#And sometimes even saying 'yeah you didn't *entirely* deserve to be screwed over that way. I could have done that *way* better.'

[tswwwit]

I would love, even if its just its just brief summaries, to know the different thoughts going through bills head throughout the last smut. (mainly when he got the text and when dipper starts just blurting out thoughts and ideas bc i think those moments would be fun to see)

Imagine you're having the shittiest day at work. You're gritting your teeth and hanging onto it by your fingernails, knowing that eventually dealing with this absolutely idiotic, waffling, overstuffed, condescending dipshit of a client will be done with, you'll charge him out the nose for your services - which will probably be, like a hundred dollars, the way this is going! What bullshit. At least afterwards, you can collapse onto the bed and complain to your spouse about it. Which you have been doing, actually, waiting for a decent excuse to bail or check out early.

Then you get a text. And it's your partner saying they got you a brand new console, your favorite pizza - Oh! And a million bucks in untraceable cash - but you might have to kick your shitty client in the nuts so hard his eyes pop out. Does that sound... okay? No pressure or anything.

The reason Bill was a minute later than expected is because even he needed a moment. It was the sheer whiplash from going from Shit to Fucking Amazing.

[hello-nichya-here]

Thank you for being sympathetic to Alicent and viewing her situation with actual nuance and understanding

I'm proship as they come but the way the majority of the HOTD fandom talks about her make me so deeply uncomfortable with how casually cruel and lacking of sympathy they are. Like yeah she's a fictional character, but yeesh, their hatred of her is so eerily close to actual IRL misogyny. It's one of the very few times when fictional discussion is crossing the reality line for me

Oh, it has absolutely turned into real life misogyny - there's a ton of idiots online threatening to do all kinds of vile thing to the actress because she dared to comit the crime of playing a character they don't like.

And I meant it, even as someone who is very firmly Team Black, the Greens are interesting, compelling, complicated characters that are fun to watch, so even when I'm pissed at one of them is a "love to hate" kind of situation, because they're still being entertaining.

And again, Alicent was objectively screwed over the entire show, by her father, her husband, and by her society in general. Did she sometimes make things worse for herself or hurt other characters who didn't deserve it? Yes. But so did Rhaenyra, Daemon, Viserys, Aegon, Aemond, etc. The whole point of that story is practically nobody stays fully innocent when there's a full on war going on, and EVERYONE becomes a victim of the circumstances in said war.

I might want Rhaenyra to be queen, but it IS objectively unfair how Alicent was raised to think her duty was to marry whoever her father picked for her and give her husband male heirs to inherit all he had, and she did that without complaining for the longest time - and then her husband not only doesn't want her children to inherit, but he also has the nerve to call his child of a previous marriage his ONLY child.

I would not blame her one bit if she started throwing stuff at Viserys while screaming "Then why the fuck did you marry me and make me have kids with you for? The fuck was that about?" Hell, she could snap one day give Viserys too much medicine to kill him once and for all, I'd say she was fully justified (and in the truly pitiful state he was in, he might actually thank her fo it).

It really is no surprise that, when Rhaenyra makes a toast in Alicent's honor, thanking her for all the devotion she offered to her father through the years, caring for him as his health worsens, it led to the ONLY time adult!Alicent says she believes Rhaenyra would be a good queen. It's the first time in YEARS anyone has thought of everything she was put through, everything she had to sacrifice for the sake of other people who didn't even deserve it - and so it becomes the first, and sadly last, time she sees eye-to-eye with her former friend, and recognizes that Rhaenyra's situation of "You were named heir then your father went and got you two brothers despite knowing that would likely cost you the throne" is also not fair.

Otto and Viserys are to blame for all this misery for everyone in both sides of the conflict (except maybe Daemon's, to some extent at least) - Otto for using his own daughter and grandkids as pawns in the Game Of Thrones, and Viserys for being a pushover that lets himself be manipulated AND uses "I'm just a sick, fragile old man mourning my beloved wife that I murdered" as excuse to justify remarrying and causing a ton of trouble for everyone just so he has someone by his side (and not even appreciating said person) and doesn't feel lonely.

Alicent's biggest sin was not realizing she should not have put up with this bullshit - but how could she considering how young she was when it all happened and the way she was raised to think she had to obey her father and husband no matter what?

[astro-rain]

delicate; b.barnes

chapter fifteen - “but she couldn’t”

delicate masterlist

word count: 2.3k

synopsis: bucky and y/n have their first therapy session after what happened a few days prior... things happen.

pairings: bucky x fem!reader

He wrung his hands outside the door, nervous for what was to come. Bucky came alone now, no royal Wakandan guard to escort him. He had graduated past that precaution, with the help of Y/N's insistence. She was always advocating for him.

Ahead of him was the first therapy session after that night with the bonfire and then the leaning and then the pinky promise and—

He was anxious... to see her. To say the least. He wanted this to work, wanted his idea, their agreement to work. He wanted this to work because he didn't know what he was more afraid of: seeing her again or never seeing her again.

Frankly, he didn't care what their "professional boundaries" were. He just liked to be around her. Personal. Professional. It didn't really matter to him. He didn't care whether they sat across from each other on the therapy couches or if they were closer. Sitting on the floor... leaning...

Again, he didn't care. It was Y/N's worries that worried him.

Just go, idiot.

He knocked.

"Come in!"

Bucky was careful when he opened the door, almost as if he was trying not to frighten a timid animal. Her face was carrying a lot. Behind her eyes was an abundance of thoughts, worries, feelings, and more. He wasn't sure how he knew... he just did. He knew her.

He silently made his way to his couch, his side of the room. He felt so separate.

"Good morning," her voice was flat and controlled. Her tone was friendly and light, but still controlled; he could tell.

"Mornin,'" was all he said. He was apprehensive to interrupt what was so far in tact.

"Can I just start by apologizing for how I spoke to you the other day. About your arm and everything else. I was out of line. I'm really sorry."

"It's alright," he breathed, looking up at her. Yep, a lot of thoughts in there. "You weren't exactly wrong..."

"Doesn't mean it wasn't rude."

"I've already forgiven you... like two seconds after it happened. Don't worry about it."

Her eyebrows creased, face contorting into clear concern. "If it upset you, you can tell me. I don't want to let anything fester... please."

"I guess I have issues with the arm, but... not with you."

"Do you want to talk about that?"

Bucky exhaled. "What else are we here for, right?"

She gave him an encouraging look, as if to say go on. He got the hint.

"I just feel sort of incomplete. Having one arm is... strange. And I guess I never had to deal with it before, because Hydra gave me the cybernetic arm... Well more like attached it to me. It's not like I had a say."

"You lost your arm back on that train in the forties, and you never really got a chance to cope with that loss. It's a huge change for your body and mind to get used to, and it's completely understandable that you're having trouble with it."

"My body feels so off now. Everything I do I have to do differently, and it just makes it all so difficult."

"Are there things we need to fix for accessibility? I can talk to Shuri and-"

"No, it's fine," he was quick to deny any assistance. "I don't wanna complain."

"It's not complaining, Buck. If you need help, it's okay-"

"I don't want help. Everyone's always helpin' me. I don't need to ask for more."

"Bucky..."

"It's fine, I just... need to suck it up and deal."

"There's no reason to 'suck it up' when it's a problem that can be fixed," she offered.

His voice sunk to a whisper, guilt withering his confidence. "I'm sick of being everyone's problem."

Did he just say that? He wasn't sure he meant to. His feelings sort of leak out when he talks to her. Like it's easy. Like it's safe.

- - -

READER

She could feel her heart nearly rupture at his words and the broken cadence in his voice. She wanted to leap out of her seat, pull him close, and hold him until all the pieces stuck back into place. But she couldn't.

Oh, Bucky, she sighed sorrowfully in her head. She wanted to cup his face and tell him how he most definitely was not a problem. How he was wonderful and patient and trusting and kind and a thousand other things she never was. But she couldn't. It hurt to not be able to comfort him the way she felt she needed to do.

Instead, she took a deep breath, and said what she was supposed to say.

"That's a really hard thing to have on your mind, Bucky. I'm sorry. But I can promise you that we really are here to help you. And we want to. I'm not going to tell you what you can and can't feel, but please know that me or Shuri or anyone else - we don't think you're a problem."

He looked down at his hands, avoiding eye contact and mumbling, "Thank you."

He didn't seem convinced. Her chest tightened. She wanted to do more. But she couldn't.

"I flew all the way from Europe to come help you. And I mean, I didn't know you then, but looking back now, I'm damn well glad I did."

"Yeah, but now you're away from home on another continent because of me."

"Bucky, I chose to come here. No one made me."

He put a hand on his forehead, fingers rubbing at his temples in tired frustration. Like he had been bullied by these thoughts for a while now. There had clearly been a lot going on with him that he hadn't told her. A part of her wanted to admonish him. She wanted to scold him for not letting her help. For not letting her erase any and all bad feelings.

"I can't-..." he sighed, voice helpless. "I can't even cut my own hair..."

She closed her eyes, feeling the pain radiating off of him.

"... can't even make myself feel human."

Y/N moved before she could think the better of it. She was in front of him before she even registered the movement. It was automatic, involuntary. Her body just had to get to him. Make it better. Make the hurt go away. Like a reflex. She felt chemicals with him; he was an instinct.

She knelt in front of his feet, looking up at his sitting figure still on the couch.

"Give me your hand."

He stared down at her, confused. "What?"

"Reach your arm out."

Reluctantly he obeyed.

Slowly, softly, delicately, she smoothed her hand over his and up his forearm. Starting at his fingers, moving over the center of his palm, and gliding up his wrist to then pivot her hand so that her fingers were on the underside of his forearm and her thumb settled a tender touch on his pulse point. (the gif!)

She tried to transfer every ounce of compassion into her touch in an attempt to fade his distress, his guilt, his pain. A physical way of expressing that, yes, someone did care about him. So, so deeply. Even if he didn't see it.

She exerted a slight amount of force on her thumb so that he could feel the pressure of his pulse.

"You feel that?"

He nodded.

"That's your heart beating. How profoundly human."

Then she splayed her hand over the top of his forearm.

"You feel the coolness in my hand?"

Again, he nodded.

"That's your body heat. How beautifully human."

Still with a hand on his skin, she moved up to sit next to him. She brought his hand up to his chest, pressing it flat up against the center of his rib cage and holding her hand on top.

"Can you feel that?"

"Mhm."

"That's your heart. That's you. You're all heart, Buck. You're so deeply, wonderfully human. All the way to your bones."

She looked into his eyes then, and he bore into her in a way she's only seen one or two times before. Their hands remained against each other, over his heart, when he spoke.

"I don't deserve this... deserve you..."

There was no hesitation. "You deserve everything good and then some."

She rubbed her thumb softly on the back on his hand, hoping to communicate the sentiment as lovingly as she could. She wanted him to know that he mattered.

"Even though I took you away from your home and your work and everything else... all for my stupid screwed up head."

"I don't... really have a home to go back to," she confessed. "Like, yes, I had a place to live, but.. not a home."

He almost chuckled. "Neither do I."

Maybe sometimes home was a person.

"You have people, though. Which is good. You know, Steve, Sam."

"You." His voice was soft.

It made her lungs almost contract. She could've sworn her cells began to heat up. God, she felt so much. Such strong ardency. You have me, she thought. Until every last star in the galaxy dies. You have me. She wanted to say that. But she couldn't.

"Right. And I have you," she offered, trying to reciprocate the sentiment without pouring out the adoration that was in her head.

He stared at her, dead in the face like he was looking into her soul. With his entire chest he whispered like it was the only truth he'd ever known. "You have me."

His eyes were blue and his face was kind and then the back of her head felt warm like someone's hand was on it. His voice was soft and his heart was beating and then every nerve in her body ignited into flames because his lips were on hers. His lips were on hers and any semblance of control she might've had left burned up as she burned for him.

Slow and heavy, she melted into him. Parts of her found parts of him. Fingers softly curled at the nape of his neck, palm pressed up against his chest and feeling his heartbeat. On Bucky's chest, her hand was where his previously was. But now, his hand was cupping the back of her head and it was dizzying.

He tasted like rumination and benevolence and thank you. She moved her lips as if to pull out every inch of sorrow and grief and heartache and say I'm sorry. Sorry for all the things that happened to him that weren't good and gentle. For every hand that had hurt him; for all the hands that had touched him that weren't hers. But she couldn't. Oh god, she couldn't. What was she doing?

She pulled her head away even though it felt like a gravitational pull as strong as the sun's was keeping her there. In response to her movements, Bucky leaned back too. He removed his hand and suddenly she felt cold. No, she felt frozen. How could this happen? This wasn't supposed to happen.

"I-I," she stammered, having no idea what to say. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be."

She looked away from him, eyes anywhere but his. She stared to the side of the room.

"No, I-... I can't- we can't... this is-"

"I kissed you."

She avoided whatever that was the same way she avoided his gaze.

"This is transference," she declared, not even dignifying what he said.

"Huh?"

"Transference, it's- it's when a patient's feelings from something or someone else get redirected and projected towards their therapist. That's... that's what's happening here."

"It is?"

He didn't seem very convinced.

"Yes. It happens sometimes, it's not anyone's- ... it's okay."

"This is okay?"

"No!" she caught her breath. "No. The... action is not okay, but the fact that it happened isn't something to be faulted. It's not unheard of; it's a common phenomenon in therapy, so..."

She could feel him looking at her. She wished he'd stop. She felt like she might faint. Her lips were numb.

"So..."

"So, it just can't happen again. Okay? No one's in trouble. Let's just... be aware of the possible consequences of transference and make sure it doesn't happen again."

"Y/N..."

She thought there might've been a slight inflection of fear in his voice.

"Yes?"

"Look at me... please."

She sighed and turned her head. Fuck. She wished she'd drown.

"Does this mean you're leaving?... or not leaving for that matter?"

His eyes were pleading, vulnerable, and scared. If she was honest, she wasn't sure she could leave him if she tried. In fact, a tiny repressed part of her mind wanted to stay with him forever. But she couldn't.

She reminded herself why she was here, and why they needed boundaries. But when reasoning with her inner logician, she wasn't sure leaving would even be the best option. It's not like Bucky needed more disruption in his life. He needed some sort of constant, something reliable and trustworthy. At least that's what Y/N told herself as she realized that if she left him with that look in his eye, she could never forgive herself.

"No, I don't... I don't have to leave. As long as we make sure that doesn't happen again."

Relief visibly flooded his face. "Okay... okay, good."

Seeing his worry wane was alleviating. Though, she wished she could do more. She wished his hand was still on the back of her head, and her hand was still on his chest. She wished she could rewind back to that moment and just sit within it for a bit longer.

But she couldn't.

delicate taglist: @bakugouswh0r3 @thefridgeismybestie @strivingforelegance @ilovespideyyy @xpurpleglitter @bluelakeee @darkacademic2 @nickkie1129 @eclipsedplanet @paradisedixon @crazy-beautiful @coffee--writes @lauxrens @lilithknight1111 @buckybarnesishot310 @softladyhours @alwayssandy @quxxnxfhxll @those-sea-green-eyes @hero-ically @devilswaldorf @cc13723things @maravderofthephoenix @avengersgirllorianna @cataves @thatbitchsposts @talktomeaboutthestars

[skaylanphear]

I didn't realize you were so critical of Voltron's writing. Is there anything you think the writers did really well?

Not… really? 

The one episode that sticks out to me as having been well-written was an episode in season 3–the one where Keith is leading them into that planet and all their tech gets screwed to hell. It works on a lot of levels because it introduces Lotor as a scary villain, establishes Allura as inexperienced while giving her the chance to learn, and shows Keith learning a lesson while Lance gets to stretch his legs as an actual competent member of the team. What I loved about it though was the lesson Keith learned onscreen and how he learned it–we got to see actual development as well as him opening up to another member of the team other than Shiro. It’s one of the best episodes in the series and really goes to show what Voltron could have been if the writers actually knew what they were doing. I assume, at this point, that the episode was merely a happy accident. 

Now that isn’t to say Voltron doesn’t have memorable moments for other reasons–the scene where Keith and Shiro fight was wonderfully animated and probably the most beautiful looking scene in the whole series, but that doesn’t mean how we got there was as good by comparison. 

One of Voltron’s biggest problems (among other glaring issues) is that it relies heavily on concepts, but pretty much fails to expand those concepts into actual narrative development. We’re told via Hunk’s one episode in the Galra empire that he’s become quite the diplomat, but we never see that in action or see him struggling with that arc at any other point in the series. We’re told Lance has become a great member of the team by seeing his sword form during training, but we rarely get to see those skills in action. And yeah, Lance takes up giving commands when Keith and Shiro are busy, but it’s never highlighted. He’s never given his moment to truly prove himself to the audience. Which makes it all little different than telling the audience that development is happening offscreen, which you should NEVER do. Which brings me to Keith. Not only was Keith’s path through “development” poorly concocted, but we didn’t even get to see it. Why was he such a great leader after having spent time with his mother? What did that do for him? Fans can speculate all they want, but at the end of the day, Keith is one character when he left and another when he comes back, and WE DIDN’T SEE IT HAPPEN! 

This leaves me with one of two conclusions: Either the writers were too lazy to put any effort into telling a proper character arc OR they simply don’t know how. And seeing how poorly every other character in the series is handled, I’d bet on the latter. The Voltron writers don’t know how to do their jobs on the most basic level. Even Shiro, the second-shining child of the series after Keith, doesn’t get any development. He’s got PTSD, sure, but he’s literally the exact same character he was in the beginning as he is now, much like the rest the cast. What would have made Shiro’s character really great would maybe be some regret on his end, or some self-doubt following his PTSD issues, or maybe a loss of confidence he had to overcome or literally ANYTHING! Instead he’s relegated to a plot device. 

Which brings me to another glaring issues with Voltron alongside the character development–they’re taking what should be a character-driven narrative and pretending it’s a plot-driven narrative. 

You want to know why Voltron was so promising from the start? Because it had a perfect premise for character building. It was like Avatar the Last Airbender but in space. You had a big baddy in the distance that the characters had to work their own skills up to in order to face. It gave the characters time to explore both themselves and the world around them, while still retaining a goal that implemented a sense of urgency. Which is why the originally episodic storytelling of Voltron in the first season worked so well and why the series seemed so promising. Each episode had a different character or couple of characters that had a problem they needed to overcome before the resolution of the episode, or a couple of episode as they sometimes did them in twos. This is a good format for storytelling with a big cast because it gives each character the turn they deserve, while still giving time for things like comedic relief and problem solving/conversations between characters, which is the FOOD of character development. Being able to have two character sit down and simply chat is the main course of character development and interpersonal relationships, hence Shiro and Pidge’s relationship was so precious in the first season, and why people latched onto Keith and Lance so hard, because they were constantly snarking at one another. 

The problem comes with season 3, where the writers tried to change Voltron from an episodic format into a serial format while trying to retain the same tone. Serial storytelling has an overarching pot that the characters work toward the whole season–like all of a season is a single episode. Yes, Voltron already had an overarching plot, but it was secondary to the character story-telling. That was, until season three, when the writers decided that they wanted the story to be “epic all the time” instead of sticking to what was originally good. 

Avatar the Last Airbender isn’t good because it’s epic all the time. It’s good because it’s well-balanced. Because the characters got the time to build themselves up so that when those epic moments finally happened, the audience actually cared. Voltron decided that they wanted to be edgy and took all of that away from us to make the show serial and focus more entirely on the end plot instead of each individual character’s struggles. They tried to retain a bit of this, but in contrast with the more serial episodes, it feels like whiplash. This is why season 3′s tone is so vastly different from season 1 and 2, and why so many people were so shocked. And why it feels so fast. 

But the problem is that the writers clearly want to write an episodic show, they just don’t realize they do, which is why we’re getting TOLD character development instead of shown in favor of over the top battles and other “intense” mumbo jumbo that falls flat when anyone takes a moment to sit and think about what they’re watching. 

This is why I got so infuriated when all those new characters were introduced in season 7–we don’t even know the characters we got originally and now I’m expected to care about these new ones? No, absolutely not. And this is also why I get angry every time we get a “filler” episode. Avatar had filler episodes, but Avatar was also episodic and used that filler to develop the characters, with the exception of Tales of Ba Sing Se, which was amazingly done for other reasons entirely. 

Voltron made itself serial, which means we don’t have time for filler. It’s jarring and takes the viewer out of the experience. I don’t care about a stupid gameshow episode because the writers have made it overly clear that the situation is dire and serious and now I feel like I’ve been slapped. Especially when that filler does nothing for the characters. It’s a waste when they could have been using the time for something more worthwhile. Instead, they just wanted a Q episode, or a D&D episode, as if their storytelling had been good enough prior to earn them that wasted time. 

Which brings me to yet another glaring issue that Voltron has–pacing. Not only did the change in storytelling alter the pacing in a way that was jarring for everyone, but they can’t keep up with the pace they decided to set, nor do they know how to keep tension going in the story so as to take advantage of that faster pace they forced on themsleves. Pidge, Lotor, and Zarkon are prime examples of characters whose arcs were slaughtered by this incompetence. Why was Pidge’s search for her brother concluded at the beginning of a season in a standalone episode that is so far outside the serialized plot? Well I can tell you why–because they didn’t know how to integrate it properly with the rest of the story. Which is why it feels like filler. Like fan service. Why it’s so out of the blue. Why is Zarkon’s death so lackluster? Because we’d been told that Zarkon was the big baddy the whole time and then they ended his reign in the middle of a season. Not only do we see Zarkon suddenly in the daylight outside his scary space darkness, but his entrance is lame and lacking impact. And then Lotor, a newer character by contrast, is the one to take him out. Suddenly, the show is without the big baddy that had been pushing it from the beginning, which is glaringly obvious in how disorganized the plot becomes after his death and Lotor’s subsequent defeat. Sorry, but by default of the role she had previously, Haggar is not as scary as Zarkon was, nor is Sendak. It’s like we’re supposed to now watch Voltron clean up the leftovers instead of fight a war, which is fucking stupid. And don’t even get me started on Lotor’s arc. They wanted to make him seem like Zuko and then pull an Azula? Well, sorry hons, but your storytelling capabilities aren’t strong enough to accomplish either. 

Lotor was not made sympathetic or psychotic enough to pull off either act, which just makes him fall rather flat. The most interesting thing about him was his relationship with Allura, which was only interesting because we hadn’t gotten any romance yet in the show so everyone was super paying attention to how it’d unfold. 

This pacing issue is continuous from season 3 onward. The story regularly takes detours it shouldn’t and focuses on things we don’t care about and interjects important plot-points at the wrong time while completely leaving out others. Like Haggar coming back in season 7. If we’d actually seen a bit of what she was up to, the addition of the last robot to the final fight might have been a little less stupid, but we didn’t see that, so it’s still just regular stupid. 

So the characters in Voltron suck, the plot sucks, and the pacing sucks. The only thing that’s saving Voltron is the fact that it looks nice and that the fandom is happy to take concepts and run with them in fan works. There’s a reason the fandom is so happy to explain away everything in the series, because expanding the series for themselves is the only option they have. Voltron itself doesn’t do it on but rare occasions, and if the fan creators didn’t give the characters depth, no one would. Every piece of “character” we get in Voltron is a concept, not actual storytelling. They set up what could be something amazing and then dash it at the last moment by completely ruining everything. People say Voltron never ceases to surprise them, but this isn’t because they’re great storytellers, it’s because of the exact opposite. Voltron rarely follows through with minor plot points set up previously, instead settling to just tell you about them later in favor of laser battles. Lance is insecure? Just give him a sword, he’s fine. Hunk has no development? Give him a short, five minute moment about his family–a family he talked about one other time and a plot point that should have rightfully gone to Lance. Pidge’s “arc” is over? Just have her say a whole bunch of nonsense in the next scene. Need someone to do something cool? Better get Keith since that’s all he’s good for anymore due to his character being so inconsistent. Need some of that quality angst? Throw in Shiro too, because god forbid Keith relate to any of the other characters on a personal level and actually break out of the isolated existence that caused all his character problems in the first place. Oh, and don’t forget Allura, whose overpowered abilities have become such an expected norm and so unexplainable at this point that she’s nothing more than a bore-fest to watch. 

Voltron had everything going for it–it could have been great, on par with Avatar the Last Airbender by sheer default of how the original premise was set up and how interesting the characters were to start with. And then the writers screwed it up because they didn’t know how to properly tell the story they’d set up in the first place. 

This is why people who don’t watch Voltron or who don’t see anything special about it don’t understand why it’s such a big deal (and why comparing it to Avatar the Last Airbender is such an insult). Why it’s plain toast in comparison to other, better shows. Because anyone who actually takes a step back and looks at the show with more thought than “oh I like this character because of what they could have been,” they’d realize just how badly concocted Voltron is. 

I know. I was once one of these people that had faith in the concepts that I eventually realized would never come to fruition. I was happy to ignore the faults in the show because I kept hoping it would get better. But then it never did and all that was left were the faults. 

Voltron is not a good show. Like, it’s just literally not well done. The visuals are nice, which is part of the reason it’s gotten so popular. But even if the art is nice, at the end of the day, the writing has been and always will be the heart and soul of any narrative, and if that’s a pile of trash, the entire show will end up that way. 

[nerdy-novelist017]

Awakening (Joker/Arthur Fleck fanfic)

This is my first Joker fanfic. I absolutely loved the 2019 movie. Joaquin Phoenix deserves an Oscar for his performance. The film was cinematically beautiful The writing was haunting and stuck with me for a long time after. The soundtrack deserves its own Oscar, it was a perfect representation of Arthur Fleck. I just HAD to write something after seeing this movie.

Enjoy!

Ps. Feedback is appreciated greatly!

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

She had never wanted this for her life. When she was a young girl, her dream was to be a princes and fall in love with her brave prince charming, just like all those Disney movies had sold to her. The idea that she could live in a perfect world, waking up to birds chirping and animals talking, singing all day and, eventually, falling in love with this perfect, pure person. But it was all a story, a lie told to eager young girls. There was no talking animals. And singing in public caused people to to look at you strangely. And there definitely was no prince charming of any kind. Just a broken world full of broken people just like her. Elizabeth was no princess. She was a prostitute.

Elizabeth walks down the sidewalk of the empty sidewalk. Her shift had started ten minutes ago, for that she is sure that The King would have her head. Her black, strappy heels leaves soft clicking noises as she quickens her pace. Thoughts of how she could slip past her boss races through her head as she rounds the corner to go to the back entrance. She yanks open the door and slips mutely inside. Almost immediately her nose is filled with the obnoxious smell of cigerettes and beer, smells that she has gotten use to in her career. The noises of the club surrounds her with yelling, laughing and, of course, cursing. She feels like it might have warmed up at least five degrees inside from the the crowd of people. Liz is use to this atmosphere. She is use to rude drunks, the sore losing gamblers, and her customers.

She ducks into the back hallway where it leads her to the back room filled with her other coworkers who are lounging on the uncomfortable, velvet couches. The room is dark, and falling apart at the walls. Ugly, cracking gold paint covered the walls with a faux rich atmosphere. The front of the casino was rich and fancy, the back was not.

"Look what the cat drug in," a voice speaks loudly in a thick New Jersey accent. Elizabeth knows who it is without even looking. She can recognize that wretched, annoying voice in her sleep. The voice belongs to a woman named Imani. She is a prostitute in her late twenties, just slightly older than Liz. She's a beautiful, tall, African American girl who had been in prostitution since she was eithteen. Ever since Liz had found Saltwater Casino all those years ago, Imani has made it her personal goal to make her life a living hell. As if it isn't already.

"Dragged," Liz corrects her grammar as she digs around in her purse. Her fingers find the tube of lipstick at the very bottom, under piles of napkins, loose change and packets of gum. She quickly rushes to one of their many full-length mirrors to apply a fresh layer of her favorite red lipstick.

"Oh, screw you, Lizzie," Imani spits as she rose from her lounge. In three long strides, she is across the room, glaring daggers at Liz. Years ago, when Elizabeth had first started working at Saltwater Casino, she would have flinched away from Imani's towering form and beautiful glaring looks. She would have immediately apologized and slunk away like the weak person she was. But that was the past when Liz was just a young girl. Now, she turns directly towards Imani.

With faces just inches away , Liz speaks calmly, "Get out of my face, Imani,"

The room full of girls has turned their attention to the fight brewing. The atmosphere grows tense.

"Girls, knock it off," a strict voice averts all of their attention to the doorway where a larger man stands, arms folded over his large chest. He barely fits in the doorway with his towering height, but where he is tall, he certainly lacks any attractive physic. He's skinny, with arms and legs that look like they have not seen a day's worth of hard work in their entire life. Liz figures he is built this way from the cocaine she knows he uses often. His veins are in a perpetual state of protruding down his arms. However weak he may appear, he is certainly no weak man. She knows this from experience. All of the girls do.

Without missing a beat, Imani takes a step back, throwing her arms open wide, "Mistah King, look who was ten minutes late, yet again. She came in here with an attitude lookin' to start a fight with me as usual."

Elizabeth rolls her eyes, knowing there was no use arguing her side. A few of the others girls laugh, they all knew she was lying, but none bother to back Liz up. It is survival instincts that keep them quiet. Each of them know that if they say anything to her, Imani will make their lives unnecessarily complicated. So, they say nothing.

"Lizzie, walk with me," Mr. King demands as he turns, leaving Elizabeth to slide around Imani and follow her boss out of the room.

"She's lying, I wasn't --" Liz starts once they were out of earshot and down the hallway. The hallway that was decorated with dreadful red and gold wallpaper that warped and peeled in more than one area. It was dim, the wall scorns not bright enough to lighten the hallway. Nothing could brighten the back of the building.

"So you were on time?" Mr. King cuts her off. Liz looks away. Great, he was already in a bad mood tonight.

"Yes," Elizabeth lies, focusing her gaze on a particular bubble of wallpaper that shapes a mangled dolphin. Anything would be better than looking into her boss' cold, dark eyes. She swallows the frog in her throat. She hates the effect he still has on her. The knots in her stomach, the shivers on her skin. She hates the way he makes her feel vulnerable, small.

"What have I told you about being late, baby girl?" Mr. King leans in closer to her as he speaks in a low whisper. Elizabeth almost flinches at his pet name he had given her throughout the years.

"Don't let it happen," She answers, emotionless. Her nose burns from the stench of alcohol on his breath.

He reaches his skinny hand out to stroke her cheek and down to her neck. Elizabeth refuses to cower under his touch. She doesn't want to satisfy him in any way. Instead, she looks him straight in his beady black eyes, "You got a shift for me?"

He is quiet for a long time, only staring at her. Finally, he backs away and says, "Yeah, you're on from nine to five,"

She bites her lip in anger. He has purposefully given her a crappy shift because she had talked back to him. She shakes her head and makes her way to the front of the casino. It is a busy night as usual. It is a Tuesday night, so there is classical music playing in the background as customers gambled, drank or talked. She sits on a high stool where the girls sometimes wait for men who were looking for an hour's escape from reality. She immediately spies her coworker and closest thing to a friend she has.

"Hey, Nat," greets Liz as she moves to sit closer to the young girl at the opposite end of the bar.

The woman looks up from her ciggerette, causing her kinky, blonde curls to bounce slightly at the sudden movement. Her face breaks out into a wide smile, "Hey, sugar!"

"Is that a new shade of lip gloss?" Lizzie asks when she takes a seat.

"Oh this old thing?" Nat's messy manicured nails gestures to her lips, "Nah, I've had this for quite a while. Got it from my second cousin. Anyway, I didn't know you would be working tonight." her southern drawl slurs her words together. She constantly speaks of her childhood home back in New Orleans, where she has inherited her accent. Whenever she would ask Elizabeth about her childhood home, Liz would dismiss it as unimportant or not worth the time.

"Got nine to five," Lizzie confirms as she signals one of the many bartenders to bring her a drink. He's a kind man, often servers her for free.

"Oh, honey," Nat shakes her head in shame, "that is such a shitty shift. He's such an ass."

"It was because I was late, slept through my alarm," she leaves out the part where Mr. King got too close for comfort. It isn't like she is the only girl he has done it to. She's seen multiple new girls go into his office for longer than they should have. She pities them, but doesn't dare speak up against him. She needs this job. It is the only thing she is good at in life.

"Well," Natasha props her elbows on the glossy oak top, "at least you got a good night, there's been a dozen of cutie butterflies that came in earlier. They are all over there, by the slots."

Elizabeth's dark eyes follows Nat's gaze directed over to the east wing, where a group of clean-cut men pool around, cheering on their friend who was about to roll his dice. The two girls have code words for different type of customers. Butterfly is the code for an attractive young man. Because they are few and far between, they have been given the word butterflies. Moths are the name given to just about every other customer. They are usually old, fat and unattractive married men. Moths are ugly and always a pest to deal with, thus the nickname was born.

"I don't know, they seem pretty invested in their game," Elizabeth shakes her head and leans her chin on her palm, resting her elbow on the table top.

"A girl can dream, right?" she flashes one of her brilliant smiles.

As the night progressed on, Elizabeth chats with Natasha as much as she could before one of them would most likely be whisked away by a needy customer. They both have a drink of vodka before their Mr. King could see. Throughout her years of prostitution, she has learned to yearn for a drink to calm her nerves. A couple moths sway through, looking for a date for the night, both girls quickly show them to the other prostitutes on shift.

"Lizzie, you're on room nine, guy's already in there waiting for you," Mr. King appears behind her, eyeing them as if they are threatening him at gun point, "You planning on paying for that, or am I gonna have to take it out of your paycheck?"

"Course, Mister King," Natasha winks at him over the brim of her glass as she downs the rest of the amber colored liquid.

"I didn't even see anyone go in the den," Elizabeth raises her eyebrow in confusion. The den is what the girls called their workspace. Usually it consists of a queen bed and a couple of rickety night stands. It's a sad room where the girls spend most of their nights with various men.

"Let's hope he's a butterfly," Nat smiles in encouragement as she raises her empty glass of vodka, "look good, babe,"

Elizabeth nods, forcing a tight smile. She follows Mr. King out of the main room and moves down the cramped hallway, all the way until he pauses in front of a door. The wood has been painted black with a giant red heart and in the center is the number 9. Before her hand can grab the door handle, a large first curls around her bicep.

"This man is paying very well, baby girl, so don't screw anything up with your woman emotions, got it?" Mr. King spits through clenched teeth.

Elizabeth nods her head, "Got it,"

He releases her arm and takes a few steps back, "Good, he paid for an hour, so that's what your going to give him," and with that, he turns and disappears down the dim-lighted hallway.

Elizabeth knows if this man complained in any way, Mr. King would punish her severely. She runs a hand through her dark chestnut hair to make herself look more seductive. A shaky hand reaches out to grab the door handle again. She curls her hands into a fist to stop the shaking. She is strong. She can do this. Her usual prepping rings out in her head. Opening the door, she is greeted with a dark room, the only light illuminating was the light spilling in from the hallway behind her. For a moment, she actually thinks she has the wrong room. She reaches to flick on the light switch. The lights pop on and she can see his towering form over by the window, broad back facing her.

She gently closes the door and moves towards the bed in the center of the room, "So, you like standing in dark rooms?"

"No," his voice was low and calm. He speaks clearly, without any stutter or shyness. He is sure of himself, "I like the look of the city. When the lights are on, it leaves a glare on the window."

He still hasn't turned to face her yet, giving Elizabeth a chance to see his body. He is very tall, long legs and broad shoulders. Soft layers of black hair spills out around his neck and just touching his shoulder. He is lean but muscular enough to be intimidating. He wears a beige jacket that stretches across his long back. Simple boot cut jeans covers his lengthy legs and finishes at his boots.

Elizabeth thinks he is strange, but she shrugs it off and lays on her side of the bed, leaning one leg over the other, "Are you gonna come over here, or are you gonna stare out the window the entire time?"

His towering form turns slowly, stepping away from the window. Elizabeth can see that he has a sharp jawline, littered with a light dusting of stubble. His lips are splashed with just enough pink hue to make them look full and playfully tasteful. His hooded brows and lack of light in the room conceal his eye color from her.

His feet stop when he approaches the end of the bed. He rings his hands out as if he is nervous. She studies his face for a moment and frowns. She has seen him before. But where?

Elizabeth clears her throat before she speaks, "You don't have to worry about wearing anything. That's already taken care of by me."

She looks down at her cheap clothing, expecting him to want her to start stripping her sheer, black tank-top to reveal her lacy, red bra. She unconsciously plays with a loose thread on the purple bedspread. The nerves always eats through her stomach right before she meets a customer. None of the men that came in for the night are good people. All of them are either drunks avoiding their nagging wives, young men getting a taste of freedom, or even aged men without anyone in their lives. She can't quite tell what this man's tell was.

When he does not acknowledge her, she sits up a little, propping her upper half of her body on her hands, "What's your name?"

He tilts his head to the side, "I'm Arthur," he seems to pause a moment before continuing, "what's yours?"

This causes Elizabeth to pause and stare at him with a small, agape mouth. Hardly any of the men that come through on their nightly livelihood ever ask her name. They don't care. She is just a tool to them, just disposable. "Call me Lizzie,"

"Lizzie," he looks down at his feet as he tests the name on his tongue. An uncomfortable silence fills the room, creating a tense atmosphere for Elizabeth. Usually she is not this uncomfortable and stiff, but this man, Arthur, is forming a very afflictive attitude within her. His presence is unsettling, making her want to get away.

"Um, do you want to sit on the bed?" Elizabeth suggests, motioning to the fluffed pillows.

Arthur cautiously lowers himself to sit on the edge of the bed, furthest away from her as he could possibly be without falling off the side. Elizabeth scoots over to the middle of the bed, laying down on her back and closing her eyes. When he still does not move or speak, She peers an eye open.

"You alright? You only paid for an hour, so..." Elizabeth trails off.

"I paid for an hour in this room, right?" he asks.

"Yes, an hour with me in this room." she confirms.

He looks away from her face, suddenly finding the wood paneling more interesting than ever, "Is it alright if we just...talked instead?"

Elizabeth tilts her head to the side in utter confusion. She is expecting him to request a lot of different things, but she definitely does not expect that to be one of them. When his eyes float back to hers, she immediately looks down in embarrassment. She can feel heat rise in her cheeks. Who was this guy? "We can start with that, to calm your nerves,"

"I don't want to use your body for prostitution, Lizzie," he speaks softly and quickly, "I don't want that from you."

Her head is pounding with confusion as she stares at the mysterious stranger. Most men don't even care for her name, and now here this man is telling her that he doesn't want to have sex with her? Her immediate thoughts were that he is shy to be naked in front of her, hence the lights. "We don't have to leave the lights on, if that's what you mean,"

His face remains straight, "It's not. I did not hire you for sex."

She hears bells of alarm and panic in the back of her mind. This man was so odd, so unpredictable. "Are you a cop?"

He laughs loudly and shakes his head. he looks to be in pain as he covers his mouth with his hand and turns away from her.

Then she suddenly remembers that laugh. That eerie laugh. The same laugh he gave when he was on the Murray Franklin Show. The same laugh he gave before he killed the popular tv host.

She stands so quickly she stumbles in her heels. The door is the only thing on her mind. She needs to get out of this room and away from this murderer. However, she needs to accomplish this sneakily. Who knows what he would do to her?

He notices her change and stands beside her, his laughter has died down. She panics at his towering form and rushes for the door, barely pulling it open before he's by her side, slamming it shut.

"Don't," he growls and she yelps, hand still on the door handle.

"You're him," she whispers, "you're the Joker,"

"You aren't going to run out there and scream for security. I don't get out of jail just so that I can go right back in," he says lowly, his warm breath fans across her face. He smells strongly of cigarettes and a musky cologne. He is so close to her, she turns her head to the door, she doesn't want to look into the eyes of a murderer. Of her murderer.

"Are you going to kill me? My boss is just right down the hall. He and others would here if I screamed." she surprises herself with her newfound courage.

"They don't appreciate you as you should be," he says, "they wouldn't care if they found you dead in this room. You are just a tool to them. Just something to be used to gain them even more money. The rich come in here and abuse you then pay you way below what you're worth."

Tears prick her eyes as she gripes the door handle tighter. Though she knows all this to be true, it still hurts to hear.

She startles when she feels his cold hand slowly turn her cheek to face him. His fingers move to her mouth, his thumb gently tracing over her bottom lip before pulling her mouth into a large smile. He mimics her forced smile with one of his own, "Smile, I'm not going to kill you."

She feels herself being drawn to him, her hands falls of the door knob as he pulls her closer. His eyes, a brilliant green, hold so much emotion. So much pain. So much honestly.

His hands drop from her mouth, and he backs away. It feels as if she can breathe again. She watches him retreat to the bed, sitting alone. She swallows, her throat feels dry as she glances back at the door.

"You can leave," he speaks without looking at her as he pulls a cigarette from its pack, "but we both know you don't want to."

She wants to leave, more than anything. Her mind tells her to run and call the cops. But when she turns back to him, he's sitting on the bed, pulling out a cigarette from its pack. He lights it and takes a long puff from it before putting his head in his hands. He looks so broken, so defeated. So lonely.

       "There's nobody to talk to anymore," his voice drops off to a lower octave, "Even before they cut all the funding to those therapists, they never really listened. They never really talk. They didn't care."

       She is quiet for a few minutes before speaking with a scratchy voice, "I'm not a trained therapist. I don't know what to say like they do."

       "They never knew what to say either. That's why I like you, Lizzie. You aren't like them. You are like me." he smiles at her, and she wraps her arms around her torso uncomfortably.

       "I'm nothing like you."

       "You can't see it now. You haven't found your awakening yet," he takes another puff of his cigarette and looks away again.

      She hesitates a moment before slowing moving into a sitting position on the bed as far away from him as possible,"You paid an awful lot of money just to sit in this dingy room and talk with me,"

      He nods, "I know you must be confused, but I paid for an hour."

      She is quiet for a few painfully awkward seconds. She self-consciously tugs down on her skirt, no longer confident in her own skin. He sat completely still, as if he were waiting for her to leave through the door. But she doesn't. She needs this job. She needs the money. When she got home last night, her landlord had stopped her as she stumbled into the apartment building at two in the morning. Dan Flemmings was a short, balding Latino . Liz likes to blame the fact that his wife ran away to Belize with his best friend on why he was so mean, but the truth was, he was born to be bitter in this world. He never shows any mercy on her, or any other building attendant, in fact. If your rent was a day short, you needed to find a new building to live. He caught her as she was unlocking her door, ready to shower and sleep for a few hours before needing to wake up and repeat the process all over again. He had been waiting for her.

“You got your rent, Griffin?" his grating voice startled her, "It was due yesterday,"

She kept her emotions at bay, no matter how irritating Dan was when he used her surname, "That was yesterday? Must have slipped my mind."

“You know damn well that its always the first of the month," he stepped closer to her, the fluorescent light hanging above them highlighted his scared top lip, a final parting gift from his ex wife, "I won't make exceptions for you or your sister."

“Got it," she mumbled. She didn't have the money, in fact. She was almost two hundred short. With her food bills and her sister’s medical bills, she did not have enough money to pay for both her meals and her rent.

She needs the money. That's why she stays with the Joker.

“What do you want to talk about?"