stoic and confident.

“Did you know that the dress you’re wearing is very special?”

It’s Enobaria who’s now being restrained by Brutus backstage, this final exploitative blow to this girl’s life too much to stay quiet and witness.

Caesar hushes the audience, waiting for complete silence.

“This was the dress that was designed and created for your mother to be wearing when she was crowned. Isn’t it so special to be honoring her in this way?”

“She’d be very proud of me.” Clove announces, the edge in her voice less the crest of a waterfall and more the steel of a blade, and all she wants is this crown on her head already.

“That she would. That she would.”

The interview continues with the redirect back to her skills and her highlights. They talk about her birthday, now also revealed to be the anniversary of her mother’s death, and her excellent training.

Cato is seething beside an equally enraged Enobaria, side by side with their arms firmly crossed over their chests. Brutus stands behind both with a hand on each of their shoulders to ground them (and restrain them, if needed).

“I get why you were worried about her now. Last year.” He admits, referring back to the lecture Clove had faced when Enoabria found out about the extent of their relationship. “We never would have-”

“It doesn’t matter now.” Enobaria cuts him off, the wound of Sevina Kentwell’s fate ripped far too open to think about much else right now, much less how her goal had been to save her daughter from the same one. “...She was a knife thrower too, you know”

President Snow makes his way to the stage, granddaughter trailing behind him with a golden crown on a crisp white pillow in her hands.

Clove stands in front of the President, and Cato feels a surge of pride when he remembers he was the first person in the world to see her in that crown.

She is announced as the formal winner, and President Snow looks exceptionally pleased with the quality of the victor before him.

The cheers are deafening until Caeser’s playoff music starts and Clove is permitted to walk off the stage, still giving a single handed wave to the audience.

The moment she is off stage she is in Cato’s arms, pulling his face down to hers so she can kiss him properly, this time with her own crown on her head.

If the gasps in the audience reveal that the camera has cut to them, capturing and revealing their relationship for all of Panem, they choose to ignore it.

There is a silence between them, Enobaria, and Brutus, as they make their way back to the elevator to the second floor. Enobaria and Brutus take the first, giving Cato and Clove a moment to take one alone, giving them a second of privacy for the first time since they parted the morning of the games.

As soon as the doors close, Clove relaxes into his arms, the exhaustion of the past two weeks and the past two hours crushing down onto her.

He holds her up, taking the metaphorical and physical weight off of her shoulders for the duration of their time alone. He rests his chin on her shoulder., breathing in the scent of her hair that is somehow capitol shampoo but also so distinctly Clove.

In a moment they will be back with their mentors and their team. They will have a late, glorious dinner and talk about the next six months and the following Victory Tour. They will discuss the inevitable questions about their relationship they are sure to face tomorrow.

For the next few blissful moments, it is just the two of them.

“Cato?” Clove mumbles, face pressed into the crook of his neck.

“Yeah?”

“Let’s go home.”

#clato #cato and clove #the hunger games fanfiction #the hunger games fanfic #clato fanfic #THG fanfic #always remember we're burned for better #ARWBFB tag #it's a beast #the longest chapter ive ever written #againn #this one 21 pages LOL

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dweemeister · 11 months

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Suzume (2022, Japan)

How dramatic Makoto Shinkai’s rise has been. The Japanese animator and filmmaker, with his background in video game animation, is far away from the narrative and editing incoherence that plagued his early works, such as The Place Promised in Our Early Days (2004) and 5 Centimeters Per Second (2007). At first, neither film made viewers outside Japan take much notice. A decade later, Your Name (2016) commercially rocketed past all Shinkai films before it and, before one knew it, would go on to surpass Spirited Away (2001) as the highest-grossing anime of all time. The body-switching romantic comedy remains Shinkai’s best film, although Suzume comes much closer than I expected.

In my write-up to Your Name after its North American release, I speculated that the film’s success in Japan might be due to its allusions to the 2011 earthquake and tsunami off the coast of northern Honshu, the Tôhoku region – potentially some sort of cinematic catharsis. Though the imagery that Shinkai employed in Your Name would be unmistakable to any Japanese person who witnessed the destruction of that day, he invoked those images seemingly for the sake of aesthetic appeal. So too was this the case for Weathering with You (2019) – a film that drowned Tokyo in constant rain in service of an epochally selfish decision in pursuit of teenage romance. As such, Shinkai’s insistence to this day that Weathering with You is a film about climate change collapses entirely in the film’s finale. Suzume doubles down on Shinkai’s shtick for teen romance and obsession for how light reflects off water, but now he has made a film where the repercussions of the Tôhoku earthquake and tsunami and the subsequent Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster are front and center. This is his most honest film.

17-year-old Suzume Iwato (Nanoka Hara; Akari Miura as a young girl) lives with her aunt (Eri Fukatsu) on Kyūshū, the southernmost of the major Japanese islands. On the way to school one day, she passes by an attractive, long-haired fellow named Sôta Munataka (Hokuto Matsumura) who asks about local ruins. She points the way to an abandoned onsen, and – following her romantic longings rather than common sense – follows him. At the onsen, she finds a door, standing alone without supports. After she removes a totem that transforms into a cat (Ann Yamane) that scurries away, the door leads to a grassy field, with picturesque blues and reds streaking across a starlit sky. Arriving at school later, she later notices that something resembling a gigantic red worm is emanating from the door’s location. She rushes back, noticing Sôta struggling to close the door, and lends a hand to shut and lock the door – but not without the worm (which no one except these two can see) crashing to the ground and causing a sizable earthquake. Sôta explains he is a “closer” – part of a line of individuals who search for these doors and ensures that they remain shut. Failure to do so results in cataclysmic earthquakes. Against her aunt’s wishes, Suzume will follow Sôta northwards, towards Honshu. The cat, Daijin, must revert to a keystone in order to prevent further disaster.

A few decades into his film career, Shinkai’s undisciplined writing of his character’s emotions remains. Complicating everything is the fact that Daijin turns Sôta into something that should be inanimate. In interviews, Shinkai has defended this decision as the only way to have any sort of comic relief amid the film’s themes – a curious statement to make, as half of Suzume’s comedy has little to do with Sôta’s transformation, instead centering on our characters’ habits and flaws. The original plan was for Suzume to fall for another young woman, but producers nixed the idea, believing such a development too controversial for Japanese audiences*. Shinkai’s decision to make Sôta non-human puts Suzume on the brink of slapstick absurdity. Even though it remarkably allows some of the best character animation from a filmmaker not regarded for that (yes, character animation for an otherwise inanimate object), this absurdity can occasionally deprive Suzume of some much-needed pathos. Only in the Suzume’s final third does that pathos become apparent, and it arrives less powerfully than it should because of Shinkai’s decision to transform Sôta.

Combined with Suzume’s tendency to make hormone-influenced decisions during both the quieter and most perilous moments of her journey with Sôta – I am all for female characters having romantic agency, but there are times and places for when expressing or acting upon romantic feelings is appropriate – Shinkai’s teenage romantic writing can feel tactless at worst, tacky at best. Yet, because Shinkai is upfront about Suzume’s desires from the beginning (unlike the does-he-love-her-or-doesn’t-he-love-her waffling in Your Name and Weathering with You), it makes Suzume’s finale less baffling than his previous two works. Concerningly, in Your Name and Weathering with You, a natural disaster is an inconvenience to two teenagers barely realizing their love for each other. Not this time, thankfully, because of Suzume’s forwardness.

Suzume’s success comes from the tradition of live-action Japanese cinema to reflect – whether directly or otherwise – on national tragedy. When the United States ended its postwar occupation of Japan in April 1952, it also halted the censorship of topics such as the occupation itself, World War II, and other topics that the censors might object to. One could read the previous sentence and draw rash conclusions: namely, that American censorship shackled Japanese artistry. Perhaps it did, but plenty of exceptions exist, such as Yasujirô Ozu’s entire post-War filmography (even during the occupation). In Ozu’s post-War films, the families in those works quietly observe or accept the gradual Westernization of their culture, most evident in changes in nuptial and familial norms, and articulated with subtle, but great artistry. Censors have a way in sometimes making art’s politics less didactic – no less powerful, much more palatable. Now without American censors, films like Gojira (or Godzilla; 1954), Twenty-Four Eyes (1954), and The Burmese Harp (1956) wrestled with the morality of WWII, the apocalyptic consequences of nuclear weapons, and Japan’s war crimes inflicted upon its Asian neighbors (over the last few decades, Japanese filmmakers have become increasingly hesitant to engage in the last topic).

On March 11, 2011, a 9.0 or 9.1 earthquake struck off the east coast of Tôhoku. The resulting tsunami killed thousands and displaced hundreds of thousands, as well as triggering a nuclear meltdown at the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant. On 3/11 and the days after, images of the ocean swallowing buildings whole, boats now perched atop half-ruined rooftops, and clocks frozen at 3:25 PM made their way around a now-interconnected world. No sense can ever be made of nature’s randomness, and the loss of life in its wake. Suzume is a film that understands this, long before Shinkai truly shows what his film is about (accepting past tragedy and trauma) and what it champions (living life completely). Before we fully learn about Suzume’s loss on 3/11, Shinkai is content to introduce us to partake in some narrative detours. Those detours introduce the audience to side characters living their lives humbly, with little fanfare, and a joie de vivre. Notice the joy of the motorcycle-riding produce seller, content with the verdant beauty of her home and the rural simple living. The laid-back and unfussy Tomoya Serizawa (Ryūnosuke Kamiki; whose character is Sôta’s best friend) takes each day as is as he attempts to earn a teaching credential. Until then (and I suspect even after he becomes a teacher), he enjoys cruising along in his convertible, blasting a Spotify playlist with playful oldies such as Yumi Arai’s “Rūju no Dengon” (a familiar tune to fans of 1989’s Kiki’s Delivery Service), Yuki Saito’s “Sotsugyô”, among others.

These detours contrast with a device (that Shinkai also uses) more characteristic of Japanese cinema, or at least most Japanese cinema that has been exported to the West. That device is mono no aware (“the impermanence of things”) – with practitioners including some of the greatest Japanese filmmakers of all time such as Ozu and Isao Takahata (1988’s Grave of the Fireflies, 2014’s The Tale of the Princess Kaguya). This refers to character behaviors or individual shots that emphasize how life is fleeting and precious. In that contrast of Suzume’s loss and the joyfulness of her companions, there is an implicit understanding that Japanese culture, as our characters know it, is disappearing (one might say “transforming”). It is there in the beautifully-drawn abandoned buildings – the onsens, the schoolhouses – alluding to Japan’s demographic changes, as well as the implication that there are fewer “closers” in Japan than there used to be. For an economy once pegged to lead the future in Asia, Japan’s stagnant financial reality is reflected in the supporting cast, all of whom are hardscrabble folks neither struggling nor prospering. Sometimes that change happens suddenly, as what happened to Suzume on 3/11, leaving behind a towering sea wall and imprints of former homes as nature reclaims these once-devastated places.

The trick, Shinkai says, is to acknowledge the tragedies of the past, for all its effects on the present. At the same time, one must press forward, to live as completely as possible in the days we have afforded to us. As simple as that may be to articulate verbally or cinematically, it is a much different proposition in practice, on both counts. If Suzume presented this message inelegantly, the film would be a maudlin exercise. Touch too lightly on these themes, and the film drowns in its heavily expository dialogue. Shinkai may too fervently focus on the romantic and the comedic in spurts, but Suzume eventually upholds the film’s ultimate thesis, so that Suzume can find true happiness today and in the future while in full acceptance of her past.

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With any Makoto Shinkai film post-Your Name, one expects the band RADWIMPS to score the film and provide a wealth of original songs. This time, the lone notable song is the title number, “Suzume”, and it only appears in full during the end credits, rather than the characteristic Shinkai-esque montage. Performed by RADWIMPS and featuring the TikTok singer Toaka on vocals, the sixteen-note motif in “Suzume” (even when Toaka is on vocals and not vocalizing the motif, the motif is played as the harmonic line) is a hypnotically memorable idea that serves as Suzume’s motif for the film’s entirety. Together, RADWIMPS and co-composer Kazuma Jinnouchi (Halo 5: Guardians and “The Ninth Jedi” from Star Wars: Visions; like Shinkai, Jinnouchi got his start in the video game industry) craft a gorgeous score unafraid to mix styles and instrumentations.

The action scoring as heard in “Abandoned Resort” makes full use of Japanese instruments and an ominous choir on top of orchestra – lending the scene that it accompanies an immediate tension that bolsters the sense of danger in closing the door. Similar orchestrations in the other door-closing scenes are likewise as effective as this. In other moments, a wildly jazzy “Cat Chase” sets the pace for a chaotic pursuit early in the film, all while adding to the scene’s hilarity. A simple conversation between piano and strings such as in “Time for Two” introduces secondary romantic motifs for those moments when the action slows down and Suzume has Sôta on her mind. But perhaps the most effective musical moment occurs while our two leads are in Tokyo, and Suzume makes the decision to return home in “Suzume’s Departure”. It might not be the most musically interesting cue, but RADWIMPS and Jinnouchi’s restraint to delay Suzume’s motif until absolutely necessary pays off in emotional dividends that only film music can accomplish. By some distance, this is the most beautifully scored and fascinatingly orchestrated film in Shinkai’s filmography, and a stunning achievement for RADWIMPS and Jinnouchi.

There is no doubting that Makoto Shinkai is one of the most important filmmakers in Japan at this moment. He is the figurehead for a generation of directors for whom anime has always been their foremost cultural influence – with all the strengths and substantial limitations that entails. And like those he succeeds but does not quite emulate (Ozu and his contemporaries, but more closely the likes of Hayao Miyazaki and the late Takahata), Shinkai has made a film grounded upon the aftermath of a national disaster. For the first time, those intentions and allusions are clear. The directness of feeling in Suzume is a refreshing change for him, granting the film an emotive sincerity that none of his previous works can match. Indeed, some of his expository, romantic, and comedic writing threatens to render his work as tasteless. Yet with utter conviction in his writing and filmmaking, Shinkai presents that the goodwill and kindness of others is essential following tragedy. I might take issue with Shinkai’s approach, but I have no arguments there. Following the footsteps of great directors and their films in the years after another national calamity, Suzume, though imperfect, is Shinkai at his most humanistic.

My rating: 7.5/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found in the “Ratings system” page on my blog (as of July 1, 2020, tumblr is not permitting certain posts with links to appear on tag pages, so I cannot provide the URL). Half-points are always rounded down.

* Broadly, Japanese society is not hostile towards LGBTQ+ persons. However, the nation’s politics – which have long been defined by remarkably low participation rates for an industrialized democracy, especially from younger generations – is conservative on queer rights. The ruling Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) has been in power almost continuously since its founding in 1955, and the party has always been against same-sex marriage.

For more of my reviews tagged “My Movie Odyssey”, check out the tag of the same name on my blog.

#Suzume #Suzume no Tojimari #Makoto Shinkai #Koichiro Ito #Genki Kawamura #Nanoka Hara #Akari Miura #Hokuto Matsumara #Eri Fukatsu #Shota Sometani #Sairi Ito #Kotone Hanase #Kana Hanazawa #Matsumoto Hakuo II #Ann Yamane #RADWIMPS #Kazuma Jinnouchi #Toaka #My Movie Odyssey

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discluded · 7 months

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i'd like to share my thoughts on the pfw styling...

going with what you said about MA's market reach and market value, it would make sense why Dior gives them the more "experimental" looks. we saw how a lot of (mostly) western outlets post about MA this time around because they likely saw how much reach their asian counterparts got when they posted MA before.

by giving MA the "less boring" men's looks, Dior gets to show the public their range (like how you can style their runway looks for the streets or events). from what i've observed with them in recent years, their male ambassadors tend to go with classic cuts and silhouettes, usually suits and the like.

while i prefer those looks to what we've seen recently (i liked Apo's outfit but Mile's wasn't doing it for me), i can see why a brand trying to keep relevant would want to dress two of their most popular ambassadors in their "less traditional" designs.

I like this line of thought. A lot of the criticism coming out about current collections in fashion is that they operate thematically (ie, the witch theme for this show) rather than/or more importantly push the boundaries of silhouettes and cuts in the shape of designs

that being said none of the shapes they put on Mile and Apo have ever been novel per se so much as shapes typically not done in Menswear (*edit for clarification: I mean that marrying more traditionally femme silhouettes into menswear rather than putting them into things that could be in women's collections but rebranding it with #male aesthetics like changing the colors to beige, grey, black etc. 😑)

I have a bit more to say, but I'll end with this:

"I hate the term street-wear,” says Kim Jones, who is the artistic director for Dior Men and Fendi womenswear and haute couture. “It’s not a term that I find interesting at all. You can wear couture in the street if you want.” (WSJ, Oct 2021)

and

Hype, created by purely artificial and planned scarcity, keeps the brands front and center, shielded by their vapid and hollow pieties about “democratization of fashion.”

One simple answer is, opt out. In terms of style, go your own way. Don’t let anyone, and especially anyone on Instagram, tell you what’s cool. After a withdrawal, you will find this liberating. And don’t give any validation to the hypebeast sheep. Validation is the engine that keeps the hype economy rolling and the erasure of streetwear culture along with it. Or as Bengtson emphatically put it, “If rich people need to buy expensive, rare shit to feel better about themselves or justify their obscene wealth or just flash their plumage to those who are into that kind of shit, fuck 'em. They're fucking followers themselves. Why follow them?” (The death of street-wear is a class issue, High Snobiety, April 2022)

tl;dr - imo brands are big mad that street-wear was the focal point of particularly menwear for the last 7 years and chased that trend rather than led it as has historically been the role of high fashion houses

Kim Jones in particular seems kind of big mad about it (from my perspective) and now he's trying to create an audience for looks and cuts that aren't there. there is no audience and there won't magically become one for that shapeless frock they put Mile in. street-wear didn't only lead to the democratisation of fashion, it also told people they didn't need to bow to the emperor's new clothes.

#mileapo and fashion #mileapo x dior

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thelastspeecher · 1 year

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Stanuary '23 - Week 4: Worth

My Firefighter AU was suggested as one for me to use for Stanuary this year. And since it's one of my favorites, I just had to! For those unaware, this is my AU where Stan gets recruited to fight wildfires while in prison (because California regularly has prisoners fighting wildfires and then not compensating them properly for it), and after he's served his time and is a free man, goes to the only fire station that would hire an ex-felon: the Gravity Falls Fire Station.

I think that's about all the context you need for this ficlet, but it might behoove me to mention that this write takes place after this one I wrote a while back.

And without further ado, here is my final 2023 Stanuary submission, using the theme of Worth as well as the sub-themes of Self-Esteem and Therapy. That's right. Therapy.

Enjoy.

———————————————————————————————————–

Stan sat on the annoyingly comfortable gray couch. He looked around the room, taking in the various decorations. They were all generic. Either they had inane phrases about “calm” and “identity” and “centering”, or they looked like something that would be on display in an open house. A small, white, cone-shaped…something rested on an end table, emitting a mist.

No wonder I had to bribe Angie to do this. This isn’t quite hell, but it’s damn close. What’s the other thing? Purgatory? Yeah, that sounds about right.

“So, Stan, the first thing I’d like to do is recognize the bravery and self-care you’ve displayed in setting up this appointment,” said the therapist sitting in front of Stan. She was a perky young woman with blonde hair and a fashion sense that would have made Stan’s pops mutter about hippies. “Realizing you need help and agreeing to get it are often the most difficult, yet most important, steps.”

“Yeah, well…” Stan shifted slightly. He moved one of the throw pillows further away from him. “If I’m gonna be honest-”

“Yes, please be honest,” the therapist said. “That is crucial.”

“You want honesty? Okay. I only agreed to do this ‘cause it was the only way I could get my best friend to see a shrink again,” Stan said. To her credit, the therapist didn’t seem dissuaded nor off-guard.

“Thank you for your honesty. In that case, maybe we should explore that. Why did you insist on your friend seeing a therapist, to the point that you agreed to do so as well?”

“It’s Angie’s personal business, I shouldn’t blab about it,” Stan muttered.

“Everything you tell me is confidential. It will not leave this room.”

“Still.”

“I suppose we could jump right into the concerns that led you to making this appointment, then,” the therapist said brightly.

Shit.

“Fine, I’ll tell you about Angie,” Stan said, trying to delay talking about himself as long as possible. “She got hurt by a firework when she was a kid. I guess she saw a shrink for a long time, but after she moved to Gravity Falls, she stopped. She figured she didn’t need it anymore. But during the Fourth of July, some dumbass kids set off firecrackers, and she had one of those flashbacks like veterans get.” The therapist nodded.

“It makes sense that she would continue to be haunted by a traumatic event experienced so young.”

“Yeah.” Stan rolled his eyes. “But she’s too damn stubborn to tell when she needs someone to help her, so I had to make the agreement with her.”

“Would you describe yourself as stubborn, as well?” the therapist asked. Stan snorted in amusement. “Is that a yes?”

“Yeah. ‘Stubborn’ is one of the best words to describe me. Right up there with ‘handsome’, ‘charismatic’, and ‘tone-deaf’,” Stan said. The therapist smiled.

“Luckily, I think I can work with all of those.” She looked down at the notebook in her hands. “I take it – Angie, was it?” the therapist asked. Stan nodded. “I take it Angie felt you needed to attend therapy for a valid reason. Would you share that reason with me?”

“She thinks I’m kinda messed up from my time on the streets and in the joint,” Stan said dismissively. The therapist raised an eyebrow. “Also something about me feeling like I need to prove myself.”

“Ah.” The therapist cleared her throat. “Well, to me, those all sound like very valid reasons for Angie to be concerned. Reasons I would like to explore.”

“Oh.”

Wasn’t expecting that.

“Would you mind sharing your history with me? From the beginning, preferably. I feel like knowing about your childhood might be beneficial.”

“I’m from New Jersey,” Stan said. A silence stretched. Stan met the therapist’s eyes, trying to get across the message that he was done. Finally, the therapist spoke.

“Is your friend Angie from New Jersey?”

“Uh, no. She’s from some tiny town in Arkansas.”

“How did you two meet, then?” the therapist asked, making a note.

“We got assigned to fight the same wildfires at the same time.”

“Wildfires? I take it you’re both firefighters, then?”

“Yep.”

“How did you decide to go into that field?”

“It’s the only thing other than boxing that I’ve ever been good at. And I don’t wanna ruin my face by being a boxer professionally. I sure as hell won’t get any ladies with my voice.”

“Interesting…” the therapist said softly. She scribbled in her notebook. Stan winced.

Dammit. That’s something she’s gonna wanna revisit later.

“I think that’s a good spot for us to start working today,” the therapist said, looking back up at Stan.

Nope! Worse! She doesn’t wanna revisit, she wants to talk about it now!

“You said you’ve only ever been good at two things: firefighting and boxing. Why do you think that?”

“Because it’s true,” Stan said with a shrug. “I was never good at school.” The therapist frowned.

“Is there anything else you feel like you’re bad at?”

“I mean, school sorta covers the rest of it.”

“I would disagree,” the therapist said slowly. “There are many things that you can be good at without getting straight A’s.”

“Maybe, but they��re not things that really matter.”

“Again, I would disagree.” The therapist’s frown deepened. “These things you say don’t matter, would any of those happen to be things you’re good at?”

“Some of ‘em, sure.”

“Like what?”

“Cooking,” Stan said. Before he landed on firefighting, he’d worked in the cafeteria a lot in prison. “Cleaning, probably.” Again, one of his jobs in prison had been as a janitor. “And…I dunno, talking my way outta trouble?”

“All of those are very much worth being good at!”

“If I was good at more important stuff, I wouldn’t need to talk my way outta trouble in the first place. And the other two, if I was good at school, I’d make enough money that I could just have someone else to do the cooking and cleaning,” Stan said dismissively. The therapist jotted down a few more notes. “Look, I might have some skills, but if I was smart, I wouldn’t need ‘em!”

“Hmm. Well, Stan, from what you’ve said, it sounds to me like you might have some self-worth issues,” the therapist said after a moment.

What else is new?

“You very artfully avoided this topic earlier, which makes me wonder if it is worth discussing.” The therapist held her pen above her notepad. “Tell me about your family.”

“No.”

“If you insist.” The therapist set down her pen. “Tell me more about Angie, then. She seems to care deeply for you.”

“Yeah.”

“Is therapy something she’s suggested for you in the past?”

“Yeah.”

“I’d imagine she was thrilled to have you agree to a session, then,” the therapist said.

“…Yeah,” Stan mumbled.

She’s been a mess since the Fourth. When I agreed to see a shrink, it was the first time I’d seen her smile in a while. Stan huffed impatiently and turned his head to face the wall. In his line of sight was a painting of a winter landscape, but he wasn’t looking at it. He was too caught up in his thoughts. Angie’s gonna ask me how the therapy went. She’s good at sniffing out my lies, so no matter what I tell her, she’ll be disappointed. She might even cry. Stan’s shoulders drooped. I hate when she cries.

“Fine,” he ground out finally. “You win. I’ll talk.”

“This is not a game where someone can win, Stan,” the therapist said calmly.

“Everything’s a game where someone can win,” Stan retorted. He continued to stare at the painting. “If there’s one thing my Pops taught me, it was that.”

“Your father?”

“Yep. I’ve got one of those. Got a mom, too. Compulsive liar, but that’s useful when you’re a phone psychic.”

“Any siblings?”

“Two brothers. Both older.”

“You’re the youngest child?”

“I just said that.”

“I was merely confirming. What are their names?”

“Sherman is the oldest. He was already married and had a kid by the time I was in high school. Stanford is only older than me by a few minutes.”

“Twins, I take it, then.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you close to your brothers?”

“Not really.” Stan was getting bored of the winter landscape painting. He turned his head the other way to stare at a bookshelf. The books looked like the kind of self-help bullshit Fiddleford kept trying to get Angie to read. “Too big of an age gap between me and Shermie, and Ford sorta burned that bridge when he let me get kicked out.”

“Kicked out?” the therapist asked. Stan shot her a glare.

“I’ll talk about my family, but there’s no way in hell I’ll talk about that.”

“Maybe next time, then,” the therapist said brightly. Stan grunted wordlessly.

There’s not gonna be a next time.

“When was the last time you spoke to your twin brother?”

“A few months ago, actually. Turns out he lives in town. And sets his house on fire so regularly you could use it to set your watch.”

“I see. How did that reunion go?”

“Poorly.” Stan scowled, fixing his eyes upon the only book on the shelf with an unlabeled spine. “He thinks he’s hot shit ‘cause he’s got a doctorate or three and got people to send him enough money to build a house to do research in,” he blurted out. The therapist hummed softly.

“Do you think so as well?”

“I mean…kinda,” Stan said after a moment. “It’s a damn sight better than anything I’ve done. I didn’t even graduate high school. I had to get my GED while I was in the joint.”

“That on its own is something to be proud of!” the therapist said. Stan grunted. “It’s true! You were dealt a poor hand, but you made the best of it, and accomplished something that can be difficult when you aren’t currently imprisoned.”

“Be more impressive if I didn’t have to get it,” Stan muttered.

“What other accomplishments have you made?”

“Well. If I’ve gotta think of some…” Stan furrowed his brow. “I was pretty good at boxing. Actually, I’ve been giving Angie some lessons. She keeps saying I’m not just good at boxing, I’m good at teaching it, too.” The therapist nodded. “And I guess me doing firefighting in prison is an accomplishment. It’s not easy to learn how to do that when you dropped outta high school science.” The therapist nodded again.

“I agree. What else have you accomplished in regards to your firefighting?”

“Uh. Oh! I got my bachelor’s in fire science.”

“That’s amazing!”

“You really think so?” Stan asked.

“Yes, of course! You’ve only shared bits and pieces of your story with me, but from what you’ve said, you could be an inspiration to people who went through similar circumstances as you. You’ve come very far.”

“…Yeah, I guess I did.”

“You have much to be proud of, Stanley. And you have clearly proven over and over again that you are not worthless.”

“I know, I know. No human is worthless or whatever, right?”

“That’s true,” the therapist conceded. “But I was referring specifically to your accomplishments. Though you dropped out of high school, you’ve pursued higher education in a field in which you save lives.” The therapist leaned in. “Think about that.”

“You’ve got a point,” Stan muttered. The therapist leaned back with a smile. “Angie’s told me that sorta thing before.”

“She sounds very wise.”

“Wise? I dunno. But she’s definitely smart. And- and pretty.” Stan rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “And funny, too.”

“You’re close to her?”

“Yeah. I’d like to be closer, but since she’s my boss…” The therapist blinked in silent surprise. She glanced at her watch.

“Well, I’m sorry, but we’ll have to discuss that next week, Stanley. We’re out of time.”

#Stanuary #Gravity Falls #Stanley Pines #Firefighter AU #ficlet #my writing #my stuff #speecher speaks

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