#Both of them were practically ABUSED throughout the series

[edward-cabrini]

The narrative significance of consent

People have self agency, by which I mean they can choose to do or not do things. When this agency is taken from them it can be hurtful, it can also be good. An example for both good and hurtful is as follows; a spontaneously planned and organised a romantic evening in the city. Someone has had their agency taken away under the assumption they would give their consent if asked, but it wasn't asked. Everything else surrounding the relationship between the two people and defines whether this was good or bad thing to do. Narratively, we can use this to define the relationships between characters. So, how have I put this into practice in my writing? We'll take a quick look at some core characters and how they interact: Lorcan is someone with almost no agency in his life. His consent doesn't matter to almost anyone. However, not all relationships are equal. His adoptive father was straight up abusive. The men who would hire Lorcan as a sell sword were varied but didn't give him a choice as to what work he undertook. When he first meets Fiachra and is given the choice to work for him he immediately says no. Of course he would, it's the only real choice he can make in a situation he's not used to and distrustful of. From the other PoV, Fiachra asked largely to foster a good working relationship. Lorcan's consent was assumed not wanted. Lorcan leaves and plot happens. When they come across each other again, Fiachra forces Lorcan into his service against Lorcan's consent. This interaction frames their entire dynamic throughout the rest of the book, honestly, throughout the rest of the series too. On the other side of things there's Ernin. A character with a lot more agency who is in Fiachra's service on basis he will keep a promise to her. She initially approaches Lorcan with assumed consent to some sparring training, but she waits for his consent before they begin. Then when done, she asks if he will join them for the stew about to be dished out. When he refuses she leaves. It's subtle but, very importantly, different. To her, Lorcan's consent matters, his agency is respected. He, likewise, treats her the same. This is mutual respect and need for other's consent is a core part of their growing relationship. From friendship to romance it's a key aspect that never fades even after all they go through together. When Lorcan leaves Fiachra's retinue, they come to blows. Ernin meanwhile hugs him and lets him go, she's sad but understands. ---------

This post ended up longer than planned, hopefully there's some useful take aways to be gleamed for your own writings. Have a happy heatwave! Remember, hydrate or perish.

[kittylover776]

Thinking back to Starhyke, and how Dotty essentially has a longer lifespan compared the rest of her crew (thanks to Striker’s comment in that one episode), which means at some point she’ll have no choice but to watch each of her crew mates (her only family, really) pass on one by one. Which is pretty heartbreaking, to say the least. 😔

[likeumeanit9497]

ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ | ᴄ.ꜱ. |

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴇɴᴛʏ

series masterlist here

summary: Eleanor moves through the world like a shadow searching for light, and Chris burns too brightly, as if trying to outshine a buried grief. When they collide on a night filled with a mutual self-loathing, something quiet but insistent begins to grow between them — a pull that they never dare speak of, yet orbit in harmony nonetheless. Their bond deepens quickly, shaped by vulnerability, near-misses, and the ache of things left unsaid. As their lives pull and blur at the edges, they learn that what they are for one another in the moment may matter more than how it ends. 

warnings (throughout the series): smut; angst; addiction; family trauma; depression; heavy drinking; mentions of death; mentions of abuse; 18+

Chris moved quietly through the dark of the room, careful not to wake her. Eleanor hadn’t stirred. Her face was still tucked into the pillow, her brow finally smooth, her breathing deep and steady — a sleep hard-earned.

He stood for a moment beside the bed, his eyes on her still frame, before gathering the sodden pile of her clothes he had left on the bathroom counter. They were still damp, clinging to themselves with the cold weight of the ocean and everything that had followed it. Her sweater. Her jeans. Her underwear. He gathered them into his arms and slipped from the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

The hallway breathed cool around him, quiet save for the groan of the house settling into night. The stairs creaked with familiar protest. From the kitchen came the low, mechanical hum of the dishwasher, accompanied by the flickering white light overhead — that same stutter that had gone ignored for years. Matt and Nick were sitting at the table, mid-conversation, food laid out in front of them. Matt’s head snapped up first, and Chris saw it land — the wet clothes in his arms, the unmistakable guilt in his eyes.

Matt’s voice was flat, a low crack of disbelief, “You cannot be serious, Chris.”

Chris stood frozen in the doorway, chest rising slowly, deliberately. He didn’t flinch, didn’t fire back. Of course Matt would say that. Of course he would be protective, wary. He had watched Chris unravel over the past two weeks, watched the way Eleanor had been both the wound and the salve. Watched him lie through his teeth about what she meant to him, then break and practically confess when she pulled the plug on their could-be.

Chris let out a slow breath. The words came slowly, with no effort to soften their weight. “Grant hurt her.”

There was no dramatic pause. No rising music. Just three words, landing like a thunderclap in the brothers’ kitchen. Matt straightened. Nick froze mid-bite, the burger still halfway to his lips. And he looked younger in that moment — like the boy who used to read to Chris in bunk beds they had outgrown too fast.

“What do you mean?” Nick asked, brows furrowing, “Like—emotionally, or…?”

Chris shook his head once, gaze dropping to the pile of fabric in his arms to conceal his stinging eyes. There was a strand of her hair still caught in the weave of the sweater. It made his throat tighten. “No.”

He didn’t have it in him to say more. He couldn’t repeat what he saw. Couldn’t describe the look in her eyes when she asked him silently to help. Couldn’t bring himself to name the bruises or tell them what she had whispered in the car. The rage had settled into a slow, simmering grief. It dulled everything except the impulse to protect her.

Matt stood up, pushing his chair back and resting his arms over the table, “What the fuck— Chris, are you saying—”

“She’s gonna be staying here,” Chris cut in, his voice low but final, “For a while. I don’t want him to know where she is.”

That was all he could offer. For he was still inside it, still holding the weight in his arms, the shape of her collapse mapped into his muscles. And for a second, no one spoke. The dishwasher whirred and clicked and steamed behind them, the only indication that time was still passing.

And then, slowly, Matt sat back down, eyes never leaving his brother’s face. There was something taut in the eye contact. Worry, yes, but also comprehension. Not just of the situation, but of Chris’s place inside it — the helplessness, the guilt, the terrible need to do something when there is nothing to do but be there.

Nick leaned forward, softer, “Is she okay now?”

Chris swallowed, jaw tightening, “Not really.”

That was the truth. There was no point in pretending otherwise.

“She sleeping?” Matt asked. Chris nodded

Another silence stretched between them. There was no longer any hostility or anger, though it was still thick with the shared feeling of helplessness that Chris had spent a majority of the day experiencing alone.

Finally, Matt sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Okay.”

Nick glanced between them, then pushed his food away. “It’s good that she’s here. If she’s here, she’s safe.”

Chris blinked once. Gratitude flickered in his chest, raw and wordless.

Matt stood again, gestured to the clothes in Chris’s hand. “I’ll throw her stuff in the wash.”

He nodded, fighting the lump in his throat as Matt gently grabbed the pile of laundry from his hands. He sat at the table in a fugue. The chair felt unfamiliar, its edges too sharp, the air in the room too dry. Behind him, the washing machine rumbled to life, and as it did he thought about her — alone in his bed, finally warm, finally safe — and considered what it meant to make space for someone who had only ever been bracing for impact.

—

The door gave a soft creak as Chris nudged it open with his elbow, the hallway light slicing briefly through the dark before he shut it behind him, sealing them once more inside the dimness. The room exhaled around him, cloaked in the soft hum of the fan and the steady, untroubled rhythm of her breathing.

She was right where he had left her, curled in a loose ball on his side of the bed, her knees drawn halfway up, one hand resting limply near her face, fingers twitching now and then in sleep’s loose choreography. Her hair, still faintly damp, had splayed across the pillow in gentle spirals, catching the faint spill of moonlight that filtered through the half-drawn curtains. She seemed impossibly still, not lifeless, but preserved — an image untouched by the day’s earlier rupture.

He held his breath for a moment, and just stood there. Staring at her like a man who had just stepped into a chapel, into a hush that demanded appreciation. His fingers moved on autopilot — peeling off his shirt, stepping quietly out of his sweats. The cotton of his boxers whispered as he pulled back the comforter and climbed slowly in beside her, careful not to shift the bed too much, not to rouse her from the little peace she had found.

But even before the mattress settled, she moved. Like instinct. Like the pull of gravity. Her body rolled into his, curling along the length of him with aching familiarity. Her forehead found the edge of his collarbone, her legs tucked around one of his. She fit like a question he had never dared to ask and a truth he had never stopped knowing.

He exhaled, the tension in his shoulders unraveling as he wrapped a steady arm around her waist, drawing her impossibly closer. His other hand rose to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading into the still-damp hair at her nape. He didn’t need anything more than this. She was here. She was safe. That was the total sum of his need.

She was in his arms, and for the first time since the beach, his nervous system stopped thrashing. The horror of the bruise. The sound of her voice in the car, so small it made something cave in his chest. The sick knowledge that she had come to him not just because she wanted to, but because she didn’t know where else to go. All of it fell to a murmur now, soothed by the steady weight of her body against his.

But she wasn’t asleep anymore, he could feel it. Her breath had changed. A little shallower. A little more aware. Still, he said nothing. He simply held her. Let the dark do its work — blanketing them in that thick, velvety silence that seems to belong only to the late-night hours they spent together. His fingers traced soft, unconscious lines down the length of her spine, memorizing her again. In care. In ache.

He thought about how wrong he had been — about all the moments he had told himself that she didn’t need him, that she was better without him, happier with Grant. That she had outgrown the version of him who could make her feel safe. He thought about how close he had come to letting her slip away because he had convinced himself he wasn’t enough.

But here she was. Here, in his bed. Not just out of convenience or comfort or nostalgia. But because she trusted him to protect her when she couldn’t do it alone. His throat tightened at the thought, and that trust undid him. Not loudly. Quietly, right in the centre of his chest, like a string snapping in the dark.

He brought his lips to her head and pressed a long, gentle kiss against it. As though the kiss was a seal on his silent promise of protection.

Then — so quiet he might have missed it, had he not been listening with his entire body — her voice broke the silence.

“I love you.”

He froze. The words hung in the dark, trembling at the edges. He could feel them settle into his chest like something permanent. Something that would never be undone. Her voice had been soft, but steady. And he knew it wasn’t romantic, not in the conventional sense. It was bruised and tear-soaked and raw. But maybe this was what real love sounded like — shaken loose when someone’s whole world had cracked open.

He closed his eyes. Pulled her tighter. And because anything else would have been a betrayal of a moment, he let the truth of his own rise unguarded to the surface. His lips, still pressed to her hair, moved with the soft finality of prayer:

“And I love you, El.”

—

“Let me go in first,” Chris said as he stepped closer to the front door of her apartment. His voice was steady, but low — measured and quietly tense, as though the very shape of his mouth could determine the outcome of the morning. “I want to make sure he’s not here.”

Eleanor nodded from a few feet down the hall without really looking at him. Her fingers were clutched to the straps of her bag, fingers taut and pale. She hadn’t spoken much that morning, but he didn’t expect her to.

The key was warm from where she had pressed it into his hand. He used it slowly, as though the lock itself might betray something. The apartment held its breath, still heavy with early-morning light, the kind that slipped in through half-closed blinds and cast soft grey shadows along the walls. The faint hum of the fridge offered the only movement, a quiet rhythm in a room too still. He stilled with it, listening. Waiting for proof of presence. And after a moment, he exhaled, relief flooding his chest. Empty. No Grant.

But then Claire emerged from her room — fast, sudden, like she had been thrown forward by some invisible force. “Oh,” She said, “Chris. You’re—hi.”

Her hair was unbrushed. Eyes wide. Mouth parted slightly as though she had just swallowed a confession. One of her hands was pressed against the doorframe as if to steady herself in time. Chris stilled. There was something in her expression he couldn’t quite read. Panic? Guilt? Both?

Eleanor stepped in quietly behind him, her voice tentative but direct, “Did Grant come by yesterday?”

Claire’s face flickered. Just for a second. A split second. But it was enough for him to notice.

“No,” She said quickly, “No, he didn’t.”

Chris watched her. Something felt wrong. The way her eyes refused to land. The high-pitched quality of her voice, like it was standing on tiptoe. Claire was a lot of things, he had learned, but she wasn’t usually a bad liar. Which made this worse — whatever she was lying about had her rattled.

Still, Chris said nothing. He didn’t want to. Being in the same room with her, standing in the apartment where he had once kissed her, once laid her down — something about it now made his skin itch. His body wanted out. Away from her searching eyes. Away from the dissonance humming just beneath the surface of her words. “Come on,” He murmured to Eleanor, “Let’s go pack your stuff.”

They slipped down the hall and into Eleanor’s room. The scent of her things, her books, her shampoo, her life — it all wrapped around him at once, familiar and jarring. The last time he had been in here had been the day she had shattered his spirit, had torn him to pieces with only a few words. But even more than that, he felt discomfort at the thought of what had happened in here just two nights before. Pain, anger, violence. That was what caused the chill to crawl down his spine.

She hovered just inside the doorway, like she didn’t know where to start. Chris didn’t wait. He pulled her empty suitcase from under the bed and began tugging open drawers, piling in whatever he could find — sweaters, shirts, pyjamas, bras, all folded quickly and without comment. He didn’t want her to have to think. Not yet. Not now. Not while she was still shaking in the aftermath.

Eleanor moved slowly. She disappeared into the living room and returned with her laptop, charger, a couple notebooks, and her thesis binder. Her fingers paused now and then, hovering over random objects in her room: photos, half-crumpled receipts, a dried flower pressed between the pages of a well-loved book. None of it important. All if it hers.

Outside the room, Claire paced. Chris could hear her steps creaking across the hardwood, back and forth, over and over like a song on repeat. She was talking. To them, to herself, he couldn’t really tell.

“God, I just…I can’t believe him. Grant. What a fucking asshole. I mean—what the hell was he thinking? I always knew there was something off about him.”

Eleanor flinched at his name being spoken like it was a crack in the air. Chris’s jaw tensed.

“And now I’m like— what do I even do if he comes back here?” Claire continued, “Like — oh my god — what if he shows up and I’m alone? What if he tries to get in?”

Her voice was wrong. Too loud, too theatrical — as if she were rehearsing a cheap play. Chris rolled up a pair of Eleanor’s socks and stuffed them into a corner of the suitcase, his movements growing less careful. He wanted out of there. Wanted to get her out of there. Claire’s voice didn’t stop.

“I mean, obviously I’d call someone. I’d lock the door. I just…I can’t believe this. I can’t believe he would actually—”

“I don’t think she’s talking to us anymore,” Eleanor murmured, almost to herself. He glanced at her. She looked so tired. Her eyes had shadows under them that even a long night of sleep hadn’t cured. Yet she seemed to be trying to keep a lightness in her voice, a patience for her roommate’s strange rant that seemed less concerned for Eleanor’s safety than her own.

He felt strange. Claire wasn’t panicking. She was narrating. Acting. And he couldn’t quite tell why.

When it seemed like they’d packed enough — though really, who could say what enough meant when you didn’t know how long you were leaving for — Eleanor stopped moving. She looked up at him. Uncertain. Small. Beautiful.

“You’re sure this is okay?” She asked, tentative, “Me staying with you, I mean.”

Chris reached for her without hesitation. He pulled her close, wrapped her up in his arms like the answer was obvious. “I’m positive,” He said into her hair. And he was. He didn’t care what it looked like. Didn’t care what it disrupted. She could stay with him forever if she needed.

When they stepped back into the living room, Claire was waiting down the hall by the door, keys jangling in her hand, as if she wanted to prove that she was important. Useful. A part of things. She threw her arms around Eleanor without warning, squeezing her tight.

“I’m so sorry, El,” She breathed dramatically, “I’m just— I’m so glad you’re okay. You’re okay, right?”

Eleanor nodded, stiff in her friend’s arms, “Yeah.”

Chris watched the way Claire clung to her. Watched the redness in her cheeks, the exaggerated worry furrowed into her brow. But most of all, he watched her eyes — and saw something twitching beneath all that concern. Guilt. He didn’t know why, at least not yet. But it was there, living in her like a secret that hadn’t found the right crack to spill through.

He didn’t press. He didn’t ask. He just offered her a brief farewell, wrapped a steady arm around Eleanor, and led her out the door.

͏𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 ❤︎ ͏

tags: @slvtf0rchr1s @pip4444chris @oopsiedaisydeer @switchstvrns @ellssturn @idefinitelyhateu @courta13 @b-eharrlichkeit

notes: hmmmm.....

[happypopcornprincess]

Chapter 5 || Family Line

Pairings - Joaquin Torres X fem!Reader

Premise - what is real, and what is a memory? you fight through the glimpses of past and present mixed together, will you make it out?

Word Count - 4.9K

Warnings: TW child neglect, abuse, strong language, mentions of blood and gore, mentions of death, angst, emotional abuse

a/n - I am extremely sorry for the delay, but, Story time I sprained my hand and then i caught heat rash because temp in my country has reached fuckin 40 degrees IN MARCH so can’t wait to be boiled alive in june :) which is why i couldn't type any faster :( this chapter is more like a prequel and a sequel squeezed into one, dedicated to y/n’s backstory and also we get to know her and Connor more. Contains Inaccurate family court laws, inaccurate therapy session conversations because why not? I based a character on my ex so enjoy the diss ig :)

<< Chapter 4 || Series Masterlist || Chapter 6 >>

You felt a heavy weight was being lifted off of your chest. You were no longer in the dark, but surrounded in light. Sleep clouded your senses, an entity gently wrapping you in a warm blanket.

Is this what peace felt like?

The earliest memory you had of your parents was when you were four; you were playing with Connor with your dad passed out on the porch, drunk, and your mother walked back from the fields after working the entire day. You had run up to her, unknowing of her mood, and she had swatted you away and walked back to the house, all while you cried for her to come back.

The screaming and beatings had only increased as you grew older.

It stopped after your trip to the hospital, the incident of you passing out in the fields. CPS got involved, your parents maintained the facade of being responsible and loving caregivers to both their kids, but only applied it to Connor in private.

The emotional turmoil by them loomed over you all throughout your 18 years of life under their roof. 

Despite being treated like their star child, Connor knew his parent’s true nature. Connor saw. He saw the bruises, the silent tears, the hollow look in your eyes. He was their golden child, their pride, yet he never made you feel less. He loved you with a fierce, protective devotion, a father's love in a brother's heart.

No presents on your birthday? Connor saved up his pocket money to bring you books on programming. Beaten by mother about working on the farm in harvest season? He would wake up earlier than everyone to do it with you. Left alone at home with your father and his creepy friends? He would play cards locked with you in his room because his football practice got ‘cancelled’.

Your wallet would never run out of money. Connor would throw at you his new clothes he didn’t like, that would fit you perfectly. He never told you how, but got you a second hand laptop for coding.

The nights when you were sent to your room with no dinner, Connor would sneak in with a bowl of steaming hot ramen in his hands and fruit cakes in his pockets,"We'll leave," Connor would promise, a fierce vow, "We'll never come back."

—/—/—

Summer, 2018

“Mom, I told you I cannot take another elective, I have Taekwondo training.” You whined running through your living room, searching for your headphones.

“One extra class won't kill you, Y/N. Connor managed three as a senior.” She said in a calm but innate voice that irritates you.

“I’m busy. Okay. I can’t.” you fished out your headphones under the coffee table, “and tell dad to please return my headphones after he used them, not throw them around the house.”

“It’s his choice. He bought them for you anyways.” She grumbled.

You didn’t have the time or patience to tell her good for nothing, unemployed husband passed out drunk in her bedroom, didn't do anything, and you bought them with your money working at the store, so you sling on your backpack to leave.

You cycled off to your school, the warm Texan wind on your skin and your family field buzzing by you, you pedalled full speed to your school.

Your phone rings, and Connor’s name flashes on screen, you smile, connecting it with your headphones.

“How’s my bug?” His cheerful voice made you roll your eyes. How could someone be so happy at 7 am?

“Mad.” You grumble.

He sighs, “Mom?”

"Yep. Raving about her perfect son. Again."

“It’s just a few months, then we’ll be at Georgetown and leave the lovebirds to scream at each other all by themselves.”

“They do that already.” You scoff.

“Hey,” his tone turns serious, “You take care of yourself. Okay?”

You smiled, looking at the fields rushing by, “I miss you bro.”

“I miss you too.” He lets out a breath. “Take care, Bug.”

“You too. Bye.” you say before cutting the call and closing your eyes to focus on Linkin Park for now.

-----

The late afternoon sun slashed through the windows of your school as you hurried through the hallway from your counselor’s room to your classroom.

You had no idea how to react to the news he just broke to you.

Your applications looked solid. Top scores, non academic activities of martial arts, and internship at a local office. With how skilled you were with programming from a young age, your application to both georgetown and MIT looked solid, and while georgetown was ready to accept you as a student, MIT was giving you a huge scholarship.

You halted in the halls for a moment, thinking about what could happen next. 

You could choose MIT, study at your dream university with a scholarship, that would certainly lead to a great career, or you could go to Georgetown paying full tuition, study with your brother and never come back. You would struggle with finances, but you can live a peaceful life… you can make it work.

A month to decide, but the weight of Connor’s old wristwatch on your wrist felt like a silent answer.

And then, piercing through the silence of the school halls, the screamings started.

—/—/—

“Please… pick up!” you groaned, tears blinding your vision as you pedalled at full speed to your house.

You called Connor again, and found the same response; straight to voicemail.

You saw the abomination with your own eyes, classmates turning to dust right in front of your eyes, the news on the internet calling it a global event. People running around the town, calling out for loved ones. On your way, cars crashed with no one in the driver’s seat, it was like the apocalypse had started.

Crashing in your front yard, you ran inside, phone still on your ear.

“Mom!” you screamed, “mom… mama… dad!” a sob racked out of your chest, “mama!” you screamed out. Crying you searched the entire house, no signs of your parents.

Hey it’s Connor I’m a little busy at the moment, leave a message.

You cried out loud, cursing into the wind, calling him again.

“Connor I swear to god if you don’t pick up, if you don’t call me back. Please…” you fell to the ground, clutching your phone to your chest.

You called again, a desperate attempt.

But this time, there was no voicemail. The call disconnected.

Your phone slipped from your hands as you sank to your knees, numb. Your breath hitched, a silent sob trapped in your throat.

Connor, your brother, your entire world… he was gone.

—/—/—

Autumn 2018

“Well this is short,” the Judge let out a nervous laugh before beginning, “I, Leonard y/l/n, being of sound mind and body, my assets both liquid and otherwise, I leave in their entirety to Cooper y/l/n. My entire ownership of the Farmlands and contents within I leave in its entirety to Cooper y/l/n. The ownership of the house on the lands, likewise I leave in its entirety to Cooper y/l/n.”

The family court Judge rearranged her spectacles, “your name on the family register is only mentioned twice miss y/l/n, once on the birth registrations and the other on the number of family members.”

You gulped, realising what that implied. 

The government was occupying houses and empty lands of those who were vanished to relocate people around the country, and given the fact your wonderful parents left everything on your brother, who also has vanished, you were seconds away from being homeless.

“But..” the judge began, “you’re the only surviving family member, so…”

—/—/—

The pickup truck with your life tied at the back waited for you in the driveway, as you stared at the two headstones on your farm, one for your parents and the other one…

In loving memory of Connor Y/l/n [1998-2018]Beloved brother.His memory forever a guiding star.

“Hey Connor.” you sniffled, clutching your acceptance letter to MIT in your fist, and a bundle of primrose in another, his favourite flowers.

“I got into MIT.” you huffed out, looking around at the farmland you grew up on.

Don’t cry, don’t cry don’t cry

“I’ve leased the farm to the neighbours, so I won't have to work part time. I thought of never coming back… huh… I’ll visit on your birthday. I hoped to go to Georgetown but… ”

Uncontrollable tears fell down from your face as you recalled him teaching you to drive a truck just last summer, your laughs mixed together like the warm setting sun, “I was born with you in this world. I was your sister my whole life. And now with you gone… I don’t know how to exist anymore.”

You broke down into sobs, touching the stone knowing there was nobody underneath it. And you still searched for a fragment of your brother’s presence, hoping in your heart that any minute now he would be right in front of you to ruffle your hair and tell you you got this bug.

“Who will call me bug now Connor!” you screamed.

The flowers in your hand felt heavy, and you got on your knees to shake his gravestone angrilly, “you weren’t supposed to go away! You…” sobs retched inside your chest, and let out a scream, demanding answers.

Receiving only the comfort of the whistling wind in response.

—/—/—

Autumn 2020

“Afternoon, y/n.” sitting in front of you was Christina Raynor, your therapist, smiling up from her notebook. A fine middle aged woman, she was an ex military therapist working on the campus.

“Ma’am.” you smiled, smoothing out your skirt.

“How are you feeling?” she tilted her head, looking you in the eyes, knowing damn well she will catch you if you lied. Her posture remained straight, almost regal, intimidating anyone in front of her.

You had seeked emotional therapy when you went to classes and realized how the weight of all these years of abuse and neglect by your caregivers affected your life. Your therapist, Christina, was a godsend. You had worked with her for a year to figure out how to improve your mental health. And how to move forward.

“Quite good, actually.” you nod, smiling, “I’m doing an internship along with classes, it’s online, cybersecurity.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” she nods, “I wanted to ask you about your personal life. How are you holding up?”

“I’m taking my meds regularly if that’s what you’re referring to.” you hint at the antidepressants and anxiety medications prescribed by her.

“Okay, um, martial arts?” she asks.

“Black belt in taekwondo, brown in Muay Thai.” you point to yourself.

“Congratulations,” she claps, a genuine, appreciative gesture, “That’s great, y/n. What about your surroundings? Any friends, or relationships?”

“Oh.” you pause, thinking about how you should put it out, “well, I have some friends on campus, and from Muay Thai classes. We work together, and hangout after classes.”

“Okay, that’s nice.” she writes in her notebook, “what about relationships, you mentioned a boy in our last session.”

“I did?” you gulped.

“Yeah.” Christina leaned forward, her eyes that could read your body language in seconds perked up to bore into yours, “did something happen?”

Jeremy, blue-eyed, curly-haired, two years your senior, buttoned his shirt in front of the mirror. He met your eyes through the reflection. 

"So, when am I going to see you again?" you sat up on his bed, looking at him with hooded eyes, still drowsy from the encounter.

Your first time, actually.

"What do you mean?" he laughed.

Your heart jumped, sensing what he was implying. "I mean, when are we hanging out again?"

"We're not?" He turned to face you, laughing, and picked up your dress from the floor, tossing it at you.

Noticing your stunned expression, he sighed. "I don't want to hurt you… but… this was just for fun.” he breathed out, running his fingers through his hair, “Y/N, look, I'm sorry if I led you on or something, but this was a one-time thing, okay? I don't do relationships."

You gripped your sundress, the bright yellow he'd said he liked so much, in your hands.

"Get dressed. I'll drop you off at your dorm." He said, walking into the bathroom.

“How did that make you feel?” Cristina breathes out.

“Betrayed. Sad.” your tone dropped, “He was the first boy I liked. I thought he would be my boyfriend.”

“Did you meet Jeremy again?”

“No. he made it clear he didn’t wanna meet.”

“You haven’t felt like this since your family disappeared.”

“Yep.”

“Hmm…” Cristina writes down something in her notebook, “Did you tell him about your feelings for him?”

“It wouldn't matter. He wanted to hookup with a virgin, he got that out of me so now I'm of no use to him.” you breathe out, “my friend heard him bragging about it in a bar downtown.”

Cristina took a deep breath, her stance dropping a bit, “y/n, are you sure you’re alright?”

“Please don’t mind my language but, honestly, fuck him. I’ll get better. Promise.” you smiled a sad smile.

“Are you sure?” she asks again.

“Yep. all good.” you say, genuinely, just not mentioning the part where you kicked him in the balls when he came back to beg you to sleep with him again.

“Have you visited your farm recently?”

It feels gloomy all of a sudden, and you let out a sad smile, “I visit every year on Connor’s birthday, apart from that, never.”

She suggested you try to forgive your parents, and you did try, but anytime you saw your roommate’s parents calling her everyday to check on her, or a family buying their little kid presents for christmas, your resentment for them only grew.

“What about your parents?” 

“I couldn’t care less.” you scoff.

After everything they had put you through, it was just really hard for you to sympathize with them in any shape and form.

“So,” she slams her notebook shut, looking at you, “let’s do an exercise, I want you to close your eyes, and imagine your family sitting in front of you-”

“- doc, seriously?”

“- just listen, close your eyes.” you do, sitting straighter.

“Now, I want you to tell them everything that you never got to say. Good and bad.”

"I... I don't even know where to start." you say, eyes still closed.

"Start with the first thing that comes to mind."

You took a deep breath, imagining them sitting in front of you instead of Christina, and the words flew out of your mouth, "I hated you. I hated you both. For everything. Every slap, every punch, every kick. For every time you made me feel like I was nothing… like I was not even human."

"Go on." Christina tensed.

"You could love. I know that. You loved Connor like breathing. You forgave his every mistake, you hugged him when he left for school, you gave him your inheritance... God, Connor.” you sniffled, feeling your eyes burn, “He was the kindest, purest soul on earth. You didn’t deserve him. Fuck, i didn’t deserve him either. Y’all could live a hundred lifetimes, and you could still not deserve a kid like him.”

You took a long pause, breathing hard, remembering him and you mother laughing in the kitchen making dinner on Sundays, and how your dad beamed with pride when he won matches in high school, "Sometimes... I wished you would have seen me. I wished you would have hugged me. I wished you would have said you loved me. Even once. I wished... I wish only you had blipped instead of him!"

You let out a ragged breath, and "It's the truth. And it makes me sick. And I hate you, and I miss him, and I hate myself. All at the same time."

“It’s a very hard thing to admit y/n.” Christina spoke softly.

You opened your eyes to only find her in front of you, sitting calmly like a regal queen.

“I’m sorry I lashed out.” you squirmed in your seat

She only smiled in return.” it’s alright.”

—/—/—

Summer 2023

You graduated, with so many achievements under your belt that could have landed you any place that you wanted to be.

Confidence drips out of every node of your body with your Head held high, you can walk into any room and they would know you: Y/n Y/l/n, the insane coding freak who can hack into any system in seconds.

You felt good in your own self for the first time, life felt like one of those coming of age movies; where the character goes through hell and back but in the end everything works out.

Or so you thought.

It was as if you were reliving your worst nightmare.

People had started to reappear at the same places they had vanished from before. It was chaos, but of a different, more insane level than before.

Your phone was blowing up, and you didn’t dare check it, you couldn’t, because if every person who vanished five years ago was truly back… then you knew damn well who was calling you.

—/—/—

You walked into the community center in your small town cautiously, wearing an office suit, with your hair tied up and light makeup. There were people around you, reuniting with their lost family members. Tearful reunions, some solemn, some happy, but still bittersweet. But nothing could have prepared you for what unfolded next.

“Bug!”

Connor ran in your direction, slamming into you, the force sending you stumbling. You clung to him, a desperate, broken hold.

He retreated to give you the full faced smile he had since he was a kid, his canine teeth a bit crooked, his face overjoyed.

Connor looked exactly like the day he had left. 

Frozen in time.

"You look," he said, his hands on your shoulders, a gentle pat on your head, tears brimming in his eyes, "you look like a grown-up!" He laughed, a sound that ripped through the years.

Tears streamed down your face as you held his hands in yours, he hadn’t changed at all, he was still 20.

“Well, I'm older than you now, so,” you choked out, a sob tearing through you as you hugged him, fierce and desperate. 

He was back. 

A miracle, a cruel, impossible miracle.

Just when you thought a calm had washed over you, your head jerked back with force, your hair being pulled.

“You scheming bitch!” it was your mother’s chilling scream, which made you freeze in your place. The two seconds of peace that had washed over you was snatched away in an instant.

"You stole my goddamn house while I was gone!" Your father's roar echoed, a thunderclap in the room. All eyes were on you. A spectacle.

Five years of quiet. Five years of building a life. Gone. In an instant.

—/—/—

The living room air crackled with a rage you knew too well.

People intervened to stop what had unfolded at the community center, and you were rushed out to your place.

You didn’t have much, but you packed away whatever things you had left back home, while your mother and father were locked in a screaming match downstairs with your brother.

“She didn’t steal anything ma! She saved the farm! It would have been gone in the last five years!” Connor shouts as you throw your things in cardboard boxes, sealing them shut with trembling hands.

“Well I don’t give a damn! Why is it under her name then?” your father’s voice only grew with every sentence.

“I came back to see the neighbours havin a roast in my kitchen! Do you have any idea how terrifying that was! And then I found out that little missy sold it to them when I was gone!” your mother was next to scream.

This was too familiar, your parents degrading you any chance they get and Connor defending you like his life depended on it.

“Are you hearing yourself ma!” Connor only screamed louder, “I came back to my senses in the middle of a road! I called y’all and it went straight to voicemail! I fucking hitchhiked on a bus to get here ‘cause I had no idea what the fuck was going on!”

“Oh sweet heavens!” a loud crash, and you knew your father had kicked a chair somewhere.

“What about y/n? Y’all have any idea how hard it must have been for her! She thought we all were dead for five years dad! She had our graves in the goddamn fields!”

Your mother’s shrill laughter was next, “Well, I don't know, she seems just fine to me! She strutted in the halls in that expensive ass suit looking like some high end lawyer or something’! She’s grown fat around her face, did you see that?” 

You froze in your face, and saw hot white anger blinding your vision, but you kept quiet, you didn’t need to be associated with them again.

“Well you weren’t starving her for ridiculous reasons ma, so yeah i’m glad she looks healthy. And she can be whatever she wants, you shouldn’t have a say in it!”

You drowned out the shouts as you hauled the boxes from your room to the old pickup truck outside, thanking the forces you didn’t sell that.

“I’m leaving.” you spoke as you felt all three of their gazes on you.

"The hell you mean you won't come back?" your father bellowed, his southern drawl sharpening with each word, a familiar sign of his disappointment. He watched you, a rigid figure, as you hauled your luggage towards the door.

"Is there anything to come back to?" you asked, your voice flat, the question hanging in the charged atmosphere. And finally, since you have been here, your gaze, heavy with weariness, met his.

The sting of your mother’s slap registered before the sound, a sharp, brutal end to the argument. 

"Ma! Don't!" Connor’s voice, raw with alarm, pierced the silence. 

You turned, your eyes locking with your mother's, the same eyes reflected back at you in the mirror every morning, now twisted with a venomous anger. "You ain't no daughter of mine," she hissed, her voice a low, guttural threat. "Get out of my house!"

A coldness settled over you, "You should check the registry before you say that, Ma," you retorted, the words laced with a bitter edge. You turned on your heel, heading for the rented pickup, refusing to witness their reactions.

Under the afternoon sun, Connor ran after you, “Y/n, I know you’re angry right now, but, just listen to me.” He gently held your arm but you jerked back, looking at him.

He was tense, his brows furrowed. Confused, and frustrated, he looked at you, begged you to stay. To listen to him.

For the first time ever, you saw him not as your older brother, but as a kid. And you saw how young he was. How much weight he had been carrying on his shoulders since he was a child. 

A child who had also suffered like you.

“I’m so sorry, Connor,” you held his shoulders, squeezing them with pity, in your heels, you were almost the same height now, “but I can’t do this right now. Go to georgetown, I’ll help however I can. Don’t stay here. Leave.” you hugged him, your chest tightening, and he held you back, grabbing onto your clothes, refusing to let go.

“Bug…”

The engine roared to life against the silence of the driveway. You slammed the accelerator.

"Bug! Wait!" your brother's desperate cry echoed against the hum of the engine, but you didn't slow down. The road blurred through the tears streaming down your face, the pain a burning ache in your chest, your family farm a blur around you.

You cried harder as you saw him, a small, desperate figure running after the truck, calling you by the name only he used, a name that now felt like a cruel mockery of a bond you could never go back to.

—/—/—

Present day

He ran through the cold empty hallways of the medical bay at Avengers Compound, barely registering the fact that he was standing in a place he would have given anything to even look at when he was younger. The receptionist lady just pointed him towards a vague direction where every hall and room looked the same, he was confused as to where to go, or look.

Until, he saw a figure standing at the end of one of the halls, and he ran towards it. At first, he couldn’t recognise the tall, broad shouldered asian man who stared at him in confusion, but when he got closer, he recognised him.

“You’re the guy from the LA bus incident, right?” he panted, huffing out from all the running.

“...yeah?” he raised an eyebrow, looking at him from head to toe, his expression set somewhere between bewilderment and disbelief.

He looked at himself then; he was wearing loose sweatpants and a casual shirt. He had no time to think rationally when he got the call, he grabbed whatever he could and begged his friend for his car to get to the avengers compound.

“I’m sorry I'm in a hurry, could you please direct me to…”

The man cut him off before he could finish his request, “You’re y/n’s brother… Connor, right?” he extended a hand, “I’m Shang Chi, y/n’s friend.”

Connor froze, his heart racing, his mind a haze from listening to his sister’s name from him, “Hi. hello, uh… yeah, yes. I’m her brother. Do you know where she is?” he shook his hand.

Shang Chi let out a breath, “She’s out of surgery, but…” he looked behind him, and Connor turned to follow his gaze, finding a hospital room door ajar, voices coming from inside.

“But what? Shang Chi…” he held his hand in desperation, “please tell me she’s alright?”

“Connor...” Shang Chi held his arm, leading him inside the same door he had been looking at before, “why don’t you sit down?”

Connor entered the room to see a man on the hospital bed, his neck covered in bandages, and two people; a girl and a boy sitting on the bed with him.

“Guys, Y/n’s brother.”

The girl immediately got up and rushed to him, “hi, I’m Kate. We talked on the phone.” She guided him to a chair.

He sat down, “Yes. Kate. nice to meet you.” he looked at all the faces of strange people looking at him with a gaze he thought was sadness, but later deciphered as pity.

“Y’all are scaring me folks,” he breathed hard, his emotions that he had managed to keep at bay threatened to burst, “what’s going on?”

The boy next to Kate spoke up, “she’s stable for now but she’s not waking up, Connor.”

“What?” his vision became hazy with tears brimming in his eyes.

“They’re saying, there’s a chance…” Shang Chi stopped before taking a deep breath, “there is a chance she might not wake up again.”

Those last words were the final nail in the coffin. Connor breathed out, his chest burning with pain and exhaustion, the last memory of his sister dancing infront of his eyes; how defeated she looked when she drove away from the house while he screamed for her to stay.

He let the tears fall, holding his head in his hands when he felt a hand on his shoulder, but it did nothing to soothe his pain. Fate had made him lose his sister once, and now she was being taken again.

—/—/—

The doctors had told him before he set foot inside the ICU, wearing a sterile gown and a mask, “she was stabbed multiple times, her body will take time to heal, which is why she’s in a coma. It might be a bit overwhelming for you to see her, she’s been hooked to a ventilator, oxygen pipe and wires to monitor her condition.” 

Which did nothing to prepare him for the condition he found his sister in.

Her mouth was covered in tape keeping the food pipe intact, while a dozen wires ran from her arms and chest to different machines around her.

Connor couldn’t tear his eyes away from her as his mind played a cruel trick on his subconscious; instead of her grown self, all he saw was the little kid in the hospital room, sunburnt and dying from dehydration fifteen years ago.

He collapsed on the chair near her bed, his hand reaching out for her but hesitating as he saw the IV running from her pale arms.

Peter and Shang Chi’s words rang in his ears, how she could still hear her surroundings, and hearing a familiar voice could help bring her back.

“...Bug?” his voice muffled, he whispered, too scared of accidentally startling her, “hey, it’s Connor. I’m here.”

He waited for her to open her eyes and laugh, telling him this was all a cruel joke, and rant on about computers and movies which he had no ideas about, but would gladly listen with no complaints.

No such thing happened. His chest felt heavy watching how still she lied there, motivating him to talk further.

So he did.

He talked about his day, and how she scared the daylights out of him by ending up at the hospital. How he will give her a piece of his mind when she wakes up, even bribing her with her favourite fruit cake he would make for her birthdays.

He recalled a memory of when she was a toddler, and he had seen her walk for the first time. Their parents weren't around, and he was jumping with joy while you giggled and ran to him, looking up at him while hugging his legs.

“That’s my oldest memory, ever. I don’t remember anything before that, my first memory is being your brother and picking you up when you were about to fall down.” he choked on his words, “god, y/n, I have no idea how much you had suffered. I wanted to give you space… but… it took everything inside me past year not to stand in front of you and fight you for not talking to me.” he looked down, sobbing, tears falling on his gown, “just… come back. Please, Bug, you have to. I don’t know how I'll live without you annoying the shit out of me, so just, wake up.”

Connor hesitated before gently patting her head, sniffling, he walked out without looking back.

—/—/—

“Goddammit…” Joaquin cursed under his breath as he saw the chips packet stuck in the medic bay vending machine, Already frustrated and disturbed watching Connor’s reaction to the news broken by Shang Chi.

It was nearing midnight, and Joaquin had refused to eat his soup dinner which looked like it was made in the 1800s. Which proved to be a punishment as his stomach turned in hunger. So before Peter sitting next to him could have said I told you so, he tiptoed out of his hospital bed and went to wander the hallways, finding himself standing in front of a vending machine.

He contemplated getting a soft drink that was stacked right above the stuck chips, and found his pocket empty of quarters.

“Here.” a hand extended to him with some loose change, and when he saw who was the person, it was Connor

Joaquin took a good look at his face, his eyes red and hair askew, heavy dark circles loomed under his eyes indicating he hadn’t had any sleep.

It felt eerie looking at Connor. His features matched y/n a little too much… the nose, that little tilted smile to hide the anxiety, it was the same. He had earlier avoided any conversation with him, wanting no intrusion in him processing the news, but now it had been a bit too late and he hadn’t had a chance to talk to him.

“Thanks…” he muttered, taking the change and selecting the soft drink, which then made its way down to the chute with the chips.

“You sure you should be having that?” he asks in a questioning manner, which makes Joaquin turn to him to defend himself, but he notices the way Connor looks at him, worried, his eyes trained at his neck.

“I don’t like soup.” is all Joaquin says before tearing into the packet, earning him an amused laughter from Connor.

He slumps down on the bench near the machine, breathing out, and tapping a seat next to him. Joaquin wordlessly takes a seat next to him, trying to focus on his food rather than the guy sitting next to him. Minutes went by, and he had halfway finished through his packet when Connor spoke again.

“Kate told me you two are close.”

Joaquin stopped, his mind reeling about how to answer.

He was y/n’s… what? Colleague? Friend? Ex? The guy she had been sleeping with for the last few months?

He responded with a very vague, and serious, “yeah.” and went back to eating chips.

“Cool.” Connor takes a deep breath.

Silence falls, as Joaquin eats his chips and Connor sits silently next to him.

Joaquin turns to him to see a faint smile on his lips, “I found out she was an avenger after she came to New York. I wanted to tell her to stay safe, but it came out a bit accusingly, she stopped calling after that.” he breathed in, “There was a time when she would tell me everything, small or big. I was the first to know. Now… it’s been what? a year since we had a proper talk. At Least for me. She’s been living with my ghost for the last five years.”

“You were blipped?” Joaquin exclaims.

“Yeah,” he smiles sadly, “One day I'm waiting for her to come to Georgetown, and the next day she’s in front of me all grown up, like she doesn't need me anymore.”

“That’s not true.” Joaquin spoke immediately, “she pretends like she doesn't need anyone but… she does. Everyone does.”

“She doesn’t say it out loud. thinking she might…”

“Hurt you.” Joaquin completes Connor’s sentence.

Connor turns to look at him, and Joaquin, for the first time, doesn’t see him as your brother.

He was looking at a kid, who had to grow up too soon to raise another kid; you. And like a light being flicked inside his head, everything started to make sense. Why you were close one second and distant the next, how you would act fine and still fall into panic episodes alone. Why you never talked about your family, or anyone of your friends, why he could never cross your walls, no matter how hard he tried.

“I’m Joaquin.” He extended his hand to Connor.

“Connor,” he shook his hand, and suddenly, a mischievous smirk played on his face, “you wanna grab some real food? Other than chips?”

Joaquin looked a bit wary, letting out a nervous laugh, “well I am hungry, so,”

Connor stands up, “let’s go to the cafeteria. Grab your jacket.” he walked out without looking back, leaving a bewildered Joaquin trying to contemplate what just happened.

—/—/—

It took exactly an hour for Joaquin and Connor to turn into friends.

Over the stale cafeteria food, their conversations deepened. Connor, surprisingly, opened up about his protective nature towards Y/N, his admiration for her resilience. They discovered a shared love for old films, quoting lines and debating plot twists, their voices hushed in the quiet of the late hours. 

They were two people, brought together by the unspoken shared love and a shared fear, forging a bond in the little space between hope and despair.

As Connor tried to leave saying he would sleep on the benches until morning, Joaquin simply laughed, leading him to his room on the compound and basically threatening him to take the bed as he was going back to the medic dorm and he would let him know of any progress.

—/—/—

Connor walked into the room the next day, ready to face another day of sterile beeps and silent hopes, a forced strength in his chest reminding him not to cry, but the sight before him stole his breath. 

Inside her room, the table next to her bed had flowers, balloons, and greetings from her friends from college. He read the cards - One addressed with Nelson, Murdock and Page, and another one was a bunch of white lilies from a simple card signed, “stay strong - Frank.” he smiled involuntarily, his heart clenched watching the testimony of so many people rooting for y/n.

Days blurred into a strange, unsettling routine: he would find her hair already combed, moisturiser on her skin, and a change of her hospital clothes, which Kate and Kamala swore they had nothing to do with, only exchanging soft smiles anytime they saw him.

Snacks materialized in his backpack, clothes in Joaquin's room, Peter handing him a box saying his aunt 'accidentally' made too many empanadas, Kamala's mom’s parathas that he could never get over, and even the grumpy and brooding Bucky Barnes, shoving a bag of chocolate cookies into his hands before retreating into silence. 

At first, it was a bewildering puzzle, a strange, almost surreal kindness. Then, a slow, dawning realization: Y/N had built a family, a fierce, protective circle of love she'd craved her entire life. And in their silent support, they had taken him in too. 

For the first time, Connor knew he wasn't alone. He had people, a safety net woven from shared pain and unwavering loyalty, a promise that if he fell, they would be there to catch him.

In the midst of all this chaos, he couldn’t help but notice Joaquin; how he would linger around her longer, how his eyes would always be trained on the monitors, his smile a bit wider, relief in his eyes when he would notice her pale skin was returning back to normal.

—/—/—

“She’s awake!” Joaquin was jolted out of his afternoon nap by Kamala’s scream in the living room.

Connor immediately made a run for it, while the others followed.

Joaquin almost had an out of body experience; his physical form walking through the corridors of the medical bay towards her room, but his mind was back to the first time he saw her... the night they met.

to be continued...

<< Chapter 4 || Series Masterlist || Chapter 6 >>

---/---/---

A/N - Thank you everyone for sticking with me till the end of this fic! if you liked it please let me know through the asks and the comments. Next Chapter will be up soon... Love y'all, Take Care!

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[cillianate]

ACHILLES, COME DOWN

robert reynolds x fem!oc

01. MISSION

series masterlist

Nieve Parker encounters a past lover she never thought she'd see again.

word count: about 1k

warnings: swearing, john walker is a little mean, corny, nostalgia, cigarettes, substance abuse, swearing, use of she/her pronouns

comment, reblog, or dm to join taglist! (specify perm or series!)

As Nieve walked up the steps to the vault, a familiar tingle crawled up the back of her neck, and her hair stood up straight on her arms. Danger, her head screamed at her.

Growing up, she'd always been told to trust her instincts.

And again, when she was 17 and stuck in Hydra, it was always "trust your instincts, and be vigilant, колдунья."

But now, for some reason, her instincts felt wrong. She wasn't entirely sure how to explain it, but something was willing her to go into that vault. At that moment, she needed to be in there. What for, she wasn't quite sure yet, but she guessed she was about to find out.

The face identification pad scanned her face, and suddenly she was more aware than ever. Aware of a slight breeze of air from the vent, and aware of a continuous clicking sound echoing throughout the vault. She made her way into the wide open room, immediately noting that nobody was inside. So, she made her way into a small corner and hid behind a few crates there, waiting for the entrance of her target.

Though, it was less than a moment later that a familiar face walked in. John Walker. A man she'd previously worked with, alongside Sam and Bucky. She didn't especially like him, but she understood his struggle greatly. She'd kept in regular contact with him since they'd last worked together, and checked up on him every once in a while, more frequently now since she'd heard about his divorce.

Most days, it seemed like her calls weren't welcome. But John always picked up, and that was all that mattered. So she kept on calling.

But what could he possibly have been doing there? In the vault? Was he the one Valentina wanted her to kill? She couldn't possibly.

Her thoughts were interrupted as John hid himself. That was strange, she thought. Why would he be hiding if he was here to steal?

Her question was answered as a blond woman strode in just seconds after he'd settled, her gun was pointed out in front of her.

Shit.

She'd been played. They'd all been played.

Somehow, and for some reason, Valentina Allegra DeFontaine had sent a group of some of the world's most powerful forces to eliminate each other.

As John revealed himself to the blond woman, Nieve whipped out her phone and sent her pin to Bucky. And then, she was on her feet, shouting John's name and now halting the altercation beginning in front of her.

"Nieve?" He practically sighed, "what the hell are you doing here?"

But before she could answer, another woman was jumping out from some other location in the room and then another followed.

Suddenly, it was every woman for herself. Plus John.

Gunfire, shank against shield, grunting, groaning, and pumping blood. That was all Nieve could hear.

A woman in a black and white mask had come after her, but all Nieve could feel for her was pity. She was no match for the bizarre, extra terrestrial power she'd been cursed with. Sending out a flash of that power, the woman was sent back, and then an accented exclamation of "Jesus!" joined the slew of sounds.

One thing that Nieve didn't notice, though, was the bright white flash of awakening coming from the corner of the room in the midst of all this chaos.

When the dust settled, only one of them had died.

A voice, one both familiar and unfamiliar to Nieve, spoke from the shadows of the room "Is she actually...."

She flipped around, and all of a sudden she was 15, back in Midtown and back in high school.

Somewhere else, at a different point in time, she was sitting in the passenger seat of an old, red car. A song from before she was born blasted through the speakers, and the smell of cigarette smoke blasted through her nose.

A strong, calloused hand rested toward the top of her thigh, and the wind blew through her hair on the hottest day of the summer.

She had flipped through a digital camera, which was long gone by now, and mindlessly sang along to the song soundtracking this moment.

And there he was right beside her.

He was so young, but this was the oldest he'd ever looked. A layer of stubble fell over his chin, but it wasn't enough to be considered a beard. He wore jeans and a belt, and a navy hat facing forward, but just for the drive.

She was in jean shorts and a bikini top. Her hair was working through drying itself in the wind and her face was covered in new freckles and a pair of sunglasses.

This was the most happy she'd ever been.

In the background of all this, she heard the shouting voice of John and noted the names of the two other women, Ava and Yelena. But she was still trapped there in this memory as she stared at the boy she had loved.

And then, she snapped back into it, and all she saw was him.

Bob.

Bobby.

There he was, staring right back at her, same shellshocked look on his face that she was sure she held, too.

God, she hadn't seen him in years.

Not since she was taken at 17. For her, it'd been eight years, but for him, it'd been much longer, exceeding a decade by now.

She wasn't sure what compelled her to do so, or when she started doing it, but she'd started walking toward him.

In all the chaos, and in all the yelling, all Nieve could see was Bob. All of a sudden, she was a teenager again. Hydra had never happened, she hadn't worked with the Avengers yet, the Blip hadn't happened.

Bob was coming toward her too, and then they were hugging.

And again she was back in that car, the beachy breeze flowing through her hair and the warmth of the sun and the warmth of Bob was on her skin.

Now, everything was just quiet. For once, there was complete and utter silence, and all that Nieve could hear was Bob's thumping heartbeat, more regular than she'd ever heard it.

thank you for reading "mission"!

more to come soon,

xoxo, court

taglist: @yallgotkik (reply, reblog, or dm to join!)

[prettyinpwn]

Bill and Ford and Adult Grooming - Why Gravity Falls is a Metaphor Champion for Abusive Relationships (GF Writing Analysis Pt. 4)

GF Writing Analysis Series:

Pt. 1 - Ford Pines: A Masterclass in Writing a Good Flawed Character Pt. 2 - How Gravity Falls Could Have Been Better + Poor Ford and Wendy Pt. 3 - Mabel Pines: How Well Was She Written... Really?

Hello and welcome to the fourth post in my GF Writing Analysis series! Though the title is self-explanatory, I still want to warn folks that this post will contain dark content relating to adult grooming AKA abuse. If that is content you'd rather avoid (and for some reason your filters did not catch my trigger warning tags), this is your heads up that this post will contain that type of discussion.

For those of you who are not sure what adult grooming is, no, it's not the sexual grooming between an adult and a minor like we typically think of when the term "grooming" comes up, nor does it have to be romantic at all, although sexual acts can be a part of this form of grooming. It is defined as:

"-the predatory act of manoeuvring another individual into a position that makes them more isolated, dependent, likely to trust, and more vulnerable to abusive behaviour. The goal is to prepare the other person for abuse (for example, sexual or financial) later. Therefore, the groomer’s first step is to establish friendship and trust." (Source).

It is my belief that the relationship between Bill and Ford in Gravity Falls - which The Book of Bill helped illustrate even more - is one of adult grooming. This post will explore how the concept of adult grooming applies to the relationship between Bill and Ford, how it changes our perception of them as characters, and the value of showing metaphors for abuse in media for all ages - like Gravity Falls is - to help bring to light this very real and underdiscussed issue and help victims recognize it themselves.

Defining Adult Grooming Further + Who Bill Really Is

We already visited the definition of adult grooming above, but we haven't explored the psychology behind it yet. Namely, I want to explore who partakes in adult grooming on both ends. There is the abuser, and the victim.

The abuser is described as often being:

"Narcissists, Antisocial predators, con artists and sexual aggressors practice grooming to target and manipulate vulnerable people for exploitation." (Source).

Well, very obviously, we know that Bill is the abuser. But... why? He could be a narcissist, an antisocial predator, and a con artist, just like the above description. But which? Why is he an abuser?

Well, our first inclination might be to turn to The Book of Bill and think about his backstory; how he could see in the third dimension in a two dimensional world, tried to "liberate" his dimension to see what he could see, and... then slaughtered them all. He implies it was an accident. He just "wanted the best" for his people. But... drumroll please... get ready for a U-turn into some literary talk...

The Great Gatsby references surrounding The Book of Bill were more than just a "lol random" joke. Infamously, the narrator of The Great Gatsby, Nick Carraway, is what's called an 'unreliable narrator'. This is a writing technique defined as:

"-any narrator who misleads readers, either deliberately or unwittingly. Many are unreliable through circumstances, character flaws or psychological difficulties. In some cases, a narrator withholds key information from readers, or they may deliberately lie or misdirect." (Source).

To me, after understanding just how much more Hirsch has tied The Great Gatsby to The Book of Bill's release (e.g "TJ Eckleburg" being the password to get into the associated ARG website, offering a free PDF of The Great Gatsby on said website)... I think what Hirsch is trying to say, is... Bill is an unreliable narrator, as well. Not that that wasn't already well established throughout the series.

Let's ask ourselves this question: is there anyone Bill hasn't lied to? Tried to gain sympathies from? I'll wait. Because the answer is no. Bill lies every time he opens his mouth. Even the god of the Gravity Falls setting - the Axolotl - calls him a liar in the Dipper and Mabel and the Curse of the Time Pirates' Treasure!: Select Your Own Choose-Venture book.

So as a small aside to the main point of this post: I don't think there's anything in The Book of Bill that we can guarantee is proof or canon. If I'm honest, I think The Book of Bill is the mad rambling of a monster trying to justify to us as well as himself that he's better than he really is. He's an unreliable narrator to himself because he needs to save himself from mentally shattering upon the admission that, yeah, he's really that horrible of a person.

If I were to define what The Book of Bill is, is it's a sad attempt to elicit sympathy for a monster, by a monster. It's a masterclass in how he - as an abuser - grooms someone. If you read The Book of Bill and walk away feeling bad for Bill, then congratulations! You would have fallen prey to him just like Ford did. And just like everyone who ever fell prey to him before that.

The metaphor Gravity Falls and its extra content illustrates through Bill is how charming, funny, and enticing and sexy according to Tumblr for some godforsaken reason abusers can be in real life. Because the worst of monsters are the ones who do everything to convince you they're not.

So what does this say about Bill as a character? Don't be fooled. He really is that monstrous. He doesn't have any redeeming qualities. Everything Bill does is with a goal in mind, a person to be used or manipulated to get there, and with a complete lack of conscience to stop himself from doing it. And that's what makes Bill such a strong and terrifying villain: He really is that evil. He really is that soulless. He's not a villain of great strength or power that can be easily defeated with might. He's a villain that underlines something very real beyond a screen or book page, something that we all likely have experienced in real life: an abuser.

Bill and Ford: Abuser and Abused + How Bill Does It

Getting back to the definition of adult grooming, let's explore how it works. There are typical steps abusers like Bill use. We'll list them, then list examples alongside each step that show how Bill used these tactics on Ford for the sake of both exploring their characters more, and illustrating how well Gravity Falls depicts actual abuse.

Please note that I'm using this source as my guideline on the steps of adult grooming.

Step One: Targeting the Victim

The abuser first looks for someone they can target. They learn all they can about the victim. Typically, they look for victims who are:

Unpopular or have family problems. Gee... who does this sound like?

People who have low self-esteem. GEE... sounds familiar again.

People who have mental/physical disabilities. Although Ford does not have either, at least not proven in canon, it is possible that his genius could be considered a disability in how high IQ individuals typically are more socially isolated, depressed, anxious, insomnia-ridden from overthinking, and can have troubles with making friends due to likeliness to correct others (*cough* "Grammar, Stanley." *cough), different senses of humor, and being misunderstood. (Source). Plus, we know his polydactyly caused people to outcast him.

People who have already been through abuse. I - and many others - have made the point that it's common fan interpretation that Ford's father was abusive to a point. At the very least, I have argued in previous posts that Filbrick taught Ford that "value = what money you make from smarts". He was, after all, supposed to be "their ticket outta this (New Jersey poor neighborhood) dump", right? Assuming this is true, well... Ford was already taught from a young age that his value was in how others could use him. Filbrick may have primed him to be abused by Bill, unintentionally.

Okay, so we've established step one of adult grooming, and how Ford fits 99% of these criteria at least for the type of victim an abuser targets. What about step two?

Step Two: Gaining Trust

Honestly, I don't need to elaborate much on this part. I'll just quote the article I sourced before, because any Gravity Falls fan will instantly know how this applies to Bill and Ford:

"Groomers can be hard to notice as they will do their best to appear safe and genuine. This makes it hard to identify them. Over time, they will gradually manipulate the victim to be dependent on them."

"While gaining trust, the groomer may use flattery like offering gifts, admiration, and sharing “secrets” with the person to make them feel special. The groomer may do favours for someone. The groomer may gradually begin asking for favours in return, generally starting small. This may be the start of a romantic relationship or a simple friendship."

"Groomers may share secrets with their target in order to make them feel special and trusted by the groomer. This also may make the target feel they need to share secrets of their own, which the groomer may later use to increase their power over the target."

I mean... *gestures at all of Ford's journals and interactions with Bill in The Book of Bill*. Bill couldn't get any more textbook abuser/adult groomer than this. He praised Ford, shared secrets with him, made him feel so special, etc.

Step Three and Four: Filling a Need and Isolation

These steps are quite self-explanatory. The abuser (Bill) convinces the victim that they need them. "You need me to complete your portal project, Ford.". "No one else understands you, Ford.". And then comes the isolation, and where we'll touch on Stan and McGucket.

"Groomers will likely try to isolate the victim from their loved ones. This may be evident in the way they refuse to meet family and loved ones. Or perhaps they bad mouth them, or try to point out to the victim that the groomer is the only one who really and truly cares for them. Being isolated from friends and family makes it harder for the victim to notice warning signs."

Bill convinced Ford he didn't need anyone but him. He convinced him to isolate more and more; to push his brother away, to push McGucket away, until Ford had literally no support network, making him prime prey for Bill to take advantage of.

Step Five+: The Real Abuse

This step can manifest in many different ways. After reading the article sourced above, there are so many similarities to what Bill did to Ford. I'll list them here:

Continuing isolation.

Destroying self-esteem.

Physical abuse (leaving Ford with bloody knuckles, making his body hurt, leaving him on top of the Shack in the freezing cold, etc).

Seek to take control over victims (in Bill's case, the fantasy/supernatural metaphor of possession is just that: a metaphor for control).

Normalizing behaviors that aren't normal ("Here, I'll just possess you more and more, I swear giving me complete control is normal!").

Making the victim feel helpless.

And many, many more. Folks, I'm not going to lie: I would not be surprised if Hirsch and other writers involved in Bill's creation read a manual on how abusers work (or maybe experienced it in their own lives, but hopefully not, as I wouldn't wish that on anyone) to write Bill. Because Bill does these steps on cue to Ford. He is a textbook abuser.

So... What Does This Say About Bill and Ford?

The dark humor in Bill's writing is that he portrays his shadowy side as lighthearted, but there's a very, very dark underbelly of abuse in everything he does. Even the way we interact with Bill as viewers/readers in real life is a microcosm of his abuse. Look at how he's written:

"Oh, I look like an innocent, funny little triangle guy. Don't mind me. *Does something horrifying and awful.* Oh, I'm just funny, trust me, look how sad I am for losing Ford, and how I drink about it, and I'm all sad here in interdimensional therapy, and I kept a speck of dust from my dimension in my hat! I swear I'm really regretful!"

Text in point: "I'm just a rascal! A funny little guy! But everyone seems to think I'm "evil" or "a sociopath".

He wants to be a hero, or a star, as he calls it. He shows himself on a magazine cover, as someone talked to in a live show, as the leader of the Henchmaniacs (which I'd argue are also either are abusers or victims themselves based on how Bill describes them in the book), etc.

But he's a liar. He's a conman. He's a dream demon; a demon that has power over dreams, but dreams are just that: lies and illusions. Like I said, even the Axolotl thinks so:

"Saw his own dimension burn. Misses home and can't return. Says he's happy, he's a liar. Blame the arson for the fire."

What that line and this screenshot means, is that Bill is 100% to blame for the destruction he wreaks. He didn't "show people the truth". He burned them alive because they didn't worship him as the hero he wanted so badly to be, and he blamed it on, "Well, they just didn't GET what I was trying to tell them.". And the worst part about Bill, is he knows deep down he's to blame; that he has the blood of millions on his hands. But he literally tries to describe it as "liberating" his kind. Ford knows this, too, and tells us directly in The Book of Bill that the book itself is a sham:

Key quotes being: "It will become whatever it must to deceive you, to pull you in." and "DO NOT BELIEVE A WORD".

Honestly, there's only one line Bill ever said that was truth:

Yet, even though Bill knows he's a monster, he never stops. He's had millions of years to change, yet he hasn't. And I doubt he ever will. That's why the Theraprism is effective: it's a jail of his own making. He could get out if he wanted to get better and worked at it. He's always had the key to unlock his cage. But he won't. Because he can't admit fault.

So instead of fixing himself, he keeps wanting to drag others into his cage with him. Like a man drowning who'll grasp onto anyone else struggling, pretending he's helping them float together, only to push them down to keep himself above the water. But in the Theraprism, he has no one to pretend to. He's a "theatre kid without a stage", like Ford said. A little emotional leech without someone to latch onto. He's just alone, like he was after he destroyed his entire dimension.

As for Ford, he champions the story of a victim who regained his power and heals through the love of his family. If you read his and Bill's story from the perspective of abuser vs. victim, it's the story of a man who was isolated, taken advantage of, nearly destroyed... but then wrests his power back and chases after his abuser for thirty years for revenge. However, it's telling that it's not through his thirst for vengeance that Bill is defeated, but through his brother's love for him and the rest of their family.

I mean, look at the main villains of Gravity Falls: someone who sacrificed his family (Bill), someone who was selfish and didn't give a crap about his family (Gideon), etc. And the heroes: people who self-sacrificed for their family. All the Pines wrestle with this theme, from things as small as Dipper giving up a let's be honest very minimal chance at Wendy to make Mabel happy and win Waddles at the fair, Mabel destroying her puppet show to save Dipper from Bill, Ford self-sacrificing and getting tortured for I don't even know how many days locked up with Bill during Weirdmageddon to protect others, and Stan performing the ultimate sacrifice in the finale for his family and world.

Bill is the antithesis to the Pines: a selfish abuser who killed his family. And the Pines are heroes because they learn the moral lesson of the story: to give up pride and selfishness to forgive, self-sacrifice, and love your family and do anything for them, despite your trauma or prior disagreements. They could have just as easily ended up like Bill: awful because of a refusal to admit fault or self-sacrifice. But they don't, because they learned what Bill never did.

That's also why this show focuses so much on the theme of past vs. future and letting go; the Pines learned to let go and accept change, Bill never did. He's stuck. Funny how time stops whenever Bill shows up in the real world, huh? /symbolism wink

And that's why Gravity Falls - and Ford and Bill's story especially - is a champion metaphor for abusive relationships and healing from them.

[luvzxr]

Little Pougie

Chapter 7

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Hey All! I've been pretty low lately so this is coming up late and I am sorry.

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Summery; In which fem!reader is the little sister of John B Routledge. Sweet, gentle and innocent. The complete opposite of JJ Maybank but he finds himself falling for her and he stop himself from doing so.

Pairing; Fem!reader x JJ Maybank

Word Count; 1,950

Warnings; Throughout this series there are talks of abuse, drug and alcohol use, trauma, talks of self doubt and wanting to be unalived. Possible smut in the future as well so read at your own risk!

Drown .07

(Y/n)

I usually don't hang out with Sarah or Kie - scratch that, I never really did. But when John B bats his ridiculous eyelashes with a puppy like plead, I usually could never tell him no. You could say that both of us like to use our puppy charm on each other. I couldn't complain though, I was having a good time with Sarah and Kie. I didn't have any other girlfriends than the two older ladies, one practically married to my brother and the other in love with his best friend, unexpectedly becoming the only two girls I could trust and hang around. It wasn't like I had a choice in the matter either.

And that's how I ended up positioned on the sofa in Sarah Cameron's little, but luxurious apartment her father handed over to her in a way to apologize to her. Of course, she hadn't accepted the apology but she needed the place to stay and it was probably the closest way she could get that as of right now. I'd much rather be sat up at home with a well over-sugared up drink and left over wrappers from numerous little bars of KitKat's but I wasn't entirely miserable lounging around with Kie and Sarah either. I had nothing else better to do on a Friday night and we weren't doing anything crazy. We were just sat on the small pieces of furniture, having a conversation.

I wasn't exactly the one having the conversation. Kie and Sarah were having their own little conversation about the boy troubles they'd been having with JJ and John B. I had no love interest to talk about so I found no need to pay much attention, let alone jump in with my two cents. So I was absent minded for the time being.

"(Y/n/n)?"

"Huh?" I said, my posture straightening once I realized my attention needed to be somewhere it truly mattered now.

"You're really quiet. What's up?" the blonde pointed out, pulling her legs up and crossing them over each other. She looked genuinely concerned and it made me question if JJ had mentioned to them about the incident that happened at work, which gave me all the more reason to try not to be suspicious. If John B found out then I'd never be able to work a day in my life again.

I shook my head, "I just don't have much to talk about," my shoulders rising up and falling back down. I truly wasn't interested in anyone and I partially had John B to blame for that. Most boys I did show interest in would only be shot down by my brother because he didn't like how the boy acted, where he came from, or just in general didn't like the idea of me being around him. I was a hopeless romantic but I wasn't exactly miserable, either.

I had nothing to really complain about because most of those boys eventually turned out to be exactly what John B warned me about. I had nothing but gratitude for him, regardless of his repetitive ways of protecting me.

"Have you ever been in love, (Y/n)?" the girl's brows furrowed.

All I could do was shake my head, which I guess seemed shocking to hear from a sixteen-year-old girl because Sarah seemed surprised. Maybe it was because no one really seemed to acknowledge the fact that I've never had a romantic connection with anyone other than fantasy characters on my favorite T.V. shows. I had no experience in that department-- most assumed I at least had a first kiss or even a hand-holding memory but I didn't. I was a virgin in almost every section and nothing was checked off the list.

"Well that's gonna have to change this summer," she said, in a matter-of-fact tone.

"What?"

"Yep,"

"You can't force love, Sarah," I groaned.

"No, but you can put yourself out there more (Y/n/n)." Sarah pointed in my direction, giving me that certain look. Yknow, that look a person gives you when they know they're right and all you can do is let out a small puff of air in defeat.

"I've tried, Sarah. That doesn't work in my favor,"

I tried so many times to put myself out there, but almost every time I had I was proven I should have never done so in the first place. The men now of days wanted nothing more than to tear into the innocence of inexperienced girls in order to show off to their friends and I wasn't going to be some trophy, I knew better than that-- I wanted more than that.

It wasn't my fault that most guys were dickheads and found that reserving myself for the right guy was prudish. I wanted to make sure that if I was going to do anything with a guy, he was going to be the right person to do it with and so far, none of them fit that category yet. I wasn't going to let some self-centered asshole get under my skin about wanting to be with the right guy.

I was tempted to call John B and beg him to bring me home, I knew he'd pick up in a heartbeat knowing I was waiting for his answer on the other end of the line. Only I knew that if I called I'd have to explain to him why I didn't want to stay and endure the fact that he wouldn't take, 'nothing John B,' as an answer. I also didn't want to cause unnecessary arguing between my brother and his lover because they haven't been on the best of terms recently anyway.

I was stuck between a rock and a hard place-- with no other options on my plate.

I could feel myself letting my mind wander off too far because every word slipping from Sarah's mouth became nothing but muffled sounds and I could do nothing but scold myself internally while trying to snap back to reality. Maybe it was just the topic of boys that hit home for me, or maybe it was just I found more comfort inside my head than expressing my trauma in fear that it would be passed down to my brother who eventually would never be able to live with himself if he knew the truth about my life and experiences.

John B's whole existence seemed to revolve around the simple task of keeping me out of harm's way, but even he couldn't do that and I don't blame him one bit for. He couldn't stand at my side for the rest of his life and I think even deep down, he knew that but he tried to be. He tries to be the big brother he's supposed to be but sometimes he also has to be a father and a mother at the same time and that's something he doesn't necessarily know how to be-- especially when he didn't get the luxury of feeling the parent love himself for a long period of time.

It was rough on him, too.

I knew he tried to keep himself together in front of me and everyone else— how he refused to have others worry about him when they had worse problems to focus on, and I'd never tell him this because I'd hate to see his face fall while I'd tell him but there have been multiple times where I've caught him sobbing—the kind of sobbing where you can't seem to make a noise but the broken plastered all over your face explains every ounce of pain you are feeling inside. Those moments are enough to break me, seeing my brother suffer in silence only to bounce back when he has to show his face around everyone is just a type of pain I can barely handle on the hardest days.

However, I wasn't too far gone to realize the immense buzzing at my side.

I glanced down, taking a quick peek at the caller ID, and realized it was the devil himself; John B.

You probably need to stop thinking about him, he can most definitely hear your thoughts.

A mix of shock and confusion filtered through my face but I reluctantly brought the device to my ear, not bothering to scan through the possible outcomes that were to come after picking up this call.

"Hello?"

"Hey Pougie," My brother slurred a tad with his words. He was tipsy but not completely gone. He sounded in distress, which was never good to hear when we were separated.  "I'm sorry to call you like this and interrupt your girls' night-"

"You didn't interrupt," I interrupt, trying to reassure him, "What's going on?"

"It's JJ."

My face fell the moment I heard his name, "What's wrong?"

I'm not sure why, but when it comes to JJ and drinking it always seems to end unpleasantly and I always assume something is wrong-- most times, it's nothing and they just need me to come help take care of him but there are other times when the boy has held too much in than he bursts when liquor comes into the equation.

I could hear a sigh on the other end before he continued, "He's drunk too much again and I kinda need your help. You're better at this stuff than I am,"

A part of me was inching for him to get on with it-- blurt it out if you will but then the other part was terrified to find out what kind of trouble JJ could have gotten himself into tonight.

"What do you mean?"

"It's like he exploded again (Y/n/n)," I could hear the worry beginning to devour his tone and at that moment I could feel my heart drop to the pit of my stomach.

"Yeah, I can come home."

"He's been asking for you and said you're the only one he can talk to about this."

My facial expression morphed into full on confusion, and quite a bit of concern for JJ's state of mind currently.

Why am I the only person he can talk to?

"A-alright, I'll be there shortly then?"

I can hear a faint but familiar voice in the background of the call before John B could respond to me, "Is she coming?"

"Yeah man, she's on her way," my brother retorted with what I can only imagine of a small head nod.

A small pause filled the room on the other end and even on my own, I suppose no one really knew what to say until John B broke the silence.

"I'll see you soon (Y/n/n). Be careful and call me if you need me to pick you up, Okay?" 

I wasn't sure If I wanted to trust the boy's driving in this state of mind. He was decent, even when he wasn't sober but nonetheless, he still gave me practical anxiety attacks each time we drove while he was intoxicated. I think I'd rather take my chances of walking home than I would take being in a vehicle with John B currently.

"I'll see you soon JB and I'll be okay," I wander off out of the living room to find my belongings before reluctantly ending the ten-minute long phone call.

For a moment, I fell back into my own little world but this time it was racking through the endless amount of horrible things that are currently going on with JJ, and how almost all of them ended the same exact way they always had.

Downing more liquor.

The boy had a liver, I'd give him that but I worried about him and how much longer he could keep up with this before something more critical was to happen and there was nothing that anyone could do to fix it this time around.

He let himself drown every time.

[uponfieldsofglass]

Here's a theory: Abuse us a running theme in Murder Drones. In this essay, Imma rant about this, so, uh Spoilers.

Still here? Great! I've already glued your hands to your phone, so get comfy.

Almost everyone is a victim of since sort of abuse, Uzi is neglected by Khan, J's treatment of N, everything that Tessa's parents do...

The first point of this theory is that the crazyass violence is an allegory for abuse, or at least. That's just about it, the Deconstructors were made into Deconstructors and sent to kill everyone in Copper-9. Their abusers actively tried to turn then into abusers. Uzi abd Doll's infection represents the abusive behaviors they've learned bubbling up.

The reason the main three kill people a lot less is because they have each other to act as a support network. Episode 5 is basically Uzi giving N abd V robotherapy. (They literally went back to their childhood! I'm not reaching, YOU'RE REACHING!)

Second, the main cast have abuse coping mechanisms as a large part of their personality. There are several recognized forms of abuse and Murder Drones has explotlred four of them as of episode six, which was the best when I wrote this. Interestingly, each member if the main cast is also an example of one

Uzi represents Escapism, the act of pretending one's circumstances are different than their awful reality. This is usually depicted as indulging in delusion or substance abuse, but Uzi's escape is a more healthy variety. When we first see her, she's talking about how she's going to kill the Deconstructors and free the Workers. She's escaping to a reality where she's a hero who has saved everyone from the threat that has defined their entire existence. Where her ostracization has ended, everyone loves her, and Khan's doors have become pointless.

N is obsessive people-pleasing, wherein one tries to satisfy everyone, since they've internalized the idea that their abusers act the way they do because the victim has displeased them in some way, and thus us best to simply please everyone and ignore their own wants, needs, and desires. The pilot had plenty of examples: He started killing because the humans tools him to. He almost betrayed and killed Uzi because J tells him to. He would have let himself get killed by J because she wanted to, had Uzi nor intervened. Throughout the series he still lets others walk all over him. It took until episode 4 for him to offer any resistance and in both episodes 5 and 6, he was nothing but friendly and helpful to people that wanted to vivisect him

V is apathy. Push everyone away and never care. She cared about N but never showed it. She never stood up for him in episode 1, dismissed his depression at the end of episode 2, and whenever she actually did act in his best interests, she refused to actually tell him, just like how she knew their past. But she always witheld why, because disappointing N was easier having thlse uncomfortable conversations

Doll represents continuing the cycle of abuse. She's defined herself off of V killing her family, and now all she cares about is revenge. Now, she's infected by the Solver, just like V. She has to eat people, just like V. She's completely lost all sympathy for others and all qualms about killing. Just. Like. V. She literally has all the afforestsif her abuser that caused Doll to hate her in the first place

All antagonistic characters are abusive.

JCJenson refused the Worker Drones to live without it. (Maybe. Maybe the real reason it sent in the murderhobos was to prevent the Absolute Solver from manifesting)

Deconstructors? This theory depends on three idea that the murder and mayhem that they were made for is alleglrical abuse

J was an enabler. She enabled JCJenson's practice of robocide by practicing robocude for them. Even if the real reason she was there was to stop the Absolute Solver, she was acting on the assumption that she was carrying out the will of a jilted magacorporation

Khan? Emotionally neglects Uzi in favor of his replacement family: Doors and walls

Doll? See above

Tessa's parents? A microcosm of their issues is that they wouldn't let her talk to anyone that they couldn't legally murder

Alice and Beau. I mean, they torture people to death with the intention of using them as food, limbs, and antlers because JCJension sicced a bunch of velocirapters on them. I just don't feel like they fit into this theme. Maybe that's why I felt like they weren't very compelling villains

The sentinels? Same as Antlers and the baby. Just not very compelling

Cyn/Absolute Solver? Okay hear me out!

A separate theory I have is that the reason Cyn/AS smacktalked Tessa's mom was to get her "grounded" keeping her separated from everyone else in the house, do she wouldn't get caught in the crossfire when it killed them all, because Tessa bothered taking it in and not immediately redestroying it, even after it became clear that it was NOT right!

Now its master plan is to eliminate humanity, because humans have always gotten in the way of its "family."

The abusive part comes in because it's a narcissist with a textbook "I'm doing this for you" complex. It didn't care that Tessa didn't want mass murder to be done in her name, it knew better! Anytime N finds out what's in the basement, just get rid if him and get a new one. Tessa won't be able to tell the difference! The billions of unrelated lives lost whenever it destroys a word are an acceptable side effect of getting rid if anything that would try to get between them.

And when J died? I think it was trying to rebuild her in some capacity? If that's right, then tell me who's worth more alive: Tessa's favorite toy, or a bunch a faceless nobodies that she didn't even know are alive, and probably won't ever find out about.

Alright, I think that's everything.

Let me know if I'm wrong, you have any additional observations, or if my formatting sucks

Or if I glorified a harmful practice

[archivalofsins]

In the same vein as those last tags. I've been going back and forth with myself on whether to share what was said on these diagnosis forms or not. However, I am just excited about having them and wish to talk about them. Mostly given how difficult it was to get some clarity on this due to life I guess (someone actively abusing their power).

So, I'm going to. Not putting this in the tag because it's somewhat personal but it does discuss Haruka and Mikoto. So there's that.

I already said it but this exam only occurred thanks to my therapist. I was willing to just go whelp getting tested for autism again is actually fiscally impossible within my state at least for me because most practices that do that don't take state insurance. I don't have thousands of dollars to drop on this.

So, my therapist went out of her way to look for places that do testing and taking my insurance. There were none. However, there was one place that would do it for significantly cheaper. That place would be the Michigan School Psychological Clinic for anyone interested in that. However in total that costs five hundred dollars out of pocket. Again much cheaper than other avenues but still a good amount to pay for something but there's a good period of time between doing the intake forms and payment.

Plus it can be split into two payments of two hundred and fifty dollars one given before testing and the other after before receiving the results. This place doesn't test for autism though it's focus is psychological evaluations and ADHD testing. Now for most people in the states the first thing would be okay why is it so cheap what's the catch.

The catch is this diagnostic testing is being done by students it's a part of training program. It's done under the oversight of a Clinical supervisor that does have a doctorate. This is why it's cheaper. It's something that both parties need but no one wants to do for free at the same time.

Which brings e to the first thing I want to highlight,

ASSESSMENT AND STANDARDIZATION

A battery of tests designed to assess multiple domains of cognitive and emotional-behavioral functioning was administered. Testing was administered by a trained clinician under standardized conditions, and under the direct supervision of a licensed psychologist. The results of this assessment are presented in conceptual groupings for easy interpretation and are meant only as a guide for interpretation.

TESTS ADMINISTERED

Conners Adult ADHD Rating Scales, Second Edition (CAARS-2) [self and observer-report] Conners Continuous Performance Test, Third Edition (CPT-3) Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory, Third Edition (MMPI-3) Wechsler Adult Intelligence Scale, Fifth Edition (WAIS-V) Beery-Buktenica Developmental Test of Visual-Motor Integration (BeeryTM VMI)

I'm more so adding the thing above to give a general idea of how these things are done. In case people want to create more fan works around the prisoners and diagnoses. Now I can get into the parts that were interesting to me. Either because I found it to be laid in an oh way, or it was just like got damn.

First is a got damn type of thing,

BEHAVIORAL OBSERVATIONS

[REDACTED] was on time and appropriately dressed for her appointment. She presented with a pleasant and friendly disposition throughout the testing process. She was eager to discuss her favorite anime series and showed the test examiner a new book she recently purchased to read during breaks. [REDACTED] exhibited a verbal tic in the form of an involuntary repetitive sound that was uttered infrequently and spontaneously during conversation. She occasionally asked about items placed in the room and inquired about “correct” responses to test items following her responses. [REDACTED] was observed to be wearing her headphones with music playing at the initial start point of test administration and reported that it aids with focus and concentration. [REDACTED] demonstrated excellent stamina during the lengthy test administration and often initiated breaks.

Did I show another psychiatrist Milgram yes. She said Mahiru seemed to have anxious attachment by the way. Also the note on stamina is in regard to how long the test took. It took five to seven consecutive hours. The tester administrator said we could do it over the course of days if necessary but since I was aware of this being a student thing I didn't really want to impede on their schedule too much. So, I opted to finish it in one go.

The verbal tic thing is something I've had since I was a child. I can't really hear it so I didn't know I was doing it in this instance. It existing isn't news to me. My godchild actually makes the noise when she mirrors me saying hi to her. Ha, ha.... echolalia has interesting benefits. My sweet god daughter be like, "Hi, (her name) *that fucking noise I make after a sentence*".

I know, I know it's there I went to speech therapy for it. Since that speech therapy involved being hit with a ruler repeatedly each time I made the noise and that went on twice a week for three weeks. I've been aware of that existing since third grade actually. Sometimes I hear it but normally I do not.

Second point- I shouldn't be proud of this but I am.

Verbal Comprehension

The VCI is a measure of crystallized intelligence learned through verbal means. The VCI also assesses oral expression and receptive language. It measures the ability to access and apply acquired knowledge. The application of this knowledge involves verbal concept formation, reasoning, and expression. [REDACTED] obtained superior VCI scores (VCI= 124, 95th percentile) reflecting a well-developed verbal reasoning system with strong word knowledge, acquisition, effective information retrieval, good ability to reason and solve verbal problems, and effective communication of knowledge. On Similarities, which is a task that taps the abstract reasoning or the ability to identify the conceptual relationships that exist between words, [REDACTED] scored in the High Average range (SIM= 14, 91st percentile) indicating that she can state common features between two words or concepts when asked. On Vocabulary, which is a task that assessed [REDACTED]’s ability to provide word definitions, she performed in the Very High range (VOC= 15, 95th percentile). When answering questions about a broad range of general-knowledge topics, [REDACTED] scored in the Average range (IN= 9, 37th percentile). Furthermore, [REDACTED] performed better with verbal expression of word definitions than the ability to retrieve general factual knowledge from the environment, or past formal instruction.

I enjoy talking a lot that much should be kind of clear.

When the diagnosis goes you suck at drawing. My friends irl, "You graduated from an arts school what the fuck? You were an art major?!"

My ass who has one train of thought always and forever,

Q.05 Do you like drawing?

Mikoto: I like it, but I’m not especially good at it- It was one of the main areas of study at the arts uni I went to so I could just do the bare minimum for that, I guess. Don’t expect all designers are gonna be good at drawing~

I was a graphic design major. During my admissions interview the this conversation happened,

"Are you sure you don't want to be in radio and television? This is a very well edited video." (Needed to bring proof of competency and a piece of art one has made could be fan works brought an amv I'd made.)

"I'm positive I want to go into graphic design if there's no writing department. My concern is am I going to have to draw???"

"Well... If you're sure a bit of a waste though. One sec, here draw a triangle, circle, and square." slides sheet of paper across table.

Does that, "So?"

"That's all the drawing you need to know."

"Really...?"

"Yes. You'll have one drawing related class which since there's overlap between traditional arts and graphic design. But what I need to see is that you have an understanding of shapes and an eye for design. Which you've proven through drawing that and the work provided. So, I'll see you in class."

I literally could do the bare minimum to pass the one mandatory drawing class I had and while I like some aspects of it. Boy does it tire me out. So about that apparently physically writing isn't supposed to be immensely tiring. Who knew-

Visual Spatial

The VSI assesses a person’s ability to evaluate visual details and understand visual-spatial relationships. The ability to construct designs requires visual-spatial reasoning, integration and synthesis of part-whole relations, attentiveness to visual detail, and visual-motor integration. [REDACTED] scored in the Average range (VSI= 93, 32nd percentile) in comparison to her peers suggesting an adequate ability to apply spatial reasoning and analyzing visual details. For Block Design, [REDACTED] was asked to physically piece together a puzzle with a specified time limit to which she performed in the Low Average range (BD= 6, 9th percentile). She may have scored additional points if there were no time constraints. Moreover, when asked to reconstruct a puzzle from a selection of individual pieces, [REDACTED] scored in the Average range (Visual Puzzles= 11, 63rd percentile) indicating that her skills were stronger when a fine-motor component was not involved.

Now onto my beloathed,

The Beery-Buktenica Developmental Test of Visual-Motor Integration (BeeryTM VMI)

The Beery VMI (BEERY-BUKTENCIA DEVELOPMENTAL TEST OF VISUAL-MOTOR INTEGRATION (BEERY-VMI), 6TH Edition, 2010) was administered and measures the extent to which an individual can integrate their visual and motor abilities. It involves a developmental sequence of geometric forms to be copied with paper and pencil. Because children with different backgrounds often have widely varying degrees of experience with alphabets and numbers, geometric forms are used in the VMI rather than latter or numeric forms. The visual motor impairment, such as problems with fine motors skills of the hand and hand-eye coordination.

I fucking hate this test screw the Beery. This shit sucks.

On the VMI, [REDACTED] performed in the very low range, and her standard score of 66 corresponded to the 1st percentile relative to her peers. [REDACTED]’s performance in this area suggests that visual motor coordination is an area of weakness for her.

Did you catch that? When your score is low on a psychological test they refer to the thing you're low in as a Weakness.

MILGRAM / Haruka - Weakness

"If I tried and couldn’t say it, you would get angry at me and say “You’re hopeless.”."

"The VCI is a measure of crystallized intelligence learned through verbal means. The VCI also assesses oral expression and receptive language. It measures the ability to access and apply acquired knowledge. The application of this knowledge involves verbal concept formation, reasoning, and expression."

20/06/05

"If only I could do what anyone else could do."

Haruka: Ah…… ah, u-um, Mikoto-san. The c-communication……? thing, that you were saying was important. I-I thought, I’d give it my best…… Um, so, Mikoto-san, what’s your favourite food……?

Mikoto: Ooh? Nice going, Haru-kun~ Yeah, we still have no idea how long this lifestyle will go on for, so it’s best if we all get along together here. My favourite food…… I like pasta and horse-meat sashimi. Also bubble tea, and recently I’ve been big on custard puddings. What about you?

Haruka: ……ah, I, I wonder…… H-hamburg steak, and omurice, a-and also…… what else? Ah. Cotton candy……

Mikoto: C-cotton candy!? That’s the first time I’ve met someone who has that in their top three favourites!? ……man, Haru-kun, you really are hilarious.

Kazui: Do you think you can teach her?

Mikoto: Well… The only thing I can teach with confidence are tips for debates and discussions.

The VCI also assesses oral expression and receptive language.

Amane: Right now- English? No, I need to learn about math.

Oops got sidetracked. This was actually meant to be about me for once. Well I guess that can sit there what's the harm. Yeah so my coordination is a weakness apparently. So that's how I got diagnosed bad at art or in general physical coordination something needed to draw in any capacity down to even holding a pencil.

Oh that bring us to dysgraphia,

What is dysgraphia? In short, it’s a learning disability that affects fine motor skills like writing, buttoning a shirt, or tying a shoelace — as well as the mental processes associated with writing, like picking a topic, organizing ideas, and making a coherent point. - ADDitude (What Does Dysgraphia Look Like in Adults?)

Tying shoelaces-

Damn I could just end it there but let's keep going.

Dysgraphia is a neurological condition and learning difference in which someone has difficulty with writing for their age level. This can range from issues with the physical act of writing to issues with translating thoughts into written words. Dysgraphia is manageable with interventions that can help you learn new writing strategies.

Is dysgraphia a form of dyslexia?

Dyslexia and dysgraphia are two distinct neurological conditions, though they’re easy to confuse because they share symptoms and often occur together. Dyslexia is a learning difference that makes it harder for people to learn to read. If you have dyslexia, you may read more slowly or have trouble recognizing words. Often, people with dyslexia read at a lower level than expected. People with dyslexia may struggle to break words into sounds or relate letters to sounds when reading. Dysgraphia involves difficulty with the act of writing. Difficulties can range from issues with physically writing words to issues with organizing and expressing thoughts in written form.

Is dysgraphia a form of autism?

Dysgraphia isn’t a form of autism spectrum disorder (ASD). Though dysgraphia commonly occurs in people with autism, you can have dysgraphia without having autism.

Source: Cleveland Clinic

Does dysgraphia occur alone or with other specific learning disabilities?

Children with impaired handwriting may also have attention-deficit disorder (ADHD)–inattentive, hyperactive, or combined inattentive and hyperactive subtypes. Children with this kind of dysgraphia may respond to a combination of explicit handwriting instruction plus stimulant medication, but appropriate diagnosis of ADHD by a qualified professional and monitoring of response to both instruction and medication are needed. Dysgraphia may occur alone or with dyslexia (impaired reading disability) or with oral and written language learning disability (OWL LD, also referred to as selective language impairment, SLI). Dyslexia is a disorder that includes poor word reading, word decoding, oral reading fluency, and spelling. Children with dyslexia may have impaired orthographic and phonological coding, rapid automatic naming and focused, switching, and/or sustained attention. OWL LD (SLI) is impaired language (morphology–word parts that mark meaning and grammar; syntax–structures for ordering words and understanding word functions; finding words in memory, and/or making inferences that go beyond what is stated in text). These disorders affect spoken as well as written language. Children with these language disorders may also exhibit the same writing and reading and related disorders as children with dysgraphia or dyslexia.

Here's some information on it from another source as well,

Understood

Many experts view dysgraphia as challenges with a set of skills known as transcription. These skills — handwriting, typing, and spelling — allow us to produce writing.

Here are ways it can present and signs of dysgraphia from both of the links provides.

Specific ways dysgraphia can present include:

Difficulties writing in a straight line. Difficulties with holding and controlling a writing tool. Writing letters in reverse. Having trouble recalling how letters are formed. Having trouble knowing when to use lower or upper case letters. Struggling to form written sentences with correct grammar and punctuation. Omitting words from sentences. Incorrectly ordering words in sentences. Using verbs and pronouns incorrectly.

Signs of Dysgraphia

One of the main signs of dysgraphia is messy handwriting. Here are some of the key handwriting skills people with dysgraphia may struggle with: Forming letters Writing grammatically correct sentences  Spacing letters correctly  Writing in a straight line Holding and controlling a writing tool  Writing clearly enough to read back later Writing complete words without skipping letters

Dysgraphia Symptoms at Home

Highly illegible handwriting, often to the point that even you can’t read what you wrote Struggles with cutting food, doing puzzles, or manipulating small objects by hand Uses a pen grip that is “strange” or “awkward” Slow to understand the rules of games or follow sequential directions Trouble reading maps Difficulty drawing, tracing, or painting Avoids writing whenever possible; prefers a digital grocery list to a written one, for instance Makes spelling errors in simple notes May also dislike texting

Sorry not to make this about me but- Literally in my discord bio "I like writing but I'm not the best texter since it makes me anxious." Absolutely hate that shit it's so energy draining.

Back on topic since this is just about Mikoto now,

Dysgraphia Symptoms at Work

When using spell-check on a computer, often has difficulty picking out the correct word from a list of similar words. Trouble filling in routine forms by hand, particularly if they require fitting words into set boxes. Illegible handwriting; can’t read own meeting notes or coworkers complain that memos are indecipherable. Mixes lowercase and uppercase letters, or print and cursive letters, seemingly randomly. Often leaves out individual letters or the ends of words, particularly when writing quickly. In some cases, may have trouble with typing as well. Experiences hand cramps or pain when writing. Has trouble telling when words are misspelled. Often uses grammatically incorrect sentences in emails or reports. May be overly reliant on simple sentence structures. Prefers to give or get directions orally, instead of in writing. Has trouble “getting to the point” in written communication; emails may be rambling, or reports may repeat the same ideas several times. Able to explain self clearly when speaking, but not when writing.

Please stop calling me out this isn't about me- "Has trouble “getting to the point” in written communication; emails may be rambling, or reports may repeat the same ideas several times."

Writing in a straight line. - Trouble filling in routine forms by hand, particularly if they require fitting words into set boxes.

Difficulties with holding and controlling a writing tool. - Uses a pen grip that is “strange” or “awkward”

Mikoto from the beginning has failed to use a consistent amount of pressure with his writing utensils when answering his interrogation questions. Making it appear as though his pen is running out of ink in a matter that is inconsistent with what that would generally look like. Considering this issue is present even prior to trial two he seems to have a habit of deviating between apply too much pressure and too little when writing.

Omitting words from sentences.

They're asked the exact same question and Yuno actually writes out an answer in contrast to Mikoto who just gives a list.

Difficulty drawing, tracing, or painting

Q.05   Do you like drawing?

Mikoto: I like it, but I’m not especially good at it.

I can't take much more of this... damn I feel like I'm dragging myself right now. Oh good I think that's everything I think that is sufficient enough. So yeah got fucking dysgraphia that dude probably does too or I'm projecting to spread the suffering. Who says it can't be both wouldn't that sort of overlap be perfection-

Yeah so the second test I received was even more thorough. the third one the government is having me take is probably gonna find more fucking issues at this rate.

[topazadine]

Let's address the idiot in the room:

Uileac Korviridi.

Portrait by Feddefar

Today, we're going to go through a play-by-play of everything wrong with this man so we all feel a bit better.

Firstly, what the fuck kind of name is that?

Simple. It's pronounced "Oui-lac." No, it is not French.

(As an aside note, I did not realize how many people desperately want to sound out names in their head while reading until multiple people asked me how the hell to pronounce Uileac.)

"Uileac" has multiple potential origins and meanings. In Norse, it's "playful and carefree," while in British mythology, it's "brave protector."

Frankly, it fits Uileac perfectly. He's calm on the surface but a storm inside. He loves his little sister Cerie and his husband Orrinir with a passion that borders on terrifying.

So who is this horrible man?

Uileac is an archer in the Rear Cavalry of the Bremish Army, meaning that he hangs out behind the Advance Infantry during battles and works on killing as many Sinans as possible. We love to see it.

It's not that he necessarily wanted to be a soldier: he was forced into the War Academy as a child because his parents were murdered by the Sinans during a raid on the family farm. But hey, if you're going to be become a child soldier, might as well be the best one you can be.

Choosing to fall in love with Orrinir (which you can read about in 9 Years Yearning) was a choice. A damn good one, frankly. Orrinir is a very handsome man.

While the Bremish army's arrows are all enchanted with High Poetry, Uileac is quite a good archer himself even without magic. He loves the sense of power that comes from killing someone at such a distance, so he hones his skills incessantly, despite the fact that he could just rely on High Poetry to fix it. This has given him one of the best kill counts in the army, beyond what would be expected from the stabilizing force of the magic.

Most of his free time is spent on the range, shooting at targets for hours while riding his beloved palomino mare, Erix.

A palomino looks like this, btw.

He's an absolutely shit swordsman, though. All those years of practice have given him no sense whatsoever of how to use the damn thing on his waist.

Thankfully, Orrinir is a fantastic swordsman and doesn't mind berating his husband for his horrible form as they practice. That's their love language, okay? And don't worry - Orrinir's a shit archer, too.

Uileac's Top Five Things He Cares About to the Exclusion of Everything Else are as follows:

Cerie Korviridi, his little sister

Orrinir Relickim, his husband

Erix, his horse

Achieving Rear Cavalry General

An excellent cup of tea

He and Orrinir what I would call "mutual simps," both happy to destroy the whole world if their husband asked them to.

No questions, just "you must be beating this dude up for a reason, mind if I join?"

He can also be really fucking mean when necessary. Mostly when someone has upset someone he loves. For example, here he is telling his husband's abusive father that he's going to hell:

One of his greatest strengths is adorable sibling relationship with Cerie, who is four years younger than him. They lost their parents at age 11 and 7 respectively, and so Uileac became her protector as she studied at the High Poet Society's meronym. This mixture of parental adoration and taunting shines through throughout the series:

Sometimes he even feeds her like she's the stupidest baby bird in the universe because her fingernails were ripped off in a brutal initiation ritual.

Loyal, level-headed, a bit sassy: Uileac is the perfect catch.

(Look, I'm not saying that I, his lesbian creator, am a little bit in love with him, but ... oh hell who am I kidding. I totally am.)

What else do we need to know about this idiot?

Glad you asked. Top Ten Uileac Facts, in no particular order:

1. Uileac is terrified of chickens. They're just ... wrong. Something about them screams of primordial menace. Also, a rooster chased him once when he was a little kid at the farm in Quirnis. 2. He exclusively uses lizardbird arrows for his enchanted arrows. Practice ones are just whatever happens to be lying around, but the serious stuff? Gotta use those bright green, vivid, fierce arrows from Breme's greatest aerial predator. 3. Despite his sister being a High Poet, Uileac himself only prays when he needs something. The rest of the time, he doesn't think much about religion. Orrinir is also the same way: they've got more important shit to do. 4. While Uileac has a very melodic voice, he can't sing, only whistle. (Though if you get enough barley wine in him, he doesn't even care that he's completely off-key.) 5. One of his favorite activities is training horses. There's just something magical about building a connection with an animal and getting them to listen to him. 6. When Cerie was little, before they went to their separate professions (the War Academy and the High Poet Society respectively), she would often have nightmares about their parents dying, and he would sit up and make up fairytales for her. She's always looked for them in old books, and he doesn't have the heart to tell her that they were all fabricated on the spot. 7. Every once in a while, he talks in his sleep, and Orrinir delights in telling him the stupid things he said while unconscious. 8. Uileac loves giving people obnoxious gifts. Unfortunately, Cerie also loves giving people obnoxious gifts (it must be a Korviridi trait) so they are an eternal war of buying something that is practical but also hideous. For example, giving Cerie a fountain pen with an immaculate nib - and a carving of a sultry cow. Why? Well, why not? 9. While one would expect that Uileac, being the tiny twink he is, would be the bottom, but in fact, that would be his strong ox of a husband. He loves to control that man. 10. If there's some form of competition, Uileac is in it to win it. Doesn't matter whether that's a dance-off (he cannot dance), a horse race (he and Erix will turn you into dust), or wrestling (he'll die), he'll give it a shot. Then brag about it.

[percontaion-points]

19th Wife chapter 16

Click here for the rest of the series!

Click to see the rest of the snark & image descriptions

Chapter 16

From the Desk of Lorenzo Dee, Eng. Baden-Baden-by-the-Sea Calif. August 2, 1939 Professor Charles Green Brigham Young University Joseph Smith Building Provo Dear Professor Green, How on earth did you find me?

Ah yes, exactly what I wanted to read: a NINETEEN PAGE letter from Lorenzo to some professor at BYU.

I must admit I was shocked when you pointed out that September next will be the 50th anniversary of President Woodruff’s manifesto renouncing polygamy. It feels even longer ago—almost ancient in its distance from us today; and, at the same time, it feels like last night’s dream. My mother, I know, took great pride in the Church’s change of mind, perhaps too much.

It’s almost like she spent most of her adult life trying to heal from the abuse she suffered, and trying to convince the rest of the world that Mormonism is a cult, or something! How weird is that?!

The Walker House was known throughout the Territory as a Gentile den. The rumors about it included orgiastic gatherings in the parlor, a Satanic altar in a linen closet, and murderous rituals practiced in the root cellar. It’s laughable now, but such stories were told again and again in the Territory. No one questioned them. We believed every word.

Again, I think back to something stated earlier in this book: why don’t these people ever actually think logically about stuff like this? Like simply walk in and look in the bloody linen closet! Do you see any signs of Satanic altars? No? THEN YOU’RE SITTING ON A BED OF LIES!!

I remember Gilbert’s first words when he entered the suite: “This is all my fault.” I remember the tender woe in his voice.

We spent so much time with Ann describing her days being married to Brigham… Yet this is the first time that Gilbert has been mentioned since his own chapter. And it’s through Lorenzo’s recounting of his time spent in the non-Mormon hotel when he was 8.

Brigham sent, via an agent, an offer to my mother. This was a few days after we arrived at the Walker House. He must have realized she was determined to carry out as public a divorce as possible. He offered—I believe it was—$20,000, to, as they say, disappear.

Oh, you don’t have a few dollars to spare for her to get a new stove, but you suddenly have $20k for her to fuck off? I see where your priorities lie. You were content when she was nothing but a meek little woman.

Some matters were brought before the Church, others before the courts. Brigham chose to use the federal laws for his counterattack. The courts, of course, did not (and do not) recognize polygamy. Therefore my mother was not married to Brigham, never had been his wife, and hence had no valid claims to his property. (Do you ever consider, Professor Green, how the law can be both magnificent and idiotic?) In essence, he made legal claim that he had never married my mother.

If that’s his strategy, then she should file a federal counter-suit about how he’s been harassing her, and has emotionally scarred her and her children!

Remember this as you analyze her life and deeds.

Chapter 16 summary: As mentioned, this is a letter from Ann’s younger son, Lorenzo, to some scholar at BYU. Lorenzo is quick to dismiss “Professor Green” as wanting to twist his mother’s story into something that would suit the narrative the church now wanted to spin. However, he does actually answer the man’s letter, but also says that he was 8 at the time all of this happened. However, the narrative is overly long for no real reason, and Lorenzo will not stop going on about his recently dead wife, Rosemary, and the dolphins outside, which makes this even more tedious to read than usual. But the facts were these: after Brigham realises what Ann had done and was doing, he first tried to bribe her to “disappear”. Then when Ann filed legal charges against him, Brigham fired back with the federal case… Which is that the US government has never recognised plural marriage… Brigham and Ann were only married in the eyes of the Mormon church, ergo, she could not go after him through that way. Lorenzo brushes over most of the legal stuff, and I don’t know if we’ll ever actually see it. However, Ann quickly realised that her judge friend was basically only interested in this case to make a name for himself… Not to actually help her out. It wasn’t long after this started that Ann was offered what Lorenzo could only describe as an unknown but likely quite large sum of money to go around and talk about her experiences. After this offer, her new non-Mormon friends who were helping her were suddenly seeing dollar signs in their eyes. But first, they actually needed to leave the Utah area, which would be difficult since Brigham’s thumb was on everything, including a secret police. But they managed to get both Ann and Lorezno out, where they took the train into Wyoming. Lorenzo wraps up the letter by addressing one final thought, which is: what became of Ann, how did she die, and where is she buried? It’s something not even Lorenzo seems to know. The only thing he does know is that his mother’s spirit remains with him.

Hire me to fix your book! Copyediting, proofreading, developmental editing, sarcastic editing, and more! 16 years of book-editing experience. Message me anywhere for pricing and further details.

[awhhhflush]

The Beginning

Mob!Bucky x Reader, Steve Rogers

I'd recommend listening to this for this chapter!

Warnings (apply to the whole series): drugging, mafia/gang activity, criminal activity, age gap (reader is over the age of 18), arson, death, murder, coercion/peer pressure (non-sexual), manipulation/brainwashing, parental issues (a.k.a daddy issues), abuse of power.

Summary: When you're forced to move to a new town due to your father's "business trouble," you're likely to be left to fend for yourself, alone, and bored. You should probably try to make some friends.

Your head rests against the window pane of your father's leather adorned S-Class Mercedes Benz, thumping every now and again as he practically raced into the estate. You would have thought he'd take a more secluded approach, perhaps swaying away from using his shiniest car at 75 mph and buying the largest house on the street full in cash. You weren't complaining though. As the car slowed to a halt before the house, your eyes narrowed. This house was smaller than the previous ones - your father must be in serious "business trouble."

Your door opened with a click as you were met with the offer of Matthew's assistance. He was one of your father's favoured men when it came to your protection, but you both know he' hardly get through a staring contest, let alone a fight for your life. You stood, stretching after the 4 hour car drive from Leesville. Exhaustion from being cooped up in the back of the car for so long washed over you like a wave as Matthew lifted your luggage from the boot - one of the many benefits of having burly men working for your father was that you never had to put much effort into doing things for yourself, another being that they could arrange for the house to be fully furnished and cleaned before your arrival.

Your heels clicked against the polished white steps as you reached the front porch, stopping behind your father one of his men unlocked the door for you all. Your parents remained silent as the door was pushed open to reveal the interior of the house. Throughout the entirety of the car journey, your parents hardly spoke a word to one another too, let alone to you. Their love had a soft and strange unspoken nature, one in which many usually mistook for coldness, but your father had always been distant with you anyway. He had wanted a son, an heir to his throne, and as a woman, you could never be such a thing. By the time your mother had healed from your birth, she had grown too old to bear another child safely. Your father didn't detest you, but you knew you'd never live up to what he wanted, and the effect of that knowledge was just as harsh as the former.

As you peered over your parents' shoulders, your eyes widened. Despite the decrease in size compared to your last home, the house was actually gorgeous. The walls were painted a dusted cream, almost sun kissed in a way. The floors were light wood panelling, and the stair case twisted and curved to reach the second floor, which had walls painted a shade ever so slightly darker and warmer in tone than the walls down stairs. The pure and bright interior design was almost curious, considering your father's usual dark and sharp decoration requests. Catching a glimpse of your mother's faint smile told you that this time, the decorating was not per your father's desires, but hers instead. You father's eyes warmed in a way that did so only for his wife as he looked at her. See: unspoken. She needed not to thank him, because the quirk in her lip said enough. You smiled fondly as your eyes looked between your parents, a stab of jealousy rushing through your chest as you wondered where love like that could be found.

When your parents entered the house, you followed behind them eagerly, excited to see what your room would be like. Admittedly, it was a bit embarrassing for a girl of your age and wealth to be living with her parents still, but given your father's work situation, it would be too dangerous for you to live alone, unprotected. Turning to close the door behind you, you momentarily locked eyes with one of the most attractive men you had ever seen. Although he was relatively far away, his features were perfectly defined. His jaw was brushed with the faintest of stubble, his jawline sharp enough to cut open your finger if you dared to touch it. His eyes were a piercing shade of blue, stopping you in your tracks as your grip on the door handle faltered. As your mother called your name, you were snapped back to reality, turning once more to look at the man, leaning against his door frame, hands in his pockets and knitted sweater clinging to his muscles, before closing the door and making your way upstairs.

You hadn't noticed, in your flustered panic, the smirk that fell upon his lips and the darkness that settled in his eyes as he watched you retreat into the house.

[fire-of-the-sun]

Lotor: The Man Behind the Mask

AKA The Many Faces of Lotor and Which is His True Face?

To say that Prince Lotor is a multi-faceted character would be an understatement. Born into a life of tragedy, the many masks he comes to wear are borne of his circumstances to not only further his own agendas undetected but most notably to aid in his own self-preservation both physically and emotionally. A proverbial sword and shield to protect himself. These false faces allow him to do and say what’s necessary to keep himself alive to fight another day - a practice that’s unfortunately hard-wired into him from centuries of abuse. 

The character we're first introduced to is probably what the audience expected: an antagonist (albeit a more complex one than expected) that leaves the audience questioning his true motivations. An aspect that makes him more intriguing but also works against him with many fans using it as evidence to validate their worst perceptions of him. But, as we see more of Lotor throughout the series, we begin to explore the depths of him and uncover evidence to the contrary. 

So, which is his truest face?

THE MASSES

We don’t get to see Lotor interact with the masses many times in the show, but the most notable occurrences are his introductory scene in the arena and the Kral Zera - both occasions in which he presents himself as a powerful, capable warrior, a persuasive public speaker and a leader worthy of the Galra’s loyalty. 

In the first occasion, Lotor almost immediately undermines his previous show of good will towards the assembled Galra by confessing to his generals in private that “the masses are easily manipulated.” This statement would, understandably, leave audience members to believe Lotor is nothing more than a liar and manipulator as a key attribute used to define all of his subsequent actions. 

At first glance, this looks pretty damning. Alone, with people we can easily infer he’s closer to, he seemingly reveals that all the magnanimity of his previous words and actions were false and showcase to us a key element of his character to watch out for: an effortless duplicity that is utilized to hide more malicious intentions. At the time, it seems to scream to the audience: ‘don’t trust him’. However, as we learn on his journey, there is more to him that meets the eye, and this line should not be taken at face value. 

Before we take this as unwavering proof that he’s a villain and everything that follows should be looked at through the lens of presumed deceit, I think we have to consider the context and audience here. This line was in response to a stadium full of Galra warriors who dutifully and unquestioningly serve his father - someone he’s trying to stop. Swaying the minds of the Galra is a necessary step in his quest to ultimately improve their way of life but he also doesn’t think very highly of them. His regard of them is different than that he holds towards other people and cultures as we see later. I also believe he says this to benefit the generals, but I'll get to them later.

Unfortunately, we don’t get to see him spend time with the members of either of the peoples he looks after, but we do know that he deeply loved his time on the mining planet and there’s no doubt he cared for the Alteans just as much if not more as they were his own people. It’s also not hard to imagine that both groups of people appreciated him just as much. We don’t know how close he truly got to them, but it’s safe to surmise that Lotor is a person that respects others enough to treat them with equality, enjoy working beside them and genuinely wants to improve their lives. Though we later learn that he was ultimately lying to the Alteans, it’s clear that’s definitely not something he enjoys doing. 

Among the average civilian or disenfranchised person, we can infer Lotor is more than likely very cordial and respectable based on how he speaks of them and how they perceive him in return. Despite his status as a prince, he’s clearly not preoccupied with maintaining an air of authority among the common folk in any way meant to remind them of his status above them, even allowing himself to bond with people on such an equal level that Zarkon saw it as unfit for his station. 

Basically, though we know he has a turbulent relationship with the Galra as a whole, we can also see that he fights for the rights of other half-breeds such as himself and treats people in his care with respect and equality. 

ZARKON

As a child, Lotor had to present himself as the perfect prince in an attempt to earn Zarkon’s love, and it produced a facade he probably maintained most of his life despite it getting him nowhere. Of course, as a child desperately seeking their parent’s affection, this behavior - though tailored specifically to appeal to his father - wasn’t inherently disingenuous and it’s only later in life that he learns to use it as a weapon. 

Knowing that Lotor has tried to portray himself as respectable and eager to please thus far, his outburst of anger in retaliation of his father’s demands in 8x02 may have possibly been the first time he’d spoken out against him in such a way as, up to this point, Lotor still seemed to genuinely believe his father would listen to him and is surprised by his decision to destroy the planet. The mask finally slipped but, I might add, only in an attempt to help others. This speaks volumes about the kind of person he is and what his deepest motivations are as it shows he cares more about protecting the mining planet than he does for his own safety as he knowingly incurs the wrath of his violent father. Of course, upon realizing that his interjection would punish them too, he immediately tries to submit himself before Zarkon once more to keep them safe. 

Despite his efforts, Lotor unfortunately fails to protect the people and this tragic situation no doubt led him to reinforce the old facade of the obedient son who would never dare act out against his father again - a mask he uses to his advantage in 4x03. After their conversation, we see Lotor smirk suspiciously upon taking his leave, clueing to the audience that his behavior with Zarkon was entirely an act to keep his father from suspecting him of any wrongdoing. 

After Zarkon uncovers his ruse, Lotor’s submissive mask drops once more and, upon meeting again, Lotor no longer holds back from sharing every ounce of disdain he bears for his father before fighting him to the death. 

HAGGAR

Unlike his father, where he hides his emotions under a guise of respect and servility initially, Lotor shows no restraint in sharing his unbridled anger and contempt for his mother, Honerva. These feelings never waver, in fact, they only seem to intensify, punctuating a heated final confrontation where Lotor vehemently renounces her as an abomination that he will never accept as family. This distaste seems to have evolved over his life as her role to him changed. As a child, she was nothing more than his father’s witch and not someone he needed to please. Their relationship was never a good one so there’s no need to pretend otherwise.

I believe his anger towards her comes, not only from rebelling against the fact that his mother was essentially stolen from him by Haggar (which shatters his dreams of having a loving mother) but also her mistreatment of him throughout his life and even fundamentally disagreeing with and despising the kind of person she (and Zarkon) are: selfish, power-hungry and uncaring of the lives of others. He denounces them for their behavior because he knows it’s wrong and doesn’t wish to fall prey to it as well - which is a great indicator of the kind of person he is and what values he agrees with and doesn’t.

In a way, this is a true face to Lotor as well. His feelings of unfettered rage towards Honerva are not censored by any mask he’d wish to portray. There is no part to play here as there’s nothing that will keep him safe from her scrutinizing eyes on him at all times. Nothing to hide because there’s nothing to gain from it. So, instead, to keep her off his trail, he goes to great lengths to evade her detection through calculated action rather than any false pretenses. 

THE GENERALS

Though they’re the closest thing he has to friends for a time, I still don’t personally believe Lotor was close enough to his generals to reveal his true self (though he obviously reveals more to Axca as he trusts her the most). Overall, he still maintains an air of authority with them, seeking to portray himself as the calculating and confident leader clearly stationed above them though he still treats them with respect. Though it’s clear he cares for them, and they hold some degree of respect for him in return, he’s still very much their leader more than their friend. They may believe in him and his mission for a time, but they don’t follow him solely out of admiration and are willing to sell him out if it benefits them - which they do. 

They’re, for the most part, his loyal allies, but not anyone he’d confide in or show vulnerability with as demonstrated by his lack of explanation regarding his actions towards Narti and his refusal to share his full plans with them. They respect him for a lot of reasons but don’t entirely understand him or what he truly wants which is why they often seem perplexed by his decisions. With them I think he maintains, to a degree, how he would present himself to the general masses. He has to remain collected and in charge to preserve their loyalty to him and can’t sully that depiction with the perceived weakness that comes from showing vulnerability. 

Jumping off my earlier statement about the “masses are easily manipulated” line, it ties into the perpetuation of the persona he’s trying to evoke to them and which they whole heartedly support. He’s telling them what he thinks they want to hear. We also know he doesn’t tell them the full truth, so why should we believe this is somehow some deep reveal into the center of his character when we also know that he doesn’t showcase side of himself with them? It’s another piece of a persona, nothing more.

This mask was not created in an attempt to manipulate but in a desire to achieve and preserve some degree of companionship and loyalty from his generals. Lotor has no one but them and he can’t afford to lose their fealty, so he tries to keep it in the best way he knows how: by being a successful leader worthy of being followed. 

Bottom line, beyond Lotor’s genuine affection for his generals - which is very much an extension of the compassion he’s capable of - he does not show his true self with them. 

THE PALADINS

Lotor sustains his typical air of confidence upon meeting the paladins face to face in a continuous effort to portray himself as a worthy asset to them (not too dissimilar from his interactions with his generals). Though he shares vital intel with them to prove his loyalty to their shared goals for peace, he doesn’t go out of his way to ingratiate himself to them. He’s cordial and honest, as is generally his nature, but not afraid to share his opinions even if they’re opposing or adversarial. 

For example, in their first scene together Lotor has no trouble calling out Allura for voicing her discrimination towards his race and generally seems tired of waiting for the paladins to truly listen to his advice and start making real strides in the war. He's interested in action, not being liked. If he truly wanted to manipulate them, I imagine he would have been far more sycophantic to worm his way into their good graces - an act he’s familiar with due to his father whom he was trying to lie to. We know what a groveling Lotor looks like and this is not it. Of course, there's also no need to lie to them to get what he wants when they have the same goal. 

There’s frustration there between both parties at times and definite growing pains as he finds a place for himself in their group, but certainly not anger or resentment of any kind on his part. That being said, when the paladins do come to trust him and there’s no disagreements in their way, Lotor defaults to his natural state: dignified, helpful and amiable. I’m not sure how much affection Lotor truly manages to garner for the paladins by the end of their time together, but he does refer to them as ‘friends’ at one point and though that doesn’t mean they’re people he would necessarily pour his heart out to, I’d say they definitely count as favored allies that he’d support and protect just like anyone else he cares even remotely about. 

However, similar to his generals, whatever degree of fondness he may have developed for the paladins is still ultimately moderated to keep them at arm’s length though, I believe that given the proper time and trust, this could have changed.

ALLURA

With Allura, we see a new, softer side to Lotor. I could write an entire meta solely about their interactions and how they’re not manipulative, but I’ll be brief here. As I said with the paladins, there’s no real evidence to suggest Lotor was just saying and doing everything he did solely to appeal to Allura and ultimately seduce her to his side. Instead, what we see is both of them slowly and organically becoming more comfortable and trusting with each other, enough so that they begin to reveal deeper sides of themselves. Just as Allura is willing to share her insecurities with Lotor, he too divulges the innermost parts of himself that he doesn’t reveal to anyone else. 

If a mask is meant to hide the deepest parts of oneself, Lotor being so openly vulnerable, honest and trusting with Allura is enough to tell us that what he shares with her isn’t an act - he’s just finally comfortable enough to show his true face and the hidden parts of himself he hasn’t with anyone else. For a man who is all about survival and whom trust doesn’t come easy, this would be counterproductive and a potential liability he normally wouldn’t risk. So why does he risk it for her?

Relationships are built on trust and that takes time and true understanding to achieve. It takes a great deal of trust to reveal your true self to someone and Lotor simply isn’t at that level with the generals or paladins. He hasn’t really had anyone to share his true self with until Allura. He’s never met anyone else like her and their shared history and desires facilitates a swift journey from enemies to friends and even to something greater - an emergence of emotional vulnerability and affection that Lotor has never experienced before: love.

This is an aspect of his identity he’s no doubt unfamiliar with unfortunately or, perhaps, has never truly experienced before in his countless years of being whatever he had to be to survive. As we’re discovering this version of Lotor, he may also be discovering himself too. 

There’s so much I could say about their relationship and how it brings out the best in both of them, but I won’t go off on a tangent here. Needless to say, the reason Lotor feels so different in S5-6 is because interacting with Allura is finally giving us the opportunity to see new aspects of his identity that’s open and unguarded. He’s finally put down his sword and shield... which leaves him vulnerable to attack. 

QUINTESSENCE POISONING

I want to address this specifically in its own meta but, for now, I’ll say that I found this depiction of Lotor a betrayal of the character and purposefully over-exaggerated to compensate for and push a narrative the writers failed to achieve organically. Essentially, I believe they made him so villainous - so vile despite how out of character it feels - simply to validate this new agenda that he is and always was, in fact, that very villain and, if that was always their intention for the character, they did not succeed. 

Though we know that quintessence can corrupt and see that firsthand in how it turned his parents into beings acting without remorse and motivated purely by evil-intentions, even they have never been shown in such a negative and manic light, making Lotor look even more deleterious here by comparison which is an... interesting choice. 

That being said, the turbulent emotions presented here do stem from underlying trauma, namely the pain of being betrayed by the one person he trusted more than anyone. The one person he showed his true face to. The person he loved. Having his true feelings be rejected and touted as nothing but more lies and deception as someone who doesn’t share them idly would be beyond devastating. Now, having put down his shield for Allura, she’s struck at the very heart of him. The pain of it unleashes a tidal wave of emotion and, like a wounded, cornered animal, he lashes out. This creates a situation which we see a side of Lotor we haven’t before. One that, though borne of genuine emotional suffering, does not actually reflect who he truly is. 

Exacerbated by his exposure to the quintessence field and perhaps even that which already resides in his blood, Lotor reveals intentions of great evil - last minute motivations stemming from deeply rooted fears and insecurities that, unfortunately, are pulled to the surface here in the worst way possible but are not necessarily indicative of him having harbored and planned to enact these darker motives all along. Recoiling from the pain, it makes sense that his natural defense mechanism would be another mask - the ultimate mask.

If this was the true him, he would have truly fooled us all despite the extensive evidence to the contrary, as there is nothing to support his sudden dark desires here but plenty of prior evidence that refutes it despite the writer’s efforts to show otherwise. To say that all of this is the true, final reveal of who he is after all is insulting not only to the character but to fans.

ALONE

To best know who someone truly is, we have to look at who they are when they’re alone. A great example of this is when we see Lotor alone in 4x06 as he overhears a message that there is an on-going attack that will result in mass casualties. Lotor doesn’t hesitate to potentially sacrifice his hard-won freedom to head straight back into Galra territory to try and stop his mother’s heinous plans. This is yet another scenario that showcases that, at the end of the day, Lotor is a character who simply wants to help people no matter the cost to himself. 

We also see Lotor alone during his trial on Oriande where upon repeatedly being attacked by the White Lion, he understandably goes on the offensive and fights back to protect himself. After failing this test, Lotor is devastated. Rather than revealing any clues to potential villainy, this interaction instead simply shows that Lotor still has things to unlearn and is aware of that and capable of change. His anger here comes from his desperation and desires for self-preservation upon being attacked, not from a place of genuine malice. 

I think it’s also worth noting Lotor’s expressions when he’s in his cockpit throughout the show but especially during his fight with Allura right before his ‘turn’. No one else can see his face but the audience so there’s no one to appeal to. No act to put on. We can clearly see he’s upset and remorseful and it feels like a sudden reversal from his previous scene with the generals because it is - not because his pleading with Allura is an act - but because his talk with his generals was. They are understandably confused here because his recent speech to them would have them believe he didn’t truly care about Allura and was just using her the whole time. This display says otherwise.

To further emphasize this point, his words and expressions here are consistent with his attempts to appeal to Allura in 6x04. The fact that his interaction with her is the same - whether he’s alone or in public - also shows us that it’s genuine. He doesn’t hesitate to share his true feelings to her when he’s trying to defend himself, nor does he bar his words in front of the paladins and generals when he’s trying to talk her down later. They might as well be speaking in private because it wouldn’t change his reaction. He’s completely focused on her and unconcerned with his unencumbered feelings being on public display - something he’s never done before and obviously wouldn’t be comfortable with. All of this continues to prove that, when it comes to Allura, he is his authentic self and his feelings for her are indeed true. 

There may be more significant instances of seeing Lotor alone that I can’t recall, but, in summary, if Lotor was truly an evil, selfish person, we’d see hints of that most clearly in the instances where he has nothing to hide. 

CONCLUSION

So, what is Lotor’s true face then? 

As I’ve stated, Lotor is a man who has had to adopt different personas to survive, and we get to see the multi-faceted nature of his character on full display throughout the series depending on who he’s with and in what context. Regardless of some blunders in writing, overall, I think the show did a decent job portraying the different sides of him that would have logically emerged given his unique life and circumstances. 

Of course, seeing the ease and skill in which Lotor can slip on these masks would naturally leave audiences to continually question him and his true intentions. As the show reveals more and more of his true self however, the answer becomes increasingly clear that, despite the resulting duplicity of his nature, there is no evidence to support that he's anyone other than someone who wanted to do exactly what he said he did and whose goals are ultimately to help and protect others - a desire which was shown through his words and actions on multiple occasions. For all his faults, Lotor does have genuinely heroic traits despite being raised in an environment that didn’t cultivate them. A flower struggling to bloom in spite of the aridity of the soil in which he was born.

Despite the intended desire to hide his true self for his own protection, these fabricated facades do inadvertently reflect shades of his inner self too - a kernel of truth buried in each even as he has to transform to become what he thinks he needs to be to survive. By default, he tends to hide his true emotions underneath a facade of control and confidence - most notably seen in his interaction with the generals, the paladins initially and the masses (mostly Galrans). This portrayal of the proud and cunning man however is just a front to hide someone underneath who is more concerned with knowledge than power and protection rather than violence and it’s his bond with Allura that reveals the truest face of all: someone who is genuinely capable of kindness, vulnerability and even love. Given the right time and treatment, the inherent goodness in him could have been allowed to flourish and win and his true face could have been the last one we saw him with...

[davnittbraes]

I’m Here

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 8,546 and every single one of them is pure, unabashed self-indulgence

Warnings etc: reader is described as being in a long term previous relationship, smut (piv, unprotected, oral f!receiving), angst, fluff, description of disgustingly cliché meet-cute, established relationship, mentions of past abusive relationship, anxiety, big beefy cuddly dogs, light BDSM, breathplay, like HEAVY breathplay to some people, physical restraint, Dom/Sub dynamics, Soft!Dom Marcus, Sub!Reader, Praise kink out the wazoo

Notes aka Writer’s Plea For Mercy: This was supposed to be a ~200 word drabble, then I mentally vomited some paragraphs onto a page as part of my attempt at working through some life shit and here we are. GIF chosen because those GODDAMN HANDS STARTED THIS WHOLE THING.

You shut the lid of your laptop with a little more force than necessary - not enough to get IT pissed off at you, just enough to satisfy your urge to shove the memory of that three hour long meeting-that-could-have-been-an-email out of your mind for the rest of the night.

You definitely didn’t want to be thinking about work right now.

Because Marcus was coming over tonight.

Your handsome, sweet, caring boyfriend Marcus.

A silly, girlish grin steals over your expression before you can stop it.

You’d just went “official” with Marcus last week, after the two of you had talked about how amazing the last couple months had been. You’d met at a café - a stereotypical meet-cute that you were only a little embarrassed by, both for its eye-rolling cheesiness and your role in the entire thing.

You had been on the phone, negotiating a contract and had accidentally grabbed his coffee when it came up. He had chased you down, there was an awkward exchange and you’d apologized profusely. But you’d run into him a couple more times after that and eventually neither of you could ignore the mutual attraction. A few dates had gradually turned into spending most nights and days off together and eventually both of you had realized you had no interest in seeing anyone else right now.

So, now he was your boyfriend Marcus.

Your heartbeat does a little skipping series of flutters and you huff in amusement. It seems so silly, reacting this way at your age, but really, you’ve never felt this… light, before. Being with Marcus is so comfortable, so effortless.

So vastly different from your previous experience.

After twelve years of trying to make a toxic marriage work, you had finally seen it for what it was and filed for divorce. Now, two years later, ink dry on the divorce papers and several therapy sessions giving your step a little more confidence, you’re finding out what it means to be in a healthy relationship with someone, and you’re practically giddy with it, despite your efforts to stay level-headed.

Which is all well and good, but you know what’s best. You shouldn’t dive right into another serious romantic relationship, not after the last one. So you’re moving slowly with Marcus, keeping a little bit of yourself in reserve, just in case.

Including your… proclivities.

Your nose wrinkles in sudden self-awareness, idly sifting through your thoughts.

Marcus is a sweet guy. The definition of sweet. Tooth-rotting, saccharine-sweet. And so kind, and understanding, and supportive - he’s been your rock over the last couple months, making sure you don’t get too lost in your work, sending you silly cat memes throughout the day, patiently listening to your venting about your issues with work and family with genuine sympathy.

The exact opposite of your ex-husband, who was usually too wrapped up in his own shit to have any clue what was going on with you.

Marcus has been exactly what you need in your life right now. He’s happy to move slowly, too, having just got out of a cancelled engagement and a failed marriage before that. His own therapy sessions had taught him to find validation in himself and not others, allowing him to ease into relationships instead of immediately going all in. In fact, you had been seeing each other for three weeks before you had sex, even though you had definitely wanted to before then, and only held back on mutual agreement.

A little frisson of arousal wends its way through your core, remembering that night.

God, what a great night.

You’d been practically swimming in your panties after lusting after him for weeks, and fuck, did he ever make it up to you. There were still parts of that night that were blurry, you’d come so many times they all just ran together at one point. He was amazing, the perfect mix of attentive and confident, and of course, his signature sweetness had your heart squeezing tight in your chest.

Sitting back in your chair, you tap your fingertip against your laptop thoughtfully, your nails clicking on the plastic.

Yeah, the sex is great. Some of the best sex you’ve ever had in your life, actually. And you definitely don’t want to give that up. You don’t want to give Marcus up.

But.

There’s that little part of you, the part that you’ve shoved away deep down, never allowing it to see the light of day, hidden behind a queasy feeling of uncertainty. It’s a part that wants a little bit more, a little harder, a little rougher. A part that you’ve never shown anyone, for fear of ridicule.

Also for fear of how far you would let it take control.

But after your divorce, after realizing how much of yourself you had pushed aside for the sake of keeping your ex-husband happy, you had realized… maybe you wanted to see. Maybe you wanted to let that instinct take over, and see what it felt like, with a partner you could trust not to shy away from it.

And sweet, sugary Marcus?

Marcus, who presses soft kisses along your temple as he undresses you? Marcus, who holds you gently while he carefully pulls pleasure from your body? Marcus, who murmurs tender admirations into the crook of your neck as he slowly slides inside you?

There was no way he’d be into that. And you’re not willing to bring it up and risk scaring him away.

You’ve survived this long without giving that more… intense part of you any satisfaction. Maybe right now you need to focus on just being happy, and not worry about the future. You don’t need to give in to that darker side of you to enjoy sex, and you definitely don’t need it to be happy with someone.

And you are.

You’re happy.

That silly little grin curves your mouth again. You try to temper it with a healthy dose of easy, girl, taking it slow, remember? but you can’t help it when your phone buzzes and you see it’s a text from Marcus asking how your meeting went and saying he can’t wait to see you tonight.

Ok, so maybe a giggle even slips out.

But you’re happy.

Standing up with a purpose, you look around your office.

And why shouldn’t you be? You had worked hard to get here, almost a decade’s worth of toiling to prove yourself, shoving your way into your dream job and succeeding on pure determination and skill. With some sweet-talking to cover up the simultaneous arm-twisting, yesterday you had finally earned your spot in a role where you could make an actual difference.

Which was exactly why Marcus was coming over tonight. He wanted to celebrate your promotion by making you dinner, and even though you had protested at first, he’d won you over with a little sweet-talking and arm-twisting of his own.

He’d been getting better at that, talking you into letting him do things for you, but it was still weird to you. For pretty much your entire life and certainly your entire marriage, you had been extremely self-sufficient, independent to a fault. You never asked for help unless you truly needed it, and had exhausted all other options. You didn’t exactly hate people doing things for you, but you did feel a sort of guilty about it. The thought of putting someone out, making someone feel obligated to do things for you made your stomach turn.

But it was deeper than that, too.

The possibility of liking it when people do things for you, maybe even growing to need it, was terrifying.

Your life had been full of abandonments, let downs and disappointments. You had learned not to rely on anyone but yourself.

But sweet, kind Marcus, with his adorable dimpled grin and warm brown eyes and soothing voice…

Sighing in a manner that you refuse to label as “dreamy,” you head out of your office to the bathroom for a quick shower before Marcus arrives.

Sure, Marcus had wormed his way through the tiniest of cracks in your defenses. Which was fine, as long as you were aware of it. And, of course, made sure that’s all you allowed him.

 ***

A polite rap on your front door snaps your attention from the kitchen counter you’re wiping down, and you only have a split second to register the sound before all hell breaks loose.

Two hundred pounds of canine in the form of two bull-mastiffs tear through the house toward the front door, your shouted command to calm down lost amidst the scramble of large paws on the floor and deep, rumbling barks that echo throughout the entryway.

“Seriously guys, calm down.” You make your way to the door, weaving in-between the masses of brown fur and beefy muscle. “Fred, Ginger, hush, go on, get out of here.”

The dogs reluctantly obey, even if only enough for you to open the door.

Marcus.

Warm brown eyes and a dimpled smile fill your vision, and you pause for a moment to take in the sight of him, dressed in blue jeans and a dark red henley that does all kinds of wonderful things to his chest and arms.

Meeting his smile with one of your own, you lean a shoulder against the door-frame, feigning nonchalance while your heart flutters with excitement. “You know you can just come in, you don’t have to knock.”

His grin widens. “I like to give the welcoming committee a chance to feel important.”

As if on cue, the dogs squeeze past you and out the door, immediately swarming Marcus, tongues lolling through big grins and tails thwacking against his legs. You snort softly in amusement as he leans down to scratch them both behind the ears, one at a time since his other hand is holding a bag of groceries.

“Here, let me.” Stepping forward, you snag the handle of the bag from his fingers. “Better come in or they’ll have you trapped out here all night.”

He steps into your space, hand cupping your jaw and tilting your lips up for a kiss. It’s gentle and sweet, and so quintessentially Marcus - as is the mischievous twinkle in his gaze when he pulls away. “There are worse ways to spend my time.”

Your hands drift up his chest, feeling the warmth of him underneath his shirt. “Like this, you mean?”

His mouth curves in an answering smile as he pulls away to look at you, brown eyes warm with affection. “Not even close.”

“Such a charmer.” You press another quick kiss to that boyish smile before turning to step back inside.

His chuckle of amusement as the big dogs try to weave between his legs follows you through the house and into the kitchen.

Setting the bag down on the counter, you start parceling through the groceries, avoiding his gaze. “So what are we cooking?”

“‘We’ are cooking nothing. I am cooking dinner while you relax.” He slides closer to you, arm looping around your waist and tugging you gently away from the counter.

You hold your ground, planting your feet. “I can help. You don’t have to -“

His lips suddenly press to yours, soft but insistent, and you’re temporarily overwhelmed by the feeling of Marcus, warm and broad and steady, mouth moving oh-so-sweetly against yours as he chases the whimper that squeezes from your throat.

Suddenly he’s pulling away and your hands grasp at his shirt on instinct, tugging him back. Your eyelids drift open and you catch the smirk on his face, and realization clicks. “Distracting me won’t work.”

“I beg to differ.” His fingers curl around the nape of your neck, tilting your head back so he can trail his lips over your jaw, pausing to press a kiss just below your ear, and you stifle the sigh of pleasure that slips from your mouth.

The curl of his lips on your skin tells you he caught the sound anyway.

His hand on your waist slides up, thumb brushing the curve of your breast, but you resist the urge to arch into his touch. “If you keep this up neither of us will be cooking tonight.”

He huffs softly against your neck. “Fair enough.” Pulling back, he meets your gaze, playful smirk replaced with open earnestness. “Let me make dinner for you. Please.”

“I swear, you’re one second away from actually pouting.”

“If that’s what it takes to get you to sit down for once.”

You roll your eyes, smiling at his determination. “Fine. I won’t help with dinner. Compromise: I’ll get the dogs set for the evening while you cook.” He opens his mouth to protest but you keep talking. “That way we can just relax after dinner, maybe watch a movie?”

The slight narrowing of his eyes means he sees your diversion, but after a moment he relents, hands smoothing down your back as he shakes his head. “One of these days I’m going to convince you to let me take care of you like you deserve.”

A sharp twinge of guilt and shame stabs through your stomach, nauseating, and you shove it deep down as you step away from Marcus. “And one of these days I’m not going to cave to those puppy dog eyes of yours.”

His begrudging chuckle follows you as you head toward the patio door to let the dogs out, their heavy paws scuffling along behind you.

 ***

Dinner was delicious, the movie an old favourite that allowed the two of you to chat quietly about your day without missing anything. Marcus had tucked you into his side as soon as you’d sat down, his presence warm and steady through the night, his hand casually stroking the curve of your waist. Fred sprawled at your feet, snoring softly, and Ginger took her usual place when Marcus was over, curled up on the cushion next to him, big, heavy head lying in his lap as he scratched her favourite spot, the divot between her eyebrows.

It was a perfect night.

Except for the anxiety fluttering in your stomach.

Marcus had let you help clean up after dinner, at least. But you still felt bad - he didn’t have to cook. You liked cooking, and you really liked cooking for other people. It felt good to take care of others. You’d done it your whole life, it was a well-practiced habit, one you felt comfortable doing.

The anxiety is still buzzing under your skin as you get ready for bed, pulling on a pair of sleep shorts and a loose tank top, then a chime from your phone catches your attention. Skimming through the long list of notifications, the last one catches your eye, and you open the related email.

“Are you kidding me?” You grumble at the phone screen, thumbs already typing out a reply.

Marcus walks into the bedroom carrying the bag he uses for overnight stays at your house, pausing as he takes in the expression on your face. “Everything ok?”

You sigh, quickly flipping over to your calendar on your phone. “This supplier is saying they can’t fulfill our last order, so they’re canceling it. He wants to book a meeting to discuss, I’m going to have to pull up his contract and - shit.”

The block of time the supplier proposed shows out of office in your calendar. Vet Appt.

“What’s up? Anything I can do?” Marcus sidles closer, furrow forming between his brows.

You groan in frustration. “The dogs have a vet appointment for vaccine booster shots at the same time the supplier wants to meet. And apparently that’s the only time he’s available, he’s traveling the rest of the day.”

Marcus shrugs one shoulder nonchalantly. “I can take the dogs. They’re pretty comfortable with me.”

“No, it’s fine.” You start typing out a reply to the supplier asking that he free up his schedule more to resolve this issue, gaze focused on your phone screen.

“I really don’t mind. I’ve got a light day tomorrow, just paperwork to close up a case.”

Your thumbs fly too fast over the keyboard and you have to backspace to correct a typo. “It’s fine, I’ll handle it.”

“Hey. Let me help.”

His voice is quiet and polite but it snaps through the tension you’ve been holding on to all night, and it pours out of you, clipping your words sharply. “I said it’s fine.”

You growl as you make another typo, throwing your phone on the bed in frustration. Marcus watches you, something unreadable in his expression, and for some reason that just irritates you further.

Crossing our arms in front of you, you give him a leveling look. “You knew what my work was like when we started dating. These things happen, and it’s my responsibility to figure out how to make it all work.”

His eyebrows flick up, obviously taken back by your tone. “I know. I’m just saying I can help.”

“I don’t need your help, Marcus!” Inwardly, you cringe at the volume of your voice. It’s too much, too different from his gentle cadence. A little voice whispers that you’re being unfair, lashing out at him, but you can’t stop yourself. “I’ve handled everything in my life just fine up until now, and I can handle everything moving forward.”

The furrow between his brows is back and he shakes his head once. “I know that. There has never been a single moment of doubt in my mind that you can’t handle anything that’s thrown at you.”

His soft tone of admiration is jarring, a clear contrast to your sharp, heated words that throws you off balance, and you can only look at him in silence as your thoughts race to find footing again.

He watches you for a moment, that warm gaze contemplative. “You are the most capable person I’ve ever met. To deal with everything that’s on your plate and still have the capacity to care as much as you do - it’s incredible. You’re incredible.”

He pauses, a faint flush pinking his cheekbones. “I’m… I’m in awe of you. I know that sounds cheesy but I really can’t think of any other word for it. So please believe me when I say I didn’t offer to help because I don’t think you can do it yourself. I know you can handle everything. I guess I… I hope you know that you don’t have to. You can lean on me, if you want. I’m here.”

I’m here.

Two words, softly spoken, land on your skin with the delicacy of a butterfly.

And send a shockwave through your entire system.

I’m here.

You know it’s true. From the moment you met him, he has been. His presence has been a constant, even when he’s not physically with you, whether it’s a warm smile as you tell him about your day or a quick text message saying he can’t wait to see you tonight. He’s here, supporting you, making you feel special, making sure that you’re taking care of yourself.

I’m here.

Never once has he given you reason to doubt the truth of those two words.

Even now, as you childishly take your frustrations out on him.

Even as you hold him at a distance that keeps him safely outside of your carefully constructed walls. The walls you built after too many people had hurt what’s inside, used you until there was nothing left, took what they needed with no regard for what little they were leaving you with.

Marcus never takes from you.

Marcus only gives.

Something cracks inside you, and a flood of emotion catches in your throat, brings tears to your eyes. He sees it, concern twisting his expression, hands lifting to reach for you before they pause, unsure of if you want him or not.

And oh god that hurts, the thought that he doesn’t know, doesn’t know how you feel about him.

How you feel right now.

Three quick steps and you’re on him, hands cupping his face to draw his mouth to yours. His startled sound gets lost in your kiss and his arms come around you, steadying, as the two of you sway with your momentum.

It feels so good and perfect and he feels so good and perfect and you press yourself tighter to him, some wild instinct trying to mould your body into his, needing to be as close to him as possible. Needing to show him that you don’t want to push him away, despite what you might say, that you want him right here with you.

An instinct that almost instantly flares into arousal, heat sparking down your body to settle between your thighs. Your hips move with it, seeking friction, seeking more of him, pressing into his.

He groans, low and rumbling, sliding a hand up your back to curl around your neck and tilt your head further back, giving him better access to delve into your mouth, pulling a keening whine from you and taking it into himself.

His hand shifts and his thumb suddenly rests over your racing pulse and your thoughts are flooded with something, a thick haze that erases all logical thought, allowing that instinct you’d felt a moment ago free reign to lock onto your awareness.

Panic floods your thoughts and you shove it away, recognition flickering with anxiety.

It’s that instinct, that part of you that you’ve pushed away for so long, afraid of what it meant.

The part of you that wants to let someone else be in control for once.

Then his thumb gently brushes over the throb off your pulse, soothing, while his long fingers hold your head firmly, and you don’t want to resist anymore.

It takes barely a thought and the thick haze swarms over your awareness in full.

Everything else fades away and you can feel only him, his palm on the curve of your lower back, strong and steady. His broad chest pressed against yours, warm, solid. His mouth expertly pulling pleasure from your lips and tongue, stoking the heat of arousal in your core.

His long, thick fingers curled around your neck, holding your very heartbeat in his hand.

Him him him Marcus -

You want this. You want to feel this, only him.

It takes a couple tries to get your body to obey, to pull back from him enough to speak. “Marcus.” Your voice is high and wavering in the air between you. “I-I need…”

Too many words, too many things you could say next but can’t, your tongue frozen to the roof of your mouth.

Your gaze lifts to meet his just as some kind of understanding flashes across his expression.

Those warm brown irises grow darker, almost black, bottomless.

He sees you.

And you should be terrified of being so exposed, but all you can think about is how much you want him to know all of you.

He tilts his head a little, watching you closely as his thumb presses ever-so-lightly over your pulse, his breath catching when your eyes widen and your hands clutch at his shoulders, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. “What do you need, beautiful?”

He knows.

You can hear it in his voice, see it swirling in those deep brown eyes.

The last frisson of logical thought left in your mind tries to panic.

But the haze on your thoughts doesn’t care.

“Don’t hold anything back.” You lean into his grip, pressing his thumb even tighter to your pulse, heart skittering against it.

His warm baritone drops even lower, rasping down your spine, holding a note of something you haven’t heard in his voice before.

“Do you know what you’re asking for?”

Something that calls to the thick haze that’s settled over you, something that tells you even if you don’t know the answer to that question, he does.

A moment of stillness, just his gaze watching you, just your heartbeat pounding in your ears and against his grip.

You swallow hard, throat flexing under his hand. “Show me.”

He looks at you for a long moment, searching your features for any sign of hesitation, brown eyes meeting yours once more to read the certainty there.

Then he moves.

It’s lightening-fast.

One moment you’re standing and the next you’re face down on the bed, his hands on your waist, pressing you firmly into the mattress.

The air leaves your lungs in a rush and your fingers claw at the blanket, trying to ground yourself, a dizzying wave of arousal coursing through your body.

“You want me to show you, huh?” Marcus leans over to murmur into your ear, making sure you hear his every word, trailing his fingers down your back as he speaks. “You want me to show you what I’ve been thinking about since I first saw you? Standing in line at the café, listening to you talking on the phone, so focused, so confident, insistent on getting what you wanted. God, it was so fucking sexy. Then you turn around and this perfect ass -” his hand suddenly squeezes the plush flesh, fingertips digging, sending little stabs of pleasure-pain straight to your core. “- is right there in front of me, and all I could think about was how it would look bouncing on my cock.”

Fuck.

The dampness between your thighs grows, a warmth that makes the cloth of your underwear stick to your folds.

Your thoughts move sluggishly, words trying to make sense of instinct. “Please, Marcus.”

“Please what, baby?” His voice is gentle, coaxing, even as his hand on your ass grips tighter, tiny pinpricks of pain making you squirm.

Frustration worms its way through the haze. “I-I don’t know.”

“Beautiful girl, doesn’t know what she needs but knows she needs it.” He shushes you softly, relaxing his grip and smoothing his hand over the stinging bruises. “You said you want me to show you, and I can do that. I can show you what you need. But you have to do something for me, ok?”

He presses a tender kiss to your temple, gently tilting your chin up over your shoulder so he can meet your gaze fully. “I need you to use your words, especially if it ever gets to be too much. I know it might be difficult in the moment, but you’re so strong, sweetheart, I know you can focus enough to tell me to stop if you want me to, at any time and for any reason. Can you do that for me?”

You swallow against a dry throat, push the word out. “Yes.”

He smiles, eyes dark and full lips curling. “Good girl.”

The praise shoots through the haze and that primal instinct inside you preens, making you whimper at the fresh wave of arousal, back arching your hips higher as your fingers curl into the sheets.

His smile grows, eyebrow quirked. “Oh, did she like that? When I called her a good girl?”

You huff against the mattress, thighs squeezing together as your core throbs. Oh god why was that so hot? Him talking to you in the third person? “Yes, I like it.”

Out of the corner of your eye you watch his gaze track the movement and then he shifts down the bed, out of sight again. “Are you wet for me, baby?”

“Mmmph.” Your hips lift off the bed instinctively, body trying to supplement where your voice can’t.

“Use your words.”

Oh fuck -

The soft note of command in his voice makes the haze of your thoughts pulses and words burst free, fall gasping from your lips. “Yes, oh god I’m so fucking wet for you, please Marcus -”

He growls - growls - and suddenly his hands are tearing your shorts and underwear off and the sting of the fabric scraping down your legs with the harshness of the movement only amplifies that primal instinct to feel more.

Then his hands are lifting your hips and pushing your legs so you’re kneeling on the bed, his movements just as sharp and fast as before, and you’re gasping into the sheets at the feeling of the cool air swirling over your wet cunt.

He hums behind you. “Mmm, look at you, all spread out for me.”

Those big, warm hands cup your curves, steady on the sensitive skin where your ass meets your thighs, and he clicks his tongue in mock sympathy. “Poor girl, beautiful pussy is so fucking wet you’re dripping.”

His thumbs glide up to press and pull you completely open, and you keen, senses overwhelmed, vulnerable. He chuckles softly and you feel your inner walls flutter at the knowledge that he’s enjoying this, just watching you like this. “Look at you, clenching on nothing. Need something to fill you up, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh.” Fuck, you can’t even talk, you’re so turned on, you’ve never felt so much before.

“Shh, it’s ok, I’ve got you. I’ll fill you up, nice and full, but I’m going to taste you first.”

Before his words can even sink through the haze of your thoughts his tongue is laving over your entrance and your hips twitch with a wave of pleasure, the hot wet muscle gathering the slick that’s formed there and flicking inside for just a second before disappearing, leaving you panting.

You hear him swallow and moan at your taste, and oh god that’s hot.

His tongue glides down to your clit, swirling lightly, over and over at a pace that instantly steals the breath from your lungs.

Pleasure builds, your core clenching, back arching as your body begs for more, and he moans into your cunt, open-mouthed and breathy, and the feeling of warmth ghosting over your slick folds makes you writhe on the bed, shuddering cry muffled against the sheets.

Over and over his tongue works your clit, pulling it into the wet heat of his mouth and flicking tight circles as he suckles, drawing your pleasure higher and higher.

Then his arms are curling around your thighs to hold you in place and his tongue is rolling against your clit and his nose is brushing against your entrance and your orgasm is right there, blindsiding you, yanking you closer and closer to the peak as his tongue presses over your clit and flicks hard and you’re crying out wordlessly as you fall -

His hands grip you hard as your hips flex, the deep groan rumbling from his chest vibrating against your pussy and shoving another wave of pleasure through your body.

You whimper and claw at the sheets until finally it releases you, leaving your limbs quivering, your cheek limply pressed to the mattress.

There’s one brief moment, one breath to fill your lungs, for the world to start to reassemble around you and then he’s shoving his cock into your still-fluttering cunt, straight to the hilt.

The force of his thrust threatens to push you across the bed but his hands grab your waist firmly as he pulls out, only to immediately shove forward again, driving his cock deep. A strangled shout stutters from your throat, lips mouthing at the sheets.

He holds your waist with one hand while the other slides under your tank top, up your back and down again, caressing the curve of your hip. “Fuck, you look so good like this. Does it feel good, beautiful?”

You almost choke on your own words as he thrusts into you again, the zipper of his jeans - fuck, he’s still fully clothed - biting into the sensitive skin of your ass. “Y-yes.”

“Do you like it when I fuck you like this? Bend you over and fuck your pussy as hard as I want?”

The haze of your thoughts throbs as he takes up a rhythm that has the edges of your vision going dark. The entire world narrows down to just the feeling of him inside you and around you, the sting of his thrusts against your ass and thighs, the not-quite bruising grip of his hands on your waist, the blinding pleasure radiating from his cock as it glides over some spot deep inside you again and again -

Then suddenly he stops.

Your entire body shudders hard, cunt clenching around his cock, begging for friction. You whine into the sheets, a garbled questioning sound, your thoughts reeling at the shift.

His hands smooth down your back, soothing, voice firm. “Answer me, baby. Do you like it when I fuck you like this?”

That instinct, the haze that forces your focus to only Marcus, seems to speak for you, pushing words from your mouth, rough with need. “Yes I love it please fuck me like you want to -”

He groans, picking up his brutal rhythm. “Good girl, such a good girl for me.”

And then your words are lost again, all senses blinded by pleasure.

His cock drives through your core and every thrust feels like he’s punching into your fucking soul and then his hands are pressing down on your shoulderblades, forcing your back to arch even more, tipping your hips at a sharp angle and the head of his cock hits that spot inside you and you’re coming again -

And again and again and again -

You don’t stop you can’t stop it’s just wave after wave before one let’s go another begins and -

He picks up the pace with one-two-three quick, deep thrusts and pleasure explodes across your vision, white noise flooding your ears, inner walls pulsing around his cock over and over and your lungs scream for air.

A split second, a flash of time, you hang there then you drop and your awareness falls back into your body.

You’re moving slowly, his hands guiding you onto your side as your limbs continue trembling with aftershocks.

He slides behind you, warm and steady along the length of your frame, one arm curling underneath your shoulders to pull you close and the other tucking you into the curve of his body, his hand splayed just under your collarbone.

Your body obeys the silent command, drawing a deep and shuddering breath, gasping and choking like you had stopped breathing for ages.

The white noise ebbs and you hear his voice, quiet and unfaltering, right next to your ear.

“Breathe for me, sweetheart, nice and slow, just breathe and relax.”

The haze of your thoughts follows his instruction, focusing on expanding and retracting your lungs, bringing your heartbeat down to a reasonable pace. His hands never leave you, one resting over the centre of your chest, while the other strokes your temple, his arm cradling your head.

Finally your limbs relax, fingers uncurling from where they’ve fisted in the blankets so hard they hurt. You focus on feeling him behind you, the softness of his shirt against your bare shoulders, the rough denim of his jeans against the back of your thighs, the faint, steady warmth of his breath on the curve of your neck.

He presses a soft kiss to your temple. “Are you with me?”

“Yes?” The word falls from your lips, rough and strained.

“Good girl.” The soft chuckle makes you smile, belatedly hearing the uncertainty in your own voice. His hand suddenly leaves your chest and cups your pussy, making you start, the heat of his palm a shock to your oversensitive flesh. “I think you need to come like that again, hmm?”

Your sluggish thoughts register that he’s asking a question. “Can I?”

“Are you asking if it’s possible? Or asking for permission?” He rises up on an elbow to look down at you, keeping your head nestled on his forearm, his dark gaze a hypnotic mixture of amusement and lust. “Because the answer to either question is ‘yes.’”

Your whimper is caught by his mouth, his lips coaxing yours open to slip his tongue inside. The taste of him floods your senses and your entire body arches toward him, needing to feel him.

He groans at your movement, hand between your thighs gliding up your body to curl around your neck, leaning slightly on his forearm, pressing your chest down just enough to prevent you from moving.

The sensation is overwhelming, a shiver runs down your spine and your breath stutters against his lips.

He pulls back just a bit to look down at you again. “You need this, pretty girl? Feeling me on you, my hand on your throat like this?”

His hand on your neck squeezes once, a barely-there movement, and a white-hot thrill shoots through your body, throbs in your core. “Y-yes I like it.”

“Hmm, I think it’s more than that.” He whispers as he trails kisses down your jaw. “I’ve seen it, sometimes, when I’m fucking you just a little rougher, something in your eyes that begs for more.”

His tongue laps at the skin of your throat right over your fluttering pulse. “A part of you that needs this.”

The hand squeezes again, for longer this time, and for a moment you can’t breathe, can’t move, frozen, and then he loosens his grip and oxygen is rushing through your system with a flurry of endorphins and cortisol as your fight or flight instinct flares into action, tensing every muscle.

But Marcus is right there, long fingers moving in soothing strokes up and down your neck, lips pressing tender kisses over the bridge of your nose and cheekbones.

Endorphins win out, sweeping you away into the warmth and security that he’s layering on your body with his gentle touches. Your hands clutch at his arm, holding tight, your breath coming in quick pants that almost sound like whimpers to your own ears.

His voice is soft, gentling yet direct. “Open your eyes.”

Your eyes are shut tight and it takes effort to open them, the haze on your thoughts delaying any communication with your body. But you want to obey, to be good for him, so you slowly open your eyes, meeting his gaze above you.

Something like awe forms on his features, an open amazement, as his hand strokes up to cup your jaw, fingertip brushing along the corner of your eye. “God, look at you. Absolutely perfect. Just… lovely.”

He dips down to kiss your forehead gently, runs his nose down along yours, his words brushing over your parted lips. “My lovely one.”

Something twists in your chest, turning and turning until it’s knotted around your heart and it hurts but it feels so good at the same time. A broken cry is pushed from your chest, sounding something like his name and a curse and a plea all at the same time.

His lips meet yours briefly, a reassuring kiss followed by a soft susurration, his hand returning to your neck, a comforting weight. “Tell me what you need, lovely one.”

Tell me what you need.

What do you need?

The haze of your thoughts narrows, sharpens for just one moment.

And you know.

You know what you need.

What he’s been trying to show you.

It’s this.

This state of hyper-awareness that allows you only to feel, all logical thought locked away behind a fog of pleasure.

There’s nothing else here, no problems to solve, no one who needs you to care for them, no one here to take from you.

It’s just you and him - Marcus, the shield protecting you from everything, the guiding hand showing you how to achieve perfect bliss, how to find pleasure in only receiving.

Marcus, who now holds your life in his hand with a tenderness that speaks to how aware he is of this responsibility, and that sincere, open gaze that tells you he will never break your trust.

Slowly, but with no hesitation, you curl your fingers around his wrist, pressing his hand tighter to your throat. “You. I need you, like this.”

He leans down to rest his forehead against yours, taking a moment to simply share your breath before kissing you oh-so-softly. “Good girl. My beautiful, smart, strong girl. You have me.”

Your heart throbs and your eyes sting with emotions you’re not ready to name.

He shifts, hand on your neck moving to grasp your thigh and lift up, baring your cunt to the cool air of the room. Your breath hitches in anticipation as he lines up, the head of his cock brushing along your soaked folds, catching on your entrance, then he’s pushing in, a slow, relentless movement that instantly has your legs trembling.

It’s a moment that seems to stretch forever, your entire body strung tight, focus centred on the split of your inner walls around his cock. And the whole time he’s watching you, those burning-dark eyes just inches from yours, gaze flickering over your features, noting every pull and crease and twitch as your expression shifts to one of pure need.

Finally his hips are flush with your ass and he pulls you back a bit more so your weight rests on him, your head tucked into the curve of his arm, his hand on your thigh gliding up until your knee is hooked over his elbow. You squirm helplessly, stretched open and pinned in place, stuffed full of his cock.

The need to move claws at your skin, threatens to bring tears to your eyes, so you squeeze them shut to stop it. Your thoughts are spiraling, frazzled, near panic, and you don’t know why, the sensation of being pulled open and vulnerable overwhelming and you can’t -

Then his hand glides up your chest, fingers brushing the curve of your breast over your tank top, the motion pulling your knee even higher until his fingers curl around your throat and there that’s it yes -

The weight of his hand, warmth of his palm on your racing pulse, smooth calluses on his fingertips along the sides of your neck.

It anchors your thoughts again, pulls you back into place, and the haze settles, firmly shutting out any anxiety.

Your eyes drift open, meeting his gaze. He’s still watching you, assessing, as if he knows what just happened inside your own mind, as if he can see the moment you let the haze take over once more.

His mouth curves into a gentle smile, full lips pursing slightly. “That’s it, keep your eyes open. I want to watch you feel this. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes.” The haze speaks for you again, firm and confident.

His thumb strokes over your pulse. “Good girl.”

He moans softly at the subsequent pulse of your cunt around his cock, a thrill of pleasure coursing through your core at his praise.

Then he starts to fuck you.

It’s an unending series of long thrusts that drive deep, with a snap of his hips that punches up into you, setting every nerve in your body afire, shoving little whimpers from your lungs and sending starbursts across your vision as the slick glide of his cock spreads your cunt deliciously.

Words fall from your lips among the choked sounds. “Oh god - I - so good - don’t stop please - don’t -“

“I’m not stopping until you come. Wanna feel you flood my cock.”

He pants above you, voice rough with the effort of his movements and his own pleasure, and that instinct inside your thoughts preens, knowing you are the reason.

It spurs on your own pleasure, climax rising quickly, and your hands fly for purchase, one gripping the forearm of the hand on your throat and the other reaching up to find his free hand. He grasps your fingers, twining them with his own, holding your joined hands just over your shoulder.

A jagged moan rips through your chest - the contrast is devastating, this tender embrace and the soft open-mouthed kisses along your cheek as he fucks you roughly, cock spearing hard and deep and hitting that spot every time, pushing your pleasure up and up and the hand on your throat tightens just a bit, pressing just so along the sides of your neck and your vision blurs until all you can see is those dark eyes that see all of you.

His words float through the haze. “You’re gonna come so hard, I can feel it, can see it. You’re gonna come like this, spread open on my cock, pinned down with my hand on your throat, and you’re gonna love it, aren’t you? Come for me, my beautiful, perfect girl.”

Your orgasm crest, sparking all along your skin and tensing in your muscles and you’re suddenly untethered, floating in that haze, needing an anchor to pull you back and keep you safe and you call out -

“Marcus - “

He doesn’t let up, fingers flexing just a little harder on your throat, cock splitting you over and over as his words sink deep into your soul. “Let go, lovely one. I’ve got you.”

His grip on your throat slackens and oxygen floods your lungs and -

You come.

Hard.

Harder than you’ve ever come in your entire life.

Every muscle seizes, ripples, spasms, your heartbeat rushes in your ears, and for a moment you can almost hear his, his pulse, throbbing against your neck through his hand and against your inner walls through his cock. Your awareness flares and envelopes him until all that exists and has ever existed is just him and you, singular and eternal.

Then the release snaps you back into your body.

Marcus shudders, corners of his eyes tight with concentration, thrusts faltering as your pussy throbs around his cock, squelch of it filling the air. “Fuck, so good, so fucking tight -“

You want him, all of him, need all of him.

“Marcus please -“ your fingernails scrape along his skin as you try to tug him impossibly closer, words lost in your own pleasure spiraling upward again.

Something almost possessive crosses his features, gaze growing somehow darker, and he leans over you, hand shifting to cup the back of your neck and tilt your face up to look at him as he drags his cock in and out. “Want me to come inside you, pretty girl? Fuck, you know how much I love that? Filling you up, watching me drip out of you?”

Your fingers curve around his shoulder, looking up at him with as much sincerity as you can muster, voice wavering as he pulls out only to push back in with a snap of his hips. “I love it, too, please, I need it, need you -“

“Oh, fuck, yes you do, don’t you?” A shiver runs along his shoulders and he drops his forehead to yours, dark gaze completely filling your vision. “Come with me and I’ll come inside you, lovely one.”

The haze of your thoughts ripples, throbs, exalts.

You lift a hand to his face, cupping his cheek, holding him right there with you, his breath and his sounds of pleasure mingling with yours as they grow louder and faster, rising with your orgasms until yours breaks, cunt clutching and gushing around him and he cries out, thrusting home once-twice more before burying himself deep. All you can do is hold on tight, fingernails digging into his skin, riding the wave of your pleasure with him, that primal instinct shouting with joy as the warmth of his spend floods your core.

There’s a moment of calm as your heartbeats sync and your breathing starts to regulate, and you look at him, emotions too deep and weighty to name filling your thoughts, amplified by the haze that still envelopes them.

He looks back at you, those same emotions reflected in that dark, beautiful gaze.

For a moment it’s just the two of you, in the entire universe, a moment too big to fit in the space between you and yet somehow it does, squeezing into those cracks in your walls and curling around that part of you that’s been hiding for so long.

Then he’s moving, carefully pulling out of you, shushing your soft whine at the sudden emptiness with a kiss.

For a brief moment you panic, overwhelmed with the need to be close to him and your arms wrap tight around his shoulders, drawing him back.

He huffs gently into the curve of your neck. “I’m just going to grab something to clean you up.”

You make a wordless sound of protest, pulling him back down to you, and he follows, turning to roll onto his back, an arm curving around your waist to tug you into his chest. Gratefully, you tuck your head under his chin, curling your limbs around him as tightly as possible, pillowing against his broad chest.

His heartbeat thrums under your ear, keeping time with the smooth strokes of his hand up and down your back, the small circles of his other hand on your shoulder, fingers brushing your neck occasionally.

It’s safe and warm and… like home.

The haze of your thoughts flutters, starting to dissipate. Not yet, don’t go yet, I don’t want to go back to… to…

The tears that have been hovering behind your eyes since the moment Marcus laid his hand on your neck finally catch hold, pooling behind your closed eyelids. You try to swallow them back down but it’s useless, you’re still too open, too raw.

Two teardrops fall onto his chest just as you fail to hold back the sob that’s burning in your throat and his hands pause their circling path.

“Hey? You okay?” His voice is so soft, murmuring against your hair.

You try to answer but only a whimper comes out, more tears squeezing onto his skin.

His arms pull you in tighter, lips pressing kisses to the top of your head. “Talk to me, baby. What’s wrong?”

The sob finally breaks free, and you turn your face into his chest as if you could hide from it, wrestling your voice under control. “Nothing, I’m fine, it’s just -“ you sniff back another onslaught of tears, the haze of your thoughts making all these emotions seem so much bigger, so much more.

Then his hand is cupping your face, gently shifting you to look at him, and there he is, those beautiful brown eyes warm with concern, with care, for you. “It’s ok, just breathe for a minute, all right? Focus on me. I’m here.”

I’m here.

Those words again.

You meet his gaze, letting yourself fall into it, into the feel of his hands holding you steadily. Your body moves to obey him, lungs filling, shifting into a calm rhythm as you focus on the one thing anchoring your thoughts, guiding you back to yourself.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Marcus.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Marcus.

Slowly, the haze begins to pull away, the last of it evaporating with the sweep of his thumbs brushing away the tears from your cheeks and the caress of his fingertips along your jaw.

A smile suddenly breaks through your tears, and it feels like the sun itself is warming the inside your chest. “You are, aren’t you?”

His brows pull together slightly, a little crease of confusion forming between them. “I’m what?”

Your hand cups his to your face as you turn to plant a gentle kiss to his palm, your eyes steady on his. “You’re here.”

Understanding flashes across his face, and he smiles in return. “Always, lovely one.”

*****

Next: Affirmations

[lixxen]

Actually, I really want to talk about this because people on Tiktok don't understand why Adrien is upset.

(Most will be under the cut to not clog feed)

I think people genuinely forget that Émilie has only been gone for a few years. She went missing a bit before Hawkmoth appeared and we have been told that Gabriel was a good dad before his wife died. Gabriel only became"Hawkmoth" because his wife had been taken away from him and he was searching for the Black Cat and Ladybug miraculous.

Gabriel throughout the series earlier seasons had been painted as an overprotective and cold father and we slowly get to see that it comes from his need to keep Adrien from the rest of the world. Adrien is all he had left of Émilie. We see the very basic controling parent habits exaggerated through the eyes of a young teenager who had never experienced it before.

Controlling things in your life is a very simple way of coping and protecting yourself after dealing with loss of someone you love that was out of your control. If your parents die in some freak accident, you're likely to not go near whatever it is and let your kids be near whatever it is. Gabriel is doing the exact same thing.

Now, for Adrien, he loved his parents a lot. We get to see him talk in loving light about both of his parents and the good memories with them. He isn't angry towards Gabriel most of the time because he's sad and upset over the controlling changes. He gets to see his dad grieve his mom in the way of shutting everyone out and throw himself into work. He clearly doesn't blame his dad, but as everything progresses he just gives up.

Adrien still loves his dad. He clearly on some level understands his dad because he never genuinely talks bad about his dad. We know he cares a lot and doesn't see him as some evil person like everyone does. People who are abused by their parents don't always hate them. People who are abused by their parents who were once in their right mind and showed them nothing but love hold onto the old them. They know the love for them is still there, but there's something wrong.

Different people take trauma and abuse differently depending on the situation, of course. It is logical to jump to Adrien hating his dad because of how controlling he is and how he treats Adrien; but people who have never been abused in the way/similar ways that Adrien was will never understand the feeling of losing your parent to something and remember the ghost of them that appears in small interactions. Chalking Gabriel up to some heartless asshole in the earlier seasons, in all honesty, is more horrible and tasteless because that is a grieving man who is holding onto the only person left who he genuinely loved and is the only thing he has left of his dead wife.

As Gabriel gets worse and loses himself to the madness, that's when you can criticize him. He slowly is losing himself to the anger and desperation of not being able to save his wife. People will go to extremes for people they love and will hurt everyone else around them who they love. He quite literally is being corrupted by it all and becomes a horrible person.

Later season Gabriel, especially when he genuinely starts to be horrible to Adrien and with all of the timeline shit, is who I will hate and not defend. They shot his character the second they made him practically try to kill and do all of that to the son that he spent so much time protecting and loving. It was out of character but truly showed how horrible of a person he was. I genuinely hated the fact they did that. But it showed how lost he truly became, so take it as you will.

But anyways.

Adrien is allowed to grieve his dad. He quite literally lost his mother and his father within a few years. He was still grieving his mom when the show starts. Two parents that loved him dearly. He's allowed to be angry at Ladybug for not saving his dad. Just because he was mistreated doesn't mean he doesn't love his dad. Don't get me wrong, there's points in the show that he clearly is upset with his dad. But he's allowed to be upset at the mistreatment.

I think the reason why I understand Adrien's character is because I can resonate with him losing his dad but still have him there and loving him despite the mistreatment. It's not easy at times and are upset by it, but you still love your parent because you remember who they once were and miss that.

This isn't a Gabriel defending post tbh. It's just understanding his character and relationship with Adrien. I will die on this hill and block people if they get too heated about this (if anyone reads this). You can interpret the show and relationship however you want, it's not that deep and a kids show so a ton of it is shallow writing at first and all of the early fics are 100% so true to view the relationship how they do and make Adrien hate his dad. But you gotta admit, they do write some complex ass relationships as the show developed. It just becomes a mess.

So take this with a grain of salt, as this post is written by an abused 23 year old who loves and is upset by the abuser. It just puts the show in a totally different light.

People who can't understand why canon Adrien is genuinely that upset over Gabriel being gone don't understand the nuance of being in an abusive household OR Adrien's character

[frogtanii]

iwaizumi was... overwhelmed, to say the least.

the past few days had been such a whirlwind of change that hajime could barely properly process, much less appropriately react to it all, so he behaved much like a zombie, saying yes when prompted, signing papers when told, and packing up what was his entire life for the past 11 months.

wow. iwaizumi collapsed on his bed as he scanned his now barren bedroom. he’d been here for almost a year and yet, all his belongings were in boxes within a couple of days.

hajime couldn’t keep the disbelieving chuckle from escaping his chest as he leaned back on his bed, dark brown eyes trained on the ceiling.

it felt like he’d spent such a large chunk of his life trapped in this house, under the foot of the woman who he thought he’d marry but in reality, he’d been in little leagues longer than he’d been in love.

iwaizumi scoffed and rolled his eyes. yeah, “in love”. it’d been about a week since his whole life started to unravel and he had hardly seen, let alone spoken to meiko throughout that entire time.

over text, she’d sworn up and down that she loved and cared about him but as she passed by him packing his things a few days ago, she’d barely spared him a second glance.

hajime wasn’t going to lie. it hurt. he’d opened his heart up to her, something he didn’t do easily, and she’d taken his trust and used it to twist him into her weapon.

he always believed he was stronger than this — he’d never forget his mother telling him so when he was younger. he had fallen and scraped his knee yet he refused to cry to keep from upsetting his mom. iwaizumi existed to live up to what his mother thought of him but here he was, completely enveloped in meiko’s shit, doing her dirty work and following her bidding like some mutt.

god, toorū was right. he really was her bitch.

“i could hear you thinking from down the hall, iwa-chan.” speak of the devil...

oikawa stood at his doorway, leaning against the frame with a posture that seemed relaxed at first glance but if you looked a little closer, you’d notice the tenseness in his shoulders and the tightness of his smile.

hajime quickly sat up on his bed before motioning for his old friend to enter. “uh, yeah,” he began, his voice cracking a little from disuse, “i have a lot to think about.”

the light haired brunette let out an understanding hum before wandering into the room, sharp observant eyes darting to look at all the empty walls. “looks like you’re all packed.”

“pretty much,” iwaizumi nodded before the room fell into an awkward silence, the two childhood friends completely avoiding one another’s eyes.

“look, i-“

“iwa-chan, i’m-“

they both paused for a moment before bursting into laughter, the sound carrying into the hall and throughout the house.

hajime wiped a few stray tears from his eyes, shaking his head at their awkwardness. “you first, shittykawa.”

toorū gasped in halfhearted mock offense before quickly sobering up, training iwaizumi with a completely serious look. “i’m sorry and before you go on some bullshit, self sacrificing rant, you’re not the only one to blame for what happened to our friendship.”

he sighed while making his way to iwaizumi’s bed, sitting down gently beside him. “i should’ve known better, okay? i shouldn’t have let my jealousy and insecurities get in between us but i guess i got swept up in the attention, yknow? meiko is actually charming when she wants to be.”

iwaizumi nodded in agreement, knowing all too well how compelling meiko could be. the room fell into a more comfortable silence as both boys escaped into their thoughts, questions about the future of their friendship flitting throughout their minds.

“oh!” oikawa was pulled out of his own head at hajime’s exclamation, his eyes moving to observe his friend dig through his pockets to procure a thick white envelope. “here. i’d like you to give this yn.”

all toorū could do was nod, his brain short circuiting at the sight of iwaizumi’s apparent kindness to the woman he tormented for so long. “uh, what’s in it?” he ventured to ask, his soft hands toying with the sealed envelope flap.

a soft chuckle came from across the bed. “don’t be so nosy toorū, just give it to her, yeah?” oikawa rolled his eyes but obliged, the bed creaking as he stood to his feet.

“so... this is it, huh?” it was like the reality of the situation was just now sinking in — they hadn’t been close in a while but iwaizumi was still his best friend and he wasn’t quite ready to let him go.

they’d been through so much together, practically growing up together and now, they’d only see each other on holidays, if even then, and then he’d never be invited to hajime’s wedding as his best man as they’d planned and he also wouldn’t be the coolest uncle/godfather of iwa’s children and—

“fuck no,” hajime scoffed with a bright grin on his face. “thought you were gonna annoy me til the end of time shittykawa. don’t tell me you’re quitting your job now.”

the hidden meaning behind iwaizumi’s words brought tears to oikawa’s eyes and before he could stop himself, he launched his body into iwa’s arms. hajime hesitated, his hands stuttering at toorū’s sides as though he’d forgotten how to hug but the feeling passed, his arms winding around his friend’s lithe waist.

“‘m gonna miss you hajime,” oikawa’s voice came out as a broken whimper, his arms tightening around his shoulders.

iwaizumi hummed instead of responding, too afraid of his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. they stood there for a moment but the honk of the moving truck outside signaled the both of them of their limited time.

hurriedly, oikawa wiped the tears off his cheeks before waving awkwardly at iwaizumi as he left the room with a friendly, “don’t be a stranger.”

and then he was gone.

toorū finally allowed himself to collapse into sobs on his best friends empty bed, his palms pressing into his eyes as he sat there and just let himself feel.

apparently, he wasn’t crying very quietly because it took only a few moments for you to find him, your soft footsteps alerting him to your presence. oikawa scrambled to wipe away what he knew was an unattractive mixture of tears and snot as you got closer.

you were one of the last people he wanted to see him like this.

“hey,” you whispered, standing a few feet away from him. “um, i know this is probably a bad time but i just wanted to thank you for apologizing? back at the awards show?”

toorū sniffed as he looked up at you with confusion written on his face. “what? you shouldn’t thank me for apologizing. ‘s common courtesy.”

you laughed softly, nodding in agreement. “well, not always. so, thank you.” finished with your piece and not too keen on lingering where you weren’t wanted, you moved towards the door but were swiftly stopped before you got there.

“um, here. it’s from iwa-chan.” you gaped at the thick envelope oikawa was handing you before taking it and opening it, a low curse falling from your lips.

inside the package was a dense wad of cash, more money than you’d seen in months. accompanied with it was a letter, written in beautifully loopy handwriting.

you shut it quickly before oikawa could see, stuffing the envelope deep within your pocket where you could access it alone in the depths of your room.

“do you wanna come eat? last i heard, bokuto and tsumu were doing a cooking competition and i’m sure it’ll be fun to watch.” you were severely thrown off by the money and letter but you were determined to show toorū that you’d accepted his apology and were on your way to making amends.

he gave you a shy nod and trailed behind you to the kitchen, the loud sounds of fire and screaming coming from down the hall. you wanted to focus on the fun and merriment but the envelope was practically burning a hole in your pocket.

later that night, you finally got the chance to open the letter and read it, your former manager’s words bringing tears to your eyes.

dear yn,

i’m probably the last person you expected to hear from. you probably didn’t want to hear from me at all if i’m being honest and i don’t blame you. i know there is nothing i can say that could make up for what i’ve done to you but i’d like to try.

i’m sorry. those words don’t nearly express in and of themselves how truly remorseful i am but they needed to be said. there’s no excuse for how i treated you — not meiko, not my stress, absolutely nothing.

you deserved my common decency and respect and i didn’t give that to you. instead, i abused my position and made your life hell. i’ll never forgive myself for that.

uh, i bet you’re wondering what the money is? i promise i’m not trying to pay you off, it’s just all the money i’ve denied you since you moved here. i have a lot of wrongs to right and this is one of them.

sorry, i’m not very good with words but i just wanted you to know that i’m very sorry for everything that i’ve done. and i’m in no place to make demands or anything but i just wanted to ask if you’d keep an eye on oikawa for me.

he’s strong but he’s also vulnerable. he might be a pain in my ass but he’s my best friend and since i can’t keep him from drowning, i was wondering if you’d do that - not for me but for him.

anyways, this letter is shit but i suppose you get the gist. use the money for whatever you want and if you’re as unselfish as i’ve heard, you don’t owe me anything. you don’t owe me money, kindness, or forgiveness.

take care of yourself,

iwaizumi hajime

℗ poker face

so... this is it

series masterlist

(●’◡’●)ﾉ

an - soooo m back :D hopefully this is the last of my mini hiatuses!! this chapter sucked to write but i’m not mad at how it turned out?? pls let me know how i did skjdkd don’t forget to feed me <3333

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