#She was a child and was tortured mentally for something she couldn’t control

[mad-raptorzzz]

controversial opinion below:

i dont like the movie Encanto. Let me explain…

i love the characters, the designs, the music (surface pressure is one of my favorite Disney songs), I like Mirabel and Bruno and Luisa a lot. I appreciate the cultural significance and love seeing the Columbian flare. And the generational trauma is always a topical point now.

But I do not, and I repeat do not, like how easily Abuela was forgiven. It honestly sours the whole movie for me. She was physically, emotionally, and mentally abusive to her granddaughter for something entirely out of Mirabel’s control. And you can see how badly this hits Mirabel. I know it’s due to Abuela’s past trauma, but that’s still not an excuse for how poorly she treats Mirabel. And then it’s all forgiven with a hug? like no, sweetie, get out of that toxic place it’s not good for you. AND they all do the same thing to Bruno. Poor guy.

sorry i was just watching a clip from it and got upset again, it truthfully ruins the whole movie for me.

Similar story beats happen in Turning Red, but we see more of the mom’s struggle and ‘punishment’ or retribution (?) for her actions. And we see how things actually do change after. Like Mei has agency over her life and we see her mother acknowledge this.

small rant this morning

[deathmetalunicorn1]

Hi!!! HAPPY NEW YEAR 🥳🥳🥳

Anyways can I request a whitebeard pirates x female child reader? (This is basically were ace and whitebeard survived)

Basically the reader used to a slave for Blackbeard because she has a powerful devil fruit called the ink ink fruit

The ink ink fruit basically let's the user control and manipulate ink into wepons, shields, and sometimes people or other creatures (like the creatures from BATIM)

Anyways so like the reader feels nothing because of years of mental and emotional torture from Blackbeard :(

And she also has a big scar from Blackbeard over her eye making her a little blind but not fully

How would they react to her? Like how they met her, how they saved her and her life in the whitebeard family?

Can you also maybe based the reader of this?

Anyways HAPPY NEW YEAR AGAIN WHOOOOOOO

Sorry if this was a bit complicated bc I'm a bit tipsy hehe

-It was only chance that you had been seen after Blackbeard and his crew tried to kill Whitebeard, without success as Whitebeard blew them all back.

-Ace and Whitebeard were both lucky to walk away from that battle with their lives, they both had new scars to show off, but they were both alive.

-Marco had seen a child on Blackbeard’s ship, tendrils of something black swirling around you as you had broken a window, crawling out of it, like you were trying to escape.

-He easily swooped down, using his talons in his phoenix form to grab you, much to your shock and he picked you up.

-You cried out in fear, looking up and your one good eye went wide, seeing the flaming bird above you, before you heard Blackbeard, “Give me back Y/N!”

-Marco felt your flinch of fear, looking down to see you trembling in fear and he knew he wasn’t going to leave you with Blackbeard.

-Once on the ship, Marco took you to his room, carrying you so carefully, so gently, he could see the tears slipping out of your eyes as he smiled softly, “Nobody is going to hurt you again, Y/N.” you had never known such gentleness before, it was strange and kind of scary.

-Marco took you to his room, which was warm feeling and he put you on his bed, kneeling before you, “I need to go help the others. Will you stay here for a while, and I’ll come get you once we’re safely away from the area? You can sleep here if you want to.” You were hesitant in answering, a bit unsure of him before you mutely nodded.

-He ruffled your hair gently before leaving you in his room, closing the door behind him and you tipped over, feeling the softness of the bed you were on. It felt so nice. You couldn’t help but curl up and fall asleep.

-Hours later, after all wounds had been dealt with and everyone was safely away, making it to one of Whitebeard’s islands, they were all quickly celebrating, drinking and eating.

-Marco returned down to you, finding you up, looking up at the bounty posters he had on his wall, “You’re up- how do you feel Y/N?” you didn’t know how to answer, something he was able to tell before he picked you up, holding you up on his hip, “Let’s get you cleaned up and we’ll get you something to eat.”

-He called some of the nurses who were quick to rush to him, seeing the child he was holding, cooing over you like you were adorable while you didn’t react, looking back at Marco, who you knew was a safe person.

-Marco just smiled softly, “They’re gonna help you get cleaned up, I would but…” the nurses explained while giving you a bath that men, unless they were your father or something, shouldn’t give you a bath, and once you were clean they found a clean dress for you, but no shoes, and brushed your hair out.

-They checked your wounds over, finding bruises that signified shackles, not only around your wrists and ankles, but around your neck as well, as well as new and old bruises, whip marks, and what looked to be knife cuts in your back.

-Your eye that was heavily scarred was useless, you couldn’t see out of it. The thing that worried them was that you seemed numb, telling them that you had been tortured and abused for who knows how long. Long enough to abandon your emotions to keep yourself safe, but they couldn’t tell exactly how long.

-They told Marco everything and you could tell he was angry, hearing about what you, a child, had gone through, but he picked you back up, holding you close as they all headed back upstairs where the party was.

-Needless to say, seeing Marco walking out with a child in his arms was not what they were expecting, eyes wide as the party froze, everyone blinking in unison.

-Marco headed over, all eyes and heads following him, to Whitebeard, who was also surprised. You had never met someone so big before, but like those in Blackbeard’s crew, you didn’t feel afraid of him, you didn’t feel afraid of any of the people you were now surrounded by.

-Whitebeard reached down, taking you from Marco, pulling you up so you were sitting on his lap, “And who are you?” you looked up and answered in a soft, but emotionless, “Y/N.”

-Whitebeard had lived a long life, and he knew a hurt child when he saw one, but he kept his mouth shut about that at the moment before Marco spoke up, telling everyone how he found you on Blackbeard ship, escaping out of a broken window.

-Many saw the bruises on your wrists and ankles, from shackles, and many grew angry- fully ready to hunt Blackbeard down again, not only for what he tried to do, but for what he did to you.

-You didn’t seem to have any emotions, even when Ace brought you a mug of juice and some cake to eat, like other kids who would be all smiles and cheering. You just sat there and ate quietly, worrying the others on how you were acting.

-Marco then spoke, trying to get you to interact a bit more, “Y/N- what was that black thing that was helping you get out the window?”

-You lifted your hand which turned black, almost like ink, and it morphed into different shapes, “Ink-Ink Fruit- it helped me. He always made me do bad things with it.”

-Eyes narrowed, which made you flinch back, your ink returning inside you, thinking they were mad with you, but Ace was quick to hug you close, to reassure you, “We’re not mad at you, Y/N. We’re pissed at Blackbeard- I can’t believe he would treat a child like this! How long have you been with that bastard?”

-WHACK!! Marco was quick to punch the top of Ace’s head, sending him to the ground while pulling you up into his arms, “Language!” which caused laughter all around the deck of the ship while you were confused.

-You looked at your fingers before holding up four fingers, “This many years I think.” Looking at your size, they estimated you to only be about 8 or 9, since you had been malnourished, meaning you had spent over half your life, almost, in Blackbeard’s clutches.

-Whitebeard stood, a foreboding aura surrounding him, “Teach- he’s going to pay for this!” a roar of cheers rung out around him as everyone agreed. You were confused, looking up at him, wondering why they were all so upset and willing to help you.

-Over the next few weeks, the crew, who had adopted you, everyone except for Whitebeard becoming your big brothers, as Whitebeard became your papa, had been treating you so nicely, helping you heal, trying to teach you how to be a normal kid, since your childhood had been snatched away from you.

-They had a chance to see your abilities in action, you could control the ink to create full bodies, creatures that looked like devils, but cute, like something a child would draw, as well as weapons, shields, and the tendrils which were like arms to help you in various situations.

-You had expert control over your ability, as you had eaten your Devil Fruit when you were very young, but also ‘thanks’ to Blackbeard, who would beat you or let one of the others beat you if you did something wrong, you had learned quickly how to control it, to avoid beatings, which still sometimes came, just to keep you in line.

-It was strange for you, being on the Moby Dick, you never knew hunger since coming aboard, everyone aways made sure that you ate your three meals and would always give you snacks, which sometimes would cause fights, as your appetite would be ruined for an actual proper meal.

-You had your own room, between Marco and Ace, with a soft, warm bed, all for you, you had clean clothes and you got to bathe on a regular basis. It was almost like paradise for you.

-You never hurt again, other than the few shots you had to get, to help boost your immune system, but those only hurt for a bit. It was strange to walk around with no pain, as not a day had gone by without you being in pain and to have that now gone… it was weird.

-You had been gently forced into participating with your big brothers, sitting with them at mealtimes, joining them on the deck to watch others train or to enjoy a party, and they would include you on their, child friendly, conversations, asking you your opinions on things like your favorite cake flavors.

-Whitebeard knew this was going to be a process, one that was going to take a lot of time and patience, but he could see that you were trying, at least a little bit, seeking out certain members of the crew, like Marco and Ace, whom you felt the closest with, and you weren’t as hesitant to answer questions as you had been.

-Whitebeard smiled when he saw you peeking out the doorway leading to the deck, looking around before you spotted him. He smiled warmly at you as you trotted over, your face as neutral as normal, but he noticed your eye did look just a bit brighter.

-He grinned, setting his mug down as you peered up at him, “Hello Y/N- what brings you out here today?” you lifted your arms up, silently asking him to pick you up and he grinned, reaching down with one hand and picked you up with ease, setting you on his knee, “Will you tell me more about Rock?”

-Whitebeard grinned, as he had been telling you stories about his past, when he was in the Rock Pirates, and to see you asking him for more, it was a sign of improvement, seeing you asking for something, rather than taking what was given to you, something they had been working on.

-Whitebeard paused, seeing you look back towards the door where he saw Vista, Marco, Izo, and Ace all giving you a thumbs up, as they had encouraged you to go ask the old man for a story.

-He chuckled warmly, seeing the truth, but he didn’t mind, as you were taking it step by step, as he told you of a raid that he and Kaido took part in, working together, after they had snuck off after Rocks told them not to.

-You gazed up at him, listening to his tale, and he remained silent, seeing the small smile on your lips, seeing you finally smiling for him.

[childlikegoblinqueen]

SCOM WRITERS NOTES! For Criminal…

Darius and Willow (and Hunter)

First? Some mental health stuff.

I’m back and my brain is working overtime not to panic and obsess about things that are currently out of my control.

Not easy. I’m sick to my stomach most days and raising my kids who are now WAY more aware than they were when they were literal babies in 2016 and have a lot of thoughts about *things* takes up a lot of headspace.

I’m going to continue to (try) distracting myself with fan fiction and writing notes… but I may be slower because of everything.

So see below for a few notes about Criminal and how Darius’ (and Steve’s) actions after Willow’s actions frame things.

Darius’ track record of truth versus omissions of full truth is BAD in SCOM. I know that a LOT of folks thought I was deliberately anti Darius etc and that is something that they are entitled to believe, but certainly I was working more with the idea that people are messy AF, especially people coming from an underground resistance to a fascist government, and Darius had other hang ups considering his own relationship with Hunter’s predecessor.

Darius made bad decisions that he meant well by at the time and sometimes even overcompensated to fix which ended up costing more to begin with. This is a REALLY HUMAN PROBLEM. He chose to dive back into government (and mend and reform it) which means it was IMPOSSIBLE for him to share certain things with others on the outside.

In SCOM Hunter, coming from the place he had been all his life needed distance from anything involving government. The two things just couldn’t fit together and as Darius had admitted (and Bria twisted) he’d felt sick when he saw Hunter realizing just how badly he’d failed at not mentoring him, but being in his life.

That said? Everything he had done (for better or for worse) was to protect Hunter and keep him out of government affairs so he could remain a private citizen.

And a big one, that displayed a TON of bias was how he handled the situation between Willow and Kikimora.

He has a lot of compassion for Willow and recognizes very well how someone can be pushed SO FAR PSYCHOLOGICALLY when it comes to the thought of a loved one being hurt and abused.

Further? Kikimora (unlike Hunter and Willow) was a grown ass adult when this occurred (more on that later in the story).

Torture is NOT Willow’s go to by any means. She felt outside her own body when she acted as she had. A feeling both Darius (and Steve) are likely to understand. And they believe she deserves a chance at healing.

So taking her memory and getting her into therapy was part of protecting Willow and Hunter at the time. Not only did he see her as a child who couldn’t process her emotions over not being able to protect someone she loved, but he saw her actual horror at her actions.

This shouldn’t be definitive of her future anymore than Hunter should be defined by his time as a child under Belos.

[mr-walkingrainbow]

TORALEI ANGST LORE DROP???

TORALEIS FINALLY IN FUCKING THERAPY WAHOOOOOO!

NOOOOO ITS FAMILY THERAPY MEANING SHE HAS TO SEE HER FUCKING NIGHTMARE OF AN ABUSIVE ASS MOTHER. IT ALSO PROBABLY MEANS SHES GETTING RETRAUMATIZED NEARLY EVERY FUCKING TIME

COME ON CLAWDEEN WHY ARENT YOU LOVING YOUR GIRLFRIEND?!?!

THE REFORM CENTER FOR BEASTIE BADDIES?!! THE FUCK DID THEY JUST COMBINE JAIL. A MENTAL HOSPITAL. ALCOHOL ANONYMOUS AND CHILD PROTECTIVE SERVICES ALL INTO ONE ?!

ALSO? CATARINAS ALIVE? THATS UH? Not bad I guess? This is literally the first confirmation we’ve gotten that she survived the finale. So uh. That’s good I guess. Somewhat. HAHA ALOWS ME TO TORTURE TORALEI MORE IN FANFICS HAHAHAHAHAH!

I’m literally in love with this so fucking much. But really. Come on. The society could do better. Get toralei in individualized therapy. Catarina should be in rehab WAY longer then she’s been before they even initiate such type of conjoined therapy. Operating under basic guidelines. They can allow supervised visits between mother and daughter but they shouldn’t be in something like therapy till the mom’s somewhat proven/served time that allows them to see she’s headed on the right path. Not to mention they’d BOTH be in individualized therapy as well. It wouldn’t just be family therapy like this. Also. I love that Toralei got to stay at the Wolfs house. But??? What the fuck was CPS thinking? They’d never put a child with a random family who has no foster care license when she has ALIVE AND WELCOMING NEXT OF KIN. Toralei literally could have stayed with the weretwins and her aunt/Uncle. Like??? The cousins ADORE her! (Too a concerning agree. Don’t get me wrong I love their relationship. But Persephones treating dissapointing toralei like it’s life or death. I could somewhat understand that panic for a parent. But it’s somewhat unhealthy for a cousin. Although it’s not completely odd. I know I’d be destroyed if I ever dissapointed my older cousin who I look up too. I feel like it’s somewhat like that?)

Anywho. I LOVE how supportive Meowlody and Pursephony are with toralei and family therapy. They don’t judge her. And they don’t judge their aunt. Just tell her to say hi for them. They offer unwavering support and with how much Toraleis currently getting I’d say it’s dearly needed.

also. Not related but I LOVE Meowlody having adhd. I have adhd and I connected with her SO FUCKING MUCH in this episode. Jsut in this clip. Her volume control and excitement about the ‘wrong things’ just is so relatable. Her being confident but also somewhat not confident about a list of tasks. Practically begging her sister to realize she really did listen but it’s so hard to remember and things get confused and to show that we DO have good memory! We just see it in different ways! God. Amazing. My only thing is I wish she would have audibly confirmed it. Like we know they had Twyla verbally say she’s autistic. Why couldn’t they do that for adhd? It’s odd but I’ve never actually seen it verbally stated in tv before.

anywho uh- I’m gonna be writing so much fucking toralei angst so yall should be on the lookout!

AND YO THAT OPERETTA GENERATION ONE REFERENCE WAS UNHINGED I LOVE IT

And yo was that a hint of FUCKING YARN SALT AKA MEOWLODY X BARKIMEDES I SAW???

[pilot-boi]

Well, if you want more I’m happy to provide. Cinder’s a bit younger here, and she’s only been at the hotel for a relatively short time. Unfortunately for her though, the abuse has already started.

Jaune appears in the hotel and hears a child crying out in pain, and runs around the corner to investigate. He sees an adult torturing a child with an electro collar, and doesn’t hesitate in the slightest, despite not knowing who either of these people are. He knocks out the lady with one punch, and it’s only when he goes to help the little girl that he recognizes who she is. Specifically, he recognizes her eyes, because he’d know those eyes anywhere. He’s seen them filled with malice, hate, and contempt, and those emotions frequently turned towards him. Now though, there’s no hatred in them, but fear. And those eyes are set in a much younger face.

Naturally, it takes him a bit to process this. First that it’s Cinder, and that she’s much younger than she should be. Eventually he realizes that he must have time traveled, that’s what the clock fruit had done after all, something like 10 years ago. It rewound time for him. And now he’s back here in his and Remnant’s past, long before Beacon ever fell and his partner was killed. And here he is, staring into the eyes of the person that did it, but if it’s before Beacon fell, then she couldn’t have done those things yet. So what to do? Well, there’s only one thing he can do at this point.

Meanwhile, while Jaune is deep in thought, Cinder has also been nervously staring at him. Yea, he saved her from the Madame, but she has no idea why he did that. And now he just seems to be staring at her. So when he suddenly bends down and picks up the remote she flinches and closes her eyes, bracing herself for more pain. But it doesn’t come. Instead a hand gently takes hers, and places the remote inside it. Stunned, Cinder can only choke out one word, the word that had been bouncing around her head ever since she saw the madame get punched.

Cinder: Wh-Why?

Admittedly, she had meant it more in general sense. As in “Why help me, why do you care?” The strange man in somewhat rusty armor seemed to have taken her question more literally.

Jaune: “Because, until we can get that collar off of you, you are the only person who should have control of that remote. I’d certainly prefer to just destroy them both, but that could possibly hurt you as well. We need to remove it in as safe a manner as possible. Luckily, I think there’s a guy in Mantle that should be able to help. So come on, let’s go.”

Like I said still mulling things over, but you’ve certainly got the gist of it. Yea, Jaune ends up taking the place of Rhodes, or at least, does what Rhodes should have done if he wasn’t clutching the idiot ball like his life depended on it. Still trying to think of a clever name for this AU, but currently thinking of calling it the MidKnight AU.

���——

MidKnight is a good name for it, love me a pun

Little plot hole, Jaune wouldn’t know that they’re in Atlas, and so wouldn’t know that Mantle and Pietro are close by

Love love LOVE him giving the remote to Cinder. She’s the only one who should have it

Also, does Jaune still look like an old man, or did he get younger again? Either is good, I just wanna know for my mental image

This is good shit dude

[crimsonlyinglilly]

Entangled Minds - Payback

You know what! If I don't post something for Entangled minds it will drive me mad so here's something from the very middle.

Entangled Minds - where Finn and Elijah are mentally linked and yet still end up on opposite sides.

Set The Originals - Season 2, Episode 12

Elijah realising with Esther torture session and the mind link with Finn leaves him as a more of a danger to his siblings and Hope offers himself to body switch instead of Rebekah and Kol doesn't change his plans.

So Elijah ends up trapped in the cottage and Eva's body.

----

Elijah is trying to get the hazy feeling to go away with pure force of will even as he can almost feel the drugs in his blood when he gets an echo of Finn’s view, their little brother rambling excuses. 

This new body didn’t have the necklace that Finn had had mother make when she first returned and tried to kill them, yet given how easily he and finn were seeing into each other’s mind Finn hadn’t reclaimed it or gotten around to making another one, since his original was around Elijah’s real bodies’ neck before he had woken up in this one.

It wasn’t planned and was quickly clear to Elijah who was behind it, Finn had quickly worked out where he was and the fact he wasn’t taking the medicine from the mind share and helpfully informed those in charge who had ensured he received a double dose.

Then again the necklace had required Mother having the help of the Bennet line to be able to make something that could intervene with their connection, something they didn’t have, apparently the ancestors weren’t willing to help them interfere for some reason, he had learnt from Finn’s thoughts.

It seemed the Witch Sage had found truly was one of a kind and by strengthening her spell with her own death, she had ensured no one could permanently alter it in any way. Elijah had wondered many times why she had done it, had reached out to a sole wandering vampire with an offer to die for her.

Still it’s nice to see another member of his family, since seeing Finn’s new reflection and his original body in his mind just left him wanting to strangle him.  

His fondness is ruined by Finn’s disgust and anger at it, he looks further into Finn’s mind, too distracted by the brother under his hand to guard his plans from Elijah probing. 

Likely sure the drugs would stop Elijah from gathering the focus to do it, but then Finn should know better than to underestimate Elijah when it comes to their siblings. 

The sealing Kol in that body was a start he found as he noticed the murderous intent, Elijah wasn’t letting it get past that, he had never done it himself but Finn had taken over his body enough it was time for payback. 

One moment he was laying on his back in the cottage, drugs making his focus foggy the next he was standing clear minded.

Kol’s close he could hug him and then shake him to demand answers for his new body but they don’t have time for that

“Run.” The voice wasn’t his but closer than what his current body produced. 

“What? Finn?” Kol’s questioned as Elijah pushed him slightly.

“He sealed you in that body, he was going to hex you.“ Elijah explains stepping back, putting more distance between them in case Finn took his body back over.

“Elijah?”

Elijah twists looking around, he hadn’t realised how much the drugs had slowed his thinking until he was suddenly free, but he didn’t have time to admire it, Finn was better versed in taking control, since Elijah had let him over the years to help with his own guilt at leaving him in the box, of learning he was awake. 

Finn was going to kill their- Elijah’s little brother, Finn didn’t deserve him for what he was planning. His mischievous, too bright little brother who was finally free of the bloodlust mother had cursed them with and Finn wanted to wipe that away because Finn was a twisted selfish child who couldn’t get over a dead six year old. 

Freya was brilliant and the memories of her ached since Finn had shared them but Elijah had lost one bright brilliant little brother once and had already mourned Kol, he wasn’t doing it again. 

The collection of glass bottles is perfect for his plans.

The sound of shattering glass is satisfying but the sharp pain that spreads from his-Finn hand up his arm from where he had slammed it into the glass vials is far better, Finn was human, they both were at the moment, it would take time to heal if he couldn’t use magic and if he managed well, it was going to hurt. 

“Elijah!” Kol called taking a step towards them.

“You're not running.” He said as he picked up a knife with the injured hand ignoring as it pushed glass further into cuts. He could feel Finn waking, he didn’t have much time. 

He placed the uninjured hand flat on the table and turned back to the still frozen confused Kol. 

“Run, don’t let Finn catch you, he will kill you.” He warned but couldn’t help but smile at him, “I don't want to mourn you again.” 

He waited until Kol vanished out the door before he brought the knife down hard, he heard the thump as the knife went through flesh and wood all the same. 

Blood pools - 

And he’s back laying in the bed. 

Elijah blames the drugs and the new body for the giggles he can’t stop as he stares at the ceiling above him. 

He wonders if Kol had heard Finn’s scream of pain, he can certainly feel it. 

“That’ll teach you to lay your hands on my little brothers.” He manages to get out though his giggles as he flexes uninjured but too small dark hands of his current body. 

The voice was wrong, it was too short, too weak and that wasn’t going into the discomfort of being the wrong gender but he would adapt. 

He would have to; given mother’s torture had ruined his control leaving him to dangerous in his own body and Finn’s new habit of entering his dreams despite the necklace, the way he was was too much of a liability to his family, besides from what he could tell before Finn had gotten him drugged, whoever this was, was a much stronger witch than Elijah had been in life. 

He could still help his family this way.

[cookiesupplier]

Catch You When You Fall - Part Ten

pairing: Nicholas Ruffilo & ofc (Catherine)

warnings/tropes: slow burn, angst, murder, mystery, smut, mentions of speciesism, mentions of violence, trauma, mental health, depression, anxiety, sleep terrors, loss of appetite, (potentially more to come)

summary: A new soul has arrived in the Afterlife. While she appears to adjust just like anyone else might in the new environment of the world of life after death, despite the ordeal she experienced with her death. The question is has she really, and can Nicholas help her without crossing lines that he knows he shouldn't?

Authors Note: Unbeta'd, here we go!

To find the others in the Hell AU Universe: Combined Hell-Verse Masterlist

If you would like to be added to this tag list please see THIS FORM

tags: @missduffsblog @tearfallpixie @spicywhenspeaking @sorrowsofsilence @wild-child-7747

@lacktoesandtoddlerants @blackveilomens @valiantroeagleangel @bngurngheart @collapsedglasshouses

@miamore0570 @emmmm127 @sunsshinesunny @dominuslunae @xxkittenkissesxx

@philomenie @dontdiganothergravetoday @anameunmusical @poisongirl616

Nicholas knew he needed to hit something, he wasn’t a violent person, he wasn’t, truly, but sometimes, everyone had those moments, didn’t they? When they just had to hit something and get that aggression out, or they might just implode a little bit. It was why he could really understand why Ellie took her bat to the more repugnant souls that came through the arrival's office that she worked in with Jolly and Folio. Nicholas couldn’t say he wouldn’t be tempted to deal with a few of the horrifyingly darker souls personally whose files passed over his desk. Still, that wasn’t his job, his job was to assess their souls and hand their physical punishments over to demons such as Noah and his teams in the punishment realms. 

The punishment realms, one of which he was headed to right now, the one that Noah, well, Nicholas didn’t like to say he was in control of it, or lorded over it like some did. Even if in some ways he did both of those things. Nicholas would prefer to consider his work as guided it. Nicholas hoped that they could actually help the souls inside, even if they both would admit, some of the souls in the darkest depths of the realm, might be there for eternity. While punishments weren’t supposed to be about the pain, and torture, it was the lessons, and learning from them, not everyone managed to understand that. People like Folio did, and look at him now, he had flourished in the most wonderful way. He even had moved on to find a relationship in Ishtar, despite what demons like Gavin would say about it. If Folio had had a caseworker under Gavin, he would have encouraged him to reincarnate the moment he had come out of punishment. Nicholas, for one, was more than glad that Folio’s instead had placed him in the arrival’s hall, working with Jolly instead. 

Now, as Nicholas walked into the training ring, Noah was already waiting for him. They didn’t train often, Nick wasn’t into this kind of thing as much as Noah was, but he had insisted lifetimes ago. Wanted to make sure he could defend himself. Safe to say, when Nicholas had heard about Noah’s plan for his first date with Ellie, oh, there was no way he had been surprised. It had seemed like a Noah thing to do, teaching her how to fight, or more importantly, defend herself. He was sure it had been one hell of a first date.

Knowing they were meeting this afternoon, for once, he hadn’t even told him he had to postpone for the stack of paperwork on his desk.

“Wow, something must have gotten to you, I didn’t get one call to tell me you were running late this time.”

Noah looked like he’d already started training when he got there, and knowing him, he probably had, working with some of the other demons no doubt. Nicholas wasn’t about to ask who, he knew that Noah didn’t hold back when it came to pushing those under him, he was a perfectionist. Then again, for all he knew it wasn’t just training. It could well have been him working with souls for the morning on their punishment regimens. Nicholas wasn’t going to ask any more than Noah was going to inquire about the files that had crossed his desk. Poking at each other's work was better off not done, and they both knew it.

Dropping his bag to the side, he reached in and took out the wraps for his hands, Nicholas didn’t use his nearly as much as Noah did, but he had them anyway, for under the gloves.

“Hand-to-hand today then?”

Already starting on wrapping his hands, Nicholas sighed, they’d both had a couple of lifetimes worth of routine, even if Noah was much more adept.

“Oh yeah, I really just need to hit something today, and if it ends up being you, at least then I won’t get reported by you.”

At least Noah laughed at that, that was far better than what Bryce would have done if he’d actually ended up taking a swipe at him earlier this morning.

“Or we can stick to the punching bags, though, I doubt you’d find that as nearly as satisfying. Damn Nick, you usually aren’t nearly this eager to hit first, what's going on? Something happening at work, you’ve been, kind of, off lately?”

Noah asking about work, even in general, he could tell he was worried, otherwise he wouldn’t have touched it. Nicholas was quiet as he wrapped his hands, considering what he should tell Noah, it wasn’t like the discord in his department's office was new. A lot of people knew about it, and Noah was well aware of how demons like Gavin saw things, he was just as disgusted by it as he was. Sighing,

“So, I had a bit of a sit down with Bryce this morning about one of his cases. Bryce, works under Gavin, Lord Gavin.. You know, that one.”

One glance at Noah as Nicholas was starting to pull on his gloves over the basic wrap to protect the knuckles of his hands, and the stare he got back told him he knew exactly who he was talking about. Nicholas was aware that Noah had heard plenty about Gavin’s opinion of Noah’s bonding with Ellie, and he certainly didn’t need to ask him what his brother thought about that, it was obvious. Possibly he wasn’t going to be the only one that wanted to hit something soon. 

“Anyway, the new soul in Hell, Catherine, Cat, the one that works for Ishtar-”

“Oh, Ellie mentioned her the other day. She was absolutely delighted to meet her, couldn’t stop talking about how wonderful she was. Folio apparently thinks she’s great too, he said that he thinks she might be having a bit of a learning curve settling into Hell, but what soul doesn’t right?”

Nicholas must have had a some kind of look on his face, because something about his expression had Noah stopping cold then, staring at him.

“What, what is it, Nicholas, something wrong with her? Is she the case you were talking to Bryce about?”

There went his face again. He had the worst kind of poker face, and he knew it.

“Oh shit, she was, wasn’t she? What’s happened… oh damn if she’s one of Bryce’s that's bad… dammit Nicholas! You should have told me, if Ellie makes friends with her, and she reincarnates, that’ll just break her heart. I mean, shit, it happens to all of us, I know that, it’s bound to happen to her sooner or later.”

Nicholas shook his head before Noah got too far ahead of himself. He wasn’t wrong, though, it did happen to all of them. They met souls that they became friends with that ended up reincarnating, and they had to say goodbye to. It was heartbreaking, most times, in the most wonderful way, seeing a soul growing and reaching such an emotional journey that they were ready for that next step. Cat though, as one of Gavin’s, they both knew that wasn’t likely to be the heartbreak that would happen.

“That wasn’t quite the problem I was worried about, but yeah, it was her case, and yes, even eventually we both know Ellie is going to have to deal with friends reincarnating, you know that. Prepare her for it. Jolly and Folio have both had to say goodbye to friends over the years that have reincarnated.”

It wasn’t easy, getting to know souls that have decided to go back and try again, but at the same time, by the time that they did, there always seemed to be a sense of hope for them. As painful as it was, it wasn’t about an ending, it was about a new beginning. Besides, maybe they’d see them again someday. Just, every last one of them hoped they didn’t see them again too soon, that they lived long happy, and healthy lives out there. 

“Then what was the issue? I’m assuming there was one if you’re upset about it enough to go see Bryce.”

Moving towards the punching bag now, they could try to spar, but neither of them were focused enough, and if they tried, the conversation would just lead to one of them getting hurt, and it wouldn’t go well.

“I went to see her because,”

He was tempted to lie, and just spin the yarn to Noah that he’d told Bryce about just being in the vicinity of her building and accidentally seeing her… but this was Noah…

“I lied about finding her passing out and helping her, but the truth is, after helping her, Ishtar and Ellie the other night, I’ve felt drawn to her. I know I need to stay away from her, she’s one of Bryce’s cases, if I don’t stay away from her, I could blow up my life, my career, I could blow up her life. I know the way Gavin and Bryce treat souls, they’d manipulate her into reincarnation early if they weren’t trying already. And I, I can’t have that, Noah. I don’t- I have never believed in forcing people into reincarnation. The soul needs time to process, and I have the worst feeling she’s going through something, she needs this time… She needs help, and they aren’t going to give it to her because all they see her as is some soul to push through, and…”

He sighed…

“I don’t know what I’m doing, I’ve just met her, I don’t even know her, I don’t know her beyond that she likes flowers, and she-” 

Noah was standing behind the heavy punching bag and putting his shoulder against the back of the swinging rig to give it more heft. He braced it increasingly for Nicholas as his brother started to lay into it with each heavier hit of his fists. Allowing him to let his frustrations out on the bag with each punch of his hands, and gloves. Between each strike of his hands against the weighted boxing bag, the words flowed about the female soul, about how he didn’t understand why he just couldn’t keep his mind off of her. That he knew he should just let it go, he knew she didn’t matter in the grand scheme of the souls in Hell. She wasn’t even his to watch over, what was one soul, but he just couldn’t stop thinking about her. Thinking about things that Folio said, Ellie said, even Ishtar said. 

Noah blinked at the way Nicholas just continued to thrash the punching bag with his fists, he was never usually this focused. 

He had to meet this woman. 

Obviously there was something about her that had his best friend, his brother, tied up in knots. Sure, he was thinking about her like she was just a soul, a case, but that could not be all she was if she had him like this. Not with that furrow on his brow, and the way his hands were slamming into the punching bag, one after the other. No doubt, imagining Bryce, and probably Gavin too. He hadn’t even come in here like this after Noah and Ellie’s bonding announcement, and they’d all heard how Gavin had reacted to it. They’d all felt some kind of way over that, and he knew it. Damn. 

Oh yeah, he had to meet this Cat. Sure, he was always going to with Ellie getting closer to her, there was no doubt there, but he was going to make it happen sooner or later.

“You know what we haven’t done in a while?”

Noah finally spoke when Nicholas seemed to be taking a breather from his semi ranting about Cat, and this strange effect that she was having on him. Raising an eyebrow with a bit of a smile as he looked at his pseudo brother right now.

“A group movie night, pizza, beer, popcorn…”

A heavy sigh escaped Nicholas then, for a moment there he was worried that Noah was going to suggest something completely different. That he could handle, it would actually be great, a perfect kind of distraction from everything. Smiling, Nicholas nodded, maybe he was done for the day, he felt punched out now. Stepping back, he started to pull his gloves off, pulling the strap off that held the wrists on.

“That actually sounds kind of perf-”

“Any new friends that any of us have made recently.”

Only for Noah to go and ruin it before he could even finish agreeing to the plan, before he could even finish taking his gloves off even! Oh, he was going to kill him. Nicholas turned on him with a incredulous stare, he had to be joking, did he want him to lose his job, his position?!

“Are you kidding?! No! Gavin will destroy me.”

Noah just rolled his eyes, and the urge to hit him came right back to Nicholas all over again. The look on Noah’s face though, he could tell he wasn’t listening to him, the smirk as he just nodded yes, at him, yes, they were going to do this. Yes, they were going to have movie night.

“You know what, no, screw Gavin, think about Cat, she’s having enough trouble settling, you’ll be throwing so much at her all at once, just no, no Noah, NO!”

Noah just continued to smile and nod, and Nicholas threw one of his gloves right at his head.

“NO!”

He wasn’t listening.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

[deadscell]

How do you interpret jack and The Boss' relationship?

hi anon :) thanks for the ask!

from what little we know about their relationship dynamic, i was always intrigued by them as a pair. i think during the virtuous mission she cherished those moments she had left before she defected, especially when jack interacts with her over the codec. with her commenting on his tuxedo in a disapproving manner, or on his camouflage (perhaps a lack of.) her maternal nature versus his childish personality juxtapose each other in a way that saddens me. in my opinion that was obviously one of the things that attracted her towards him, which is hardly surprising considering jack has the biggest heart and a charming sense of humour. but as the boss pointed out, she was also attracted to him because he was like her. which in relation to calling him a “child” it’s clear that she’s concerned about how his emotions drive him through his mission (she wishes to prepare him for the inevitable but he’s not ready during the virtuous mission.)

something to mention being that she is teaching jack something despite all of her best efforts to deny it, and in turn teaching him something she had to deal with alone in her own mission with the sorrow, there was no one there to guide her or convince her differently. she is his teacher. she had no choice and he had no choice, there was no control. there’s only the control of who dies or survives to tell the tale between them. but not only is she familiar with how he would’ve been feeling, she’s felt it before and she has to prepare for every scenario that may happen between them. she knows he’s highly influenced by his own feelings in contrast to the mission, and she can’t tell him otherwise. with her maternal nature she can again only guide him, especially under the circumstances of her own mission. as she pointed out, she couldn’t teach him to be a soldier because she could only teach him so much, meaning that he has to figure it out himself. essentially she has to be “cruel to be kind” to get her point across that he is brilliant, even if her influence is sometimes physical it’s more than likely, in my opinion that she wishes for him to see her own methods during a battle. as in the final fight, she compliments him if he manages to perform a certain cqc move or strikes her down. making her a true mentor and a loyal partner to him.

jacks’ confidence is doused in self doubt because of how much he looks up to and respects the boss, which i don’t think i can even blame him for. though nevertheless in her own way of nurturing, i think she wishes to prove to him that he is better than he even realises himself, especially since surrounding characters observe his skills highly. the cobras help in proving that there are many things he can do to physically and mentally endure an enemy who have their own mission against him. essentially she knows herself that he is worthy, but he has to prove it to himself in order to drive that mentality. confidence is a hard aspect of oneself to master, as well as believing that you can complete a mission. getting the perspective of the entire game once you know the story is like a cruel guilty pleasure, she’s rooting for him to complete the mission so much she’s willing to make him hate her, she has to be his enemy to convince him to do the impossible. the subtle help she favours to him (like the fake death pill she shot into his leg in the torture room), and asking her own son (the perfect candidate) to help the man whose going to take his mothers life? if that doesn’t show love and devotion, i don’t know what does.

[writerbeemedina]

Spoiled Rotten

Synopsis: Have you ever asked yourself what the typical morning is like for a supervillain who is also single father? Wonder no more. The morning of another big attempt to conquer the city, Lord Obliterator must first face the second greatest challenge: feeding his four-year-old daughter.

This is a pretty old story. Hopefully is suits your supervillain needs. ^^"

════════════════════════════════════════════

Ah. Nothing more refreshing than the promise of crushing enemies, conquering the city, and sweet, sweet revenge, in the morning.

No sooner had Lord Obliterator opened his eyes had an explosion sounded, rattling the house. Oh, shit, they’ve found us, he thought to himself. In a rush of adrenaline, the supervillain armed himself with an electro-gun and threw himself out of his bedroom into the hallway.

Lord Obliterator aimed his firearm to fry the trespassing superhero to a crisp, only to look down and sigh in relief.

“Now what did we talk about?” The villain stooped down to pluck a magma gun from a child’s small grip and wagged a finger. “No handling firearms without my supervision, Bonnie!”

“Aww!” Bonnie whined. “But I was gonna take it to show-and-tell today!”

It took everything in Lord Obliterator’s power to control his paternal pride as he lowered himself to one knee and placed a massive hand on her head. “Look darling, I understand why you want to take a family invention. We’re incredible. However, it’s just not safe to disclose our weapons to the lesser people of mankind. People would be greedy, manufacture more but slightly tweak its design to pass it as their own. Next thing you know, we’d be stuck in the middle of a multi-million dollar lawsuit! Do you understand, my little imp?”

“Okay,” Bonnie said dejectedly, kicking out her foot. “Then…can I bring my taxidermy collection instead?”

“Wonderful alternative, darling!” Lord Obliterator beamed. Then, he clapped twice before saying, “Now go ready for kindergarten, while Papa gets himself ready to fire the Ultra Death Beam in the city square today!”

“Okay!” the little girl squealed, her thick braids bouncing as she skipped merrily to her room. 

Meanwhile, Lord Obliterator gazed at the sizzling, melted hole in the wall. Yet another repair to add to the bills, he thought mournfully. 

Well, it wasn’t proper to take over the city looking like a hot mess. How embarrassing it would be if he looked like a zombie on the front page of the newspaper, when he took over the city!

Lord Obliterator changed out of his “I’m Secretly a Princess” t-shirt (a birthday present from his darling daughter) into his most malicious-looking suit of armor, and styled his frizzled black hair into a slick ponytail before making his way to torture cham—uh, the kitchen.

“ARGH!” he cried, lifting his foot to find a doll shoe practically embedded underneath. A villain couldn’t even practice his own stride through his own halls without getting assaulted by stray toys lying around like traps! Lord Obliterator made a mental note to talk to his daughter about this later.

Eventually, he arrived, Bonnie—now wearing a black dress with buckles—seated at the counter, banging her spoon-grasping fists and death-metal screeching, “ICE-CREAM! ICE-CREAM!”

Lord Obliterator was careful not to react, for, unknown to Bonnie, breakfast would be different that morning. Today, Lord Obliterator would be a good parent and feed her something truly evil—and nutritious, of course.

The villain hurried about the room, frequenting the refrigerator and the pantry while managing the coffee-maker, toaster, and stove. A symphony of metallic clunking, cracking, sizzling, gurgling, sloshing, and beeping filled the place, while Bonnie continued her scream-chant. With Bonnie, there was no real way of telling whether she was summoning food or demons.

After ten minutes of tackling one of his few attempts at cooking and shoving down his crippling self-doubt, the fruit of Lord Obliterator’s efforts was done. He cackled sinisterly.

“Behold! The most evil breakfast of all!” Lord Obliterator announced.

Bonnie shrieked, writhing with such vigorous glee that her chair almost toppled over.

The villain twirled for an extra flare of drama before setting down the plate of mushy, yellow…

“Eggs!” he said in a sing-song voice.

The little girl scrunched up her face before fixing Lord Obliterator with a hellish glare.

“What’s the meaning of this?” she said dangerously, every trace of excitement gone. 

Lord Obliterator expected something like this to happen; Bonnie was always stubborn when it came to food. Still, he couldn’t help but chuckle with a twinge of unease as he sat down at his side of the table.

“Ah-aha, eggs, darling. This is the cooked substance of unborn fetuses from chickens robbed against their will! Isn’t that sinister?” he said.

“Where’s my peanut-butter ice-cream? Where’s my chocolate pudding?” Bonnie persisted. “Stuff that makes your teeth rot?!”

Of course, sugary sweets did technically count as evil for the consequences they bring; however, Bonnie’s dental bills weren’t getting any cheaper.

“B-But a chicken’s family line has been taken from them, never to be regained! Their unborn offspring taste delicious, and they give you the strength to destroy your enemies! Doesn’t that sound—” 

“I hate eggs! I’ve always hated them my entire life!” Bonnie interrupted, letting out a scream as she flung her spoons so forcefully they pierced the wall—had Lord Obliterator not ducked in time, it would have been his head. 

Lord Obliterator sighed shakily. He didn’t want it to come to this. The villain rose from his seat, cracking his knuckles as he approached his young daughter…

Then threw himself onto the floor.

“Please eat! How terrible of a parent Papa would feel if he took over the city today knowing that he let his only daughter go to school starved! Ple-he-hease!” he begged tearfully, his hands clasped in front of him.

“NEVER! Not until you give me sweets!” Bonnie roared.

“Please?! Just one bite for your old man?!” Lord Obliterator groveled. 

Bonnie’s face contorted and flushed, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. The room was deadly still, right before a bomb explosion—the villain could practically see the wick burn down to his daughter’s head—then, she let out a wail that could make even the dead cover their ears as she dropped to the floor, kicking, banging and screaming as if she were possessed.

“YOU DON’T LOVE ME ANYMORE!” she cried. “I’D RATHER LIVE WITH A SUPERHERO THAN LIVE WITH YOU!”

Lord Obliterator doubled over, dramatically clutching his heart as though a bullet had torn straight through it. Superhero. Superhero. The one time I try to make something beneficial for my kid and she compares me to those fiends! Oh, Lenora, how did you ever handle such insanity? 

“Look! You can have ice cream for breakfast, okay?! No, cake! No, ice-cream cake! Doesn’t that sound nice? Please, please stop crying!” the villain pleaded.

“Okay!” Bonnie said, springing back up.

A pause, in which Lord Obliterator sighed in relief. “But this is the last time, got it? No more mister push-over,” he told his daughter, fetching her her promised dessert.

🕱   🕱   🕱 🕱   🕱   🕱 🕱   🕱   🕱 🕱   🕱   🕱 🕱   🕱   🕱 🕱   🕱   🕱 🕱   🕱   🕱 🕱   🕱   🕱

“Are you all packed? Got your lunch? Your collection?” Lord Obliterator asked his child at the door, the bus just arriving. 

“All here!” Bonnie said, bouncing up and down wearing a purple skull-print backpack larger than her.

“Good. Now, remember what to do if any of the other kids mess with you?”

“I clobber them! Teach them the meaning of the word pain! Demolition!” she screeched, bawling her hands into fists and giving her best evil cackle.

“That’s my girl.” Lord Obliterator sniffed, a single tear rolling down his cheek.

“Good luck on the Ultra Death Beam!” Bonnie said before taking off for the school bus.

Lord Obliterator sighed heavily. As difficult as it was to be a villain and a parent, he had to admit that both were worthwhile. 

Another morning, another glorious opportunity to wreak destruction.

[broifoundher]

Part One

I am simply posting this now because I’m going to sleep. And if I don’t post it and keep it in my drafts. I just know I’m going to reread this tomorrow and be changing it so much it will be unrecognizable and a disfigured mess. (Like everything else in there.) So here goes nothing.

To anybody on the team, Yelena could easily be described as the toughest, both mentally and physically.

And she was. Most of the time.

She wasn’t one to let her emotions get the better of her.

But there were these little moments where she’d let them slide pass her walls. Where she would share her emotions, even the tiniest bit, to someone.

But then again, those moments were very rare. Even rarer than when she would actually break down. Not that she broke down regularly. But more so because sharing would mean opening up and opening up just wasn’t something she could do as well as Kate did.

After all, she had been brainwashed into thinking emotions were a liability. She was trained to get rid of them, to put them aside. Like so many other girls, she was abused both mentally and physically until emotions became a vague, distant and out-of-reach thing.

But unlike her sister, Natasha Romanoff, her generation of widows didn’t undergo a training as abusive as hers. Since, after all, the Red Room’s scientists had succeeded in, not only creating the mind control formula but also implementing and using it.

That, at least, could be seen as an improvement.

In the fact she wouldn’t need as much time as her sister did to rehabilitate into functioning like an actual human being.

Not that she didn’t need as much therapy.

Though you doubt she would ever willingly seek help from a professional.

Or that she would admit needing it.

To any outside party, it would seem like Yelena would be the one ‘taking’ care of you. And it was quite understandable as to why they would think so. The reasons were so obvious that you could never truly blame them even if you wanted to.

For one, she is a trained killer for God’s sake. Literally bestowed the title of ‘greatest child assassin the world’s ever known’, or at least, according to Alexei.

Second, she was just naturally emitting those dominant vibes. In the way she conducted herself to the way she dressed, spoke, and walked.

While, on the other hand, you were simply you. A normal average and plain person.

Psst. No offence! - Author.

Without any powers or super abilities. Not even an interesting trait like being super smart or super rich. Just. An. Ordinary. Human.

Which was part of the reason why, in your opinion, this have such an impact.

And by this, I mean you holding Yelena’s small frame tightly against yours.

An ordinary human holding one of the deadliest assassins alive as they silently sobbed in their arms. An ordinary human gently treading their fingers through the same previously mentioned assassin’s hair.

“It’s not your fault.” You hushed against her temple.

“It’s not your fault you were taken as a child. Not your fault you were brainwashed, tortured and used and manipulated to be an assassin.”

There was just something about saying it out loud. Making it more real to her. Like those events couldn’t just be ignored and tossed to the back of her head like she wanted to. They couldn’t be forgotten. But that didn’t mean they had to hold as much of a grip on her as if she were still there.

“You are so much more than a killer. So much more than what they made you believe you were. You are human. You are important.”

Her voice cracked as she made a squeak. And you held her close to you.

She still hadn’t let herself grip back onto you.

“You are worth loving. You deserve happiness.”

She finally buried her face in the crook of your neck. And you held her firmly against yourself as she muffled her sobs into your shoulder.

“It’s okay.” You murmured. “I’m here.”

You stayed tangled together and on the floor for what could’ve been hours, yet you never felt uncomfortable. Focusing, rather, on the other.

And once her breathing found it’s way back to a comfortable rhythm, and she allowed you to gently and slowly pull her head out. You rubbed her cheeks with your thumb and engulfed her nose with velvety tissues.

To be continued…

[brownsstorybook]

Stars - Anakin x F!reader

Anakin Skywalker x F!Jedi!reader smut shot

Summary: You and Anakin are on Naboo to keep senator Amidala safe. The night the three of you decide to stay on a yacht everything changes.

word count: 2.3k

Warning: Nsfw, 18+ actions, unprotected sex, kind of public sex? Lots of smut.

I sighed as I deactivated my saber. "You scared me, Skywalker." I didn't dare face him, Anakin Skywalker. One of the most gorgeous boys in the entire intergalactic universe. I remember our love-hate relationship from day one on. I got assigned to Obi-Wan Kenobi as his second padawan, as if one wasn't enough already. Anakin and I definitely didn't click at first and on missions it was even worse, it surprises me that Obi-wan didn't even bother getting me another Jedi master. Everything Anakin did annoyed me, his charms towards other women, his coldness towards me, his sarcasm and will to do as he wants. I couldn't fucking stand that man. But now I know why, and I am not happy as it is. I developed feelings for him, romantic ones. And it was absolute torture, being around him is intoxicating. But I know I cannot, I know I can't have attachments and certainly not for him.

"Earth to Y/n?" I heard him snap his fingers and I turned my head to finally face him. Oh those beautiful blue orbs stared right back at me. "Hmh?" Was all my throat proceeded to say. "I said, for the tenth time, the council requests our presence." He sighed and took my hand to pull me out of my room. "What in the world does the council need us for? We came back from a mission yesterday!" I was stern in my speech as his feet guided mine towards the council chamber, "I can walk myself Anakin." "Right, sorry." He voiced. 

"I think I do know why the council needs us. There has been an assassination attempt on senator Amidala." "And exactly what does that have to do with me?" I sighed in annoyance, knowing Anakin and the senator have something going on. Or well, I suspect so. As I finished my sentence Skywalker stopped dead in his tracks making me almost bump into him. "Anakin what the f-" "Will you stop it? With that mindset you won't be getting anywhere. You will never become a Jedi knight if you don't stop this madness!" Anakin said, but nothing came out of my mouth. I just blankly stared at this boy who thinks he can pull shit.

"Y/n listen, I know you don't like me and Padmé as much as you do yourself but drop the attitude." As Anakin ranted to me I couldn't help but notice his hair grew, a lot. And so did his body posture. I remember always being a few inches taller than him, but now he just towered over me. Jeez, intimidating. "Okay." I mumbled with a smile before walking past him and finally arriving at the council chambers. I just couldn't bear looking in his eyes any longer, and it is fucking killing me. I am growing attachments and if they grow any bigger I am doomed. 

As the door opened I put up my mental shield in case anyone tried to read my mind. "Young Anakin Skywalker and Y/n L/n, A mission for you, we have." The little green figure in front of me and Anakin spoke up, "To Naboo with senator Amidala, you will go." "I am sorry master, but why?" I acted dumb just to annoy the fuck out of Anakin. I could feel him glaring into my soul for real. "There has been assassination attempts on the senator, and she needs to go in hiding. We can't let her go unsupervised." Obi-wan's thick accent spoke up. Tsk, miss perfect is being treated like a child, I thought to myself. "We will gladly supervise her mas-" I didn't even let Anakin finish his sentence as anger built up in me due all my emotions messing with me, "Isn't it better to let her stay here in the Jedi temple?" 

"Y/n, manners!" Kenobi scolded. "Question the council's decisions, you can not young padawan." Yoda remained calm at my sudden outburst, "Before controlling your emotions and thoughts, a Jedi knight you will not be." I nodded in acceptance, and remained silent.

_______________________________

As we arrived on Naboo later with Padmé I had truly seen it all. Anakin and her being all clingy and flirty and shit. I was devastated as my emotions and love for Skywalker grew more every second I spent with him. "Miss Amidala, would you like for me to put your suitcases in your room?" I smiled, hiding my irritation. "No need for formalities Y/n, a friend of Anakin's is a friend of mine." She replied. Friend of Anakins, nice. "Ofcourse." I gritted through my teeth. Because of my so-called 'rude' action Anakin cleared his throat. I shot him a look and rolled my eyes. Just as I was about to bring Padmé's suitcases to her room she spoke up again.

"We should take my parents yacht for the night, the view on the lake is amazing with the stars shining!" Excitement spat of her. "Padmé, that is too dangerous, we can no-" "Yes! That's an amazing idea actually, that would be lovely padmé, thank you." Anakin cheered. The man didn't even let me finish my sentence, which was kind of logical since we were getting really really done with one another. What am I even saying? I could never get enough of him and his adorable, charming, breath-taking smile.

"Fine but only for tonight."

_________________________

I close my eyes feeling the hot summer wind blowing through my hair. I lean over the railing to open my eyes and see my reflection in the now pitch black lake. It was like that little slave girl from Zygerria looked back at me. A weak, full of emotion and used person. Tears rolled down my cheek thinking about him again, knowing we can never be anything. Besides, he has Padmé doesn't he? I could have snitched on him, telling the council about them. But I can't. I would never do anything to hurt him, I'd rather have a lightsaber pierced through my heart. I'm crying as quietly as possible.

Suddenly I felt a shift in the force, and a warm presence stood next to me. I wipe my tears as fast as I can. "Y/n?" Skywalker placed his warm hand on my shoulder, "Are you alright?" "I am, thanks." I smiled weakly. "You're not, are you? Tell me what's going on." He demanded. "No, really Ani, I am okay." I said. "Come on it's only me you're talking to, Padmé's gone to bed already." He beamed and turned me around to face him. He raised his hands and cupped my face, wiping away my tears. No, this needed to stop. This physical touch was making it just worse, but what was I supposed to do? 

I stared into his eyes and my heart beat faster than ever before. "It does not matter Ani, Jedi can't have attachments." My words clearly hit him, because he stepped back and let go of me. "That explains everything" He muttered, "You're in love with me." All he did was stare at me and watch me grow red. "Listen Anakin, let's forget this ever happened. My life duty is to become a jedi and that brings consequences. I would give you all the stars, my life even. But not in this reality. Besides you have padmé and-"  

Suddenly an explosion of butterflies entered my stomach, Anakin pushed me against the railing of the yacht and interlocked his soft lips with mine. From shock I grabbed onto the railing, but as soon as my nerves calmed and he grabbed my waist I gave into the kiss. I never wanted it to end, but I knew it was wrong. As his hands traveled me up and down I broke our kiss, and we both caught our breaths. "Ani we can't" I looked at my feet, "You can't do this to padmé and we have rules." My own words hurt me. "I don't love padmé. Every single thing you've seen between us was purely platonic, because she isn't the woman I love." He explained as he stepped closer, "Y/n L/n, you are the most talented, beautiful, smart and kind person i've met in my whole entire existence. I've been dreaming about you since the very first day we saw each other." Anakin's hands now laid back where they were, on my hips. 

"Please say something." his nerves grew, I could sense it. I knew I shouldn't have, but I gave in. I kissed him back with all the passion I had, finally releasing my need and attraction for him. My hands explored his hair and he lifted me up to sit on the railing, closing my legs over his hips. As I slightly opened my mouth he took the chance and slid his tongue in. Our tongues synced perfectly. Oh how I have been longing for this. When we broke apart once again we leaned our foreheads against each other, which didn't take long because Anakin started kissing down my jaw and neck. I held back soft moans by biting on my lip. "Don't be shy darling, let me hear your pretty moans." He said in between the kisses. "What.. What if padmé-"

"Words, y/n." Anakin hit the sweet spot in my neck. "What if padmé.. argh, see us?" Anakin stopped placing hickeys over my neck and brought his lips to my ears. "Then she'll know just how good I, and I only make you feel." He whispered, and I could feel myself getting wetter every second. I felt his lips curl into a smile against my ear, and before I could do anything Ani pulled me off the railing and carried me in bridal style to his room on the yacht, luckily for me not close to padmé's at all. 

He gently laid me down on the bed and locked the door. When he turned back to me his grin was wider than ever before. "I've been longing so long for this, you know?" He spoke as he crawled onto the bed above me. "And see, it paid off." He pecked my lips. "Now, are you going to be an obedient girl for me?" I nodded to him, needing his touch. I moved my hips a little. "So eager for my touch." and with that, Anakin placed hickeys all over my neck again, but this time he sat above me, with my legs in between his.  Anakin got off me a few minutes later, and I could feel my underwear pooling by now. "Undress for me love." I did as he ordered me to, and fuck how he did was hot. I sat up and took off my belt and overtunic slowly, putting on a show for the handsome man in front of me.

Then I took off my undertunic and pants leaving me in my lingerie. I sat on my knees with my hands within my thighs. I watched Anakin bite his lip lightly checking my curves out. "You're beautiful." He whispered and placed his mechanic hand around my throat lightly. "To bad I am going to fucking ruin you." I smiled at him, "I'd like to see you try, master Skywalker." 

As a wolf hungry for its prey he unhooked my bra with his flesh hand and let go of my neck. He kissed down from my chest to my stomach and stopped right above my vagina. I let out a whine of need, eager to be touched at any sensitive point. "Such a needy Jedi, aren't you?" He smirked. "Only for you." I toyed back. "I want to hear my name and moans out of your mouth darling." "Only needy for you, Anakin. Please just fuck me!" "Good girl, have patience." He praised and started to suck on my breast, while massaging the other. My moans filled the room and so did soft ones of his. I felt his bulge through his pants and stroked it, making him moan a tat harder. 

I pushed Anakin from me and topped him. He bit his lip and placed his hands on my hips, wanting to go between my thighs. "Look who is a needy Jedi now." I teased and kissed him. He chuckled and we made out again, only this time I helped him undress. When I reached his boxers I slightly gasped at his size. Seeing this pride filled him. I pulled him from the bed and when we stood he took off my panties for me. "So wet for me." He said as he placed his hand on my fold, making me gasp. He planned to toying with me more because he removed it immediately. I calmed my arms around his neck, "Ani, please." I moaned out. "Please what, y/n?" "Fuck the absolute crap out of me, please." I seductively whispered to him. He didn't hesitate tho, as he positioned me ready on the bed a second later.

He rubbed his dick against my pussy, feeling my wetness. We both moaned out loudly at the physical touch we've been wanting from one and other for so long. "Are you ready my beautiful?" "For you, always."  And he entered. A loud gasp escaped my mouth as my tight walls adjusted to his big size. He moaned and pulled out again slowly. "Fuck you're so tight." Anakin yelped and started thrusting in faster and faster. Loud moans filled the night and by now I was sure Padmé had woken up from it. "Fucking stars- Anakin I'm gonna come!" I yelled out as my nails dug in his soft skin, "Keep doing that." I whined out.

"I'm going to come, oh Y/n." His lips kissed down my jaw. And then a wave of butterflies slid through my body and the sweetest, hardest groan filled the room followed by Anakin's. My eyes rolled back and my mouth opened slightly. His juices filled me up and we placed foreheads against each other. "I love you Y/n." He muttered out of breath. "I love you too Ani." I smiled and kissed him. Anakin got out of bed and walked to the tiny bathroom attached to the room to return with a towel. He cleaned himself and I, and laid down next to me with a peck on my lips. And so we peacefully fell asleep, hugging, drifting away together.

[ichor-and-symbiosis]

Breakfast Blues. (Shigaraki x f!Reader, NSFWish)

Tomura could tell something was off as soon as he entered the kitchen. Your smile felt a little too forced, your eyes a little too hopeful as you plated a bowl of rice and eggs for him, hesitating for a moment to speak. It put him in a sour mood. He didn't like having to pry answers from you.

He usually managed to swipe his breakfast away and go back to his room for privacy, but you were making this increasingly difficult for him lately. It started with inane attempts to get him into conversations with you, which really was a stupid idea, given the fact that he never mustered more than a few grunts in the morning. His growling stomach initially helped fighting you off, but you seemed to have a backbone today.

Gripping the dishes in hand, you offered him a meek smile and asked, "Would you like to eat together?"

His eyes narrowed as he frowned. "Why?" his voice croaked out, scratchy and unpleasant from disuse.

"I just thought it would be nice. You're busy a lot, so ... "

"So?" Your confidence faltered under his scrutinizing stare. Something about your dying smile made him even more irritated, or perhaps confused. And he did not like feeling confused. "I'm hungry, woman."

Sensing his displeasure, you wordlessly handed over the breakfast and looked away. Under different circumstances, Tomura liked teasing you in this state. So secretive and cute, your lips set in a stubborn pout and your chin cast downwards for him to inevitably grip and force your attention back to him.

But he was so damn hungry and he had a game loaded on his computer for his return.

Tomura turned to leave, having decided he waited enough for your comeback. It was only the glaring absence of your shuffling feet and the tinkering of cookware that made him pause for a split second at the threshold. Just a quick glance to satiate his curiosity.

You stood exactly where he left you, still looking away, hands wringing together without anything else to hold. Defeated and hurt. The sting of negative emotions welled up inside him so suddenly that he immediately took off, wishing he had a free hand to scratch his neck.

-

No amount of homecooked breakfast or countless wins could erase his lingering discontent. Tomura tried to ignore that strange encounter with you, burying his thoughts in strategies and shit-talking as he let the time slip away. But try as he might, he just couldn't shake it off. Throwing aside his game console, Tomura leered at the clock and slumped in his chair, annoyed at the realization that you hadn't visited him this whole time.

You were nowhere to be found in the apartment. A cursory glance at his phone showed him a single text from you. I'm going out with Toga. Be back later.

You didn't even send him a heart emoji.

It was a stupid thing to set him off. Everything about today was stupid. You were stupid, he was stupid, his damn neediness was stupid, even the breakfast bowls he brought to the sink were stupid. What kind of world was this, where he, Shigaraki Tomura, successor of Japan's most dangerous criminal, brought his dishes to the kitchen and moped about a goddamn heart emoji.

He needed a drink.

-

It was a testament to his bad mood that Tomura chose to walk all the way to the bar instead of asking Kurogiri to warp him there. His eyes scanned the streets in a vain attempt to track you down among the crowd, but you were nowhere to be found and he was growing anxious by the minute.

Tomura kicked the door open and hopped the counter to pilfer the expensive liquor stash. His taste gravitated towards the most expensive rum in the collection. He could certainly chase his sorrows away with cheap swill or rubbing alcohol, but if he was going to torture his body tonight, then he would do so with style. It was all worthless in the end, anyway.

He sat by himself for who knows how long. It was utterly pathetic and he knew he had better things to do, yet every time he tried to pull himself away from the counter, his head spun uncomfortably and the amber liquid beckoned him towards a numbing buzz. His phone lay abandoned on the counter, having been checked several times for a text or a phone call from you.

You hadn't even called to find out where he was. He had half a mind to wonder if you would walk through the door to surprise him, but there were only so many times he could glance at the door before the urge to disintegrate it took hold. He grabbed the rum bottle instead, messily pouring more liquor into his glass as he ignored the distortion of the air in front of him. He was in no state of mind to stare straight into Kurogiri's spinning portal. The very thought of it made him slam the bottle down and hold onto it for dear life to compose himself.

Kurogiri appeared behind the bar, quietly assessing the state of his charge. He pulled out a rag to mop up spilled liquor and eyed Tomura's heavy movements as he let go of the rum and took the glass in a white-knuckled grip.

"You are alone."

Tomura grunted, taking a swig to avoid conversation. His guardian was smart enough to immediately pick up his mood. It was both annoying and reassuring to see those golden eyes narrow in astute observation.

"It is rare for your lover to be absent."

"..."

A moment of silence. "Forgive me for being presumptuous, but you seem to be more upset than usual."

Tomura snorted. "Yeah, no shit." He stared at the rum glass in frustration, glaring at the alcohol as though it had personally offended him. His fingertips curled around the rim as he lifted the glass and swirled the liquid around, irate at the stretching silence. It was bad enough he had to deal with your petulant absence. Now he had to endure Kurogiri's calm patience, too.

His fingers gripped the glass tighter as he contemplated satisfying his urge to decay, to give him some form of release from the frustration currently plaguing him. The blaring noise of his video games would be a welcome respite from this silence. Instead, he was forced to nurse a headache while Kurogiri made him feel like a child.

All because of you. You had a hold on him even when you were gone. Perhaps even more poignant because you were gone.

"It's fucking dumb," Tomura grumbled. And it was. The situation was so unbelievably ridiculous that he clammed up again, unable to voice his problems lest he fly into a rage over the mental image of your sorrowful eyes and quivering bottom lip.

"What happened?"

"I don't even know. She's been acting weird the past week and it all blew over this morning." His leg jittered restlessly against the footrest. He crossed his leg over his thigh to regain some semblance of control, letting out a sharp sigh as he scratched his neck. "I just wanted some damn breakfast. That's all. And that woman stood there looking like I broke up with her just because I didn't want to eat with her."

"Were you doing something important?"

Oh, he did not like that question. He did not like it one bit.

"I was in the middle of gaming," Tomura growled through clenched teeth. "Don't even try to bitch at me about it."

"That was not my intention. I know how important your lifestyle is to you." Tomura stared at him, feeling his anger somehow slip through the cracks and fizzle away. Kurogiri took the whiskey bottle beside him and poured more into the emptying glass. "Has this happened before?"

"No. Sometimes she tried to keep me there longer with dumb small-talk, but she's never flat out asked. And the damn look on her face when I - " Tomura cut himself off with a frustrated growl. Your defeated expression haunted him once more. He downed the liquor in one go and reveled in the horrible burn tearing his throat apart. "What the hell does she want from me?" he forced out, staring hard into the distance as a sudden sense of shame stabbed him like a knife.

"If I may speculate ... " Kurogiri paused, waiting for his rebuke. When none came, an answer followed. "You are often preoccupied throughout the day. Perhaps she simply misses you and craves your attention."

Tomura opened his mouth and promptly closed it. A bout of dizziness hit him. Was it the alcohol or the crashing realization of how obvious the answer had been?

The logic of Kurogiri's statement was so absurdly simple that it had to be true. Because you really were just so simple. Uncomplicated in your motives, always wearing your heart on your sleeve, and always so flagrantly loving and patient with him. Tomura looked away from Kurogiri, hating how well his guardian knew not only him, but you, too.

A little flame of happiness kindled deep inside him, threatening to chase away the darkness of his bitter emotions. You hadn't been difficult on purpose this morning. You just wanted to spend time with him.

His bleary gaze settled on the monitor resting at the other end of the bar. How would his mentor react to this situation?

The silence coming from the monitor felt altogether different from what he experienced so far. It was uncomfortable and imposing, filling his ears with white noise and clouding his thoughts. Tomura stared at his reflection in the black screen and frowned, hyper-aware of the way his eyes had softened while he thought about you, the way he looked so boyish and tired.

Look at what she is turning you into, the screen seemed to say.

"Shigaraki Tomura." He tore his gaze away from his reflection and met Kurogiri's expressionless face. "Is it a weakness to enjoy feeling wanted?"

His brows furrowed in thought.

-

Tomura made up with you in the most typical fashion. That is to say, he cornered you at home and snuffed out any further talk by devouring your lips with incessant kisses, taking you right on the living room couch and stalking after you to your bedroom for more. It was a love language he knew best, letting you feel his feverish desire with every deep thrust, the firm iron grip of his hands on your soft hips and thighs, his groans and whispered demands for more of you, more of your tight heat and your gentle fingers outlining his scars, touching his rough lips, nails digging into his back as you mewl for more of him.

You were hellfire. There was no liquor strong enough in the world to burn him half as much as his need to tell you he loved you. The words clawed and tore at his chest, inflamed his throat until he choked on them, forcing him to spit out twisted versions of the truth. Cowardly, pathetic half-truths about how you belonged to him, how you were his and his alone.

And you still smiled at him for it. You took all that he gave you and asked for so little in return.

Is it a weakness to enjoy feeling wanted?

The question plagued him throughout the night as your arms held him close, his head pillowed on your chest while he listened to your soft breathing and felt the beat of your heart whispering an answer he could not decipher.

-

Tomura awoke to your absence. It was not a rare occurrence. The split-second paranoia washing over him was not rare, either. He ran from that feeling many times before, immediately sick at the thought of how lonely he felt without you. It was pathetic. He should not feel this way about anyone. He should feel empty, as though you were just a moment of entertainment, an experience to be had and a level to beat in the game of life.

But you were well past that point now. Whether or not he could say it aloud, Tomura was in love. So if you wanted to have breakfast together, then you had better prepare yourself for his morning attitude.

He caught you a little early this time. You were in the middle of stirring an omelette when he crept up behind you, jolting in surprise as he pressed himself to your back and wrapped his arms around your waist.

"Good morning," you greeted him, giving him a peck on the cheek. A light smile played on your lips. "I'm almost done."

Tomura purred a noncommittal response and curled his fingers around your jaw, angling your head back to capture your mouth in a lazy kiss. Your pleased sigh broke off into a stilted noise as he dipped his tongue inside and made sure you felt every slow lick and suck to your lips. His arm tightened in response to you melting against him, mentally debating whether he should let you finish cooking or to find the nearest surface to defile.

A sizzling pop from the frying pan caught your attention. You kissed him hard and returned to your duty, using your spatula to roll the omelette into shape. Your tongue peaked out from your reddened lips as you made a face of mild disgust. "You didn't brush, nasty."

"Didn't stop you though," Tomura countered, grinning at your wry expression.

You spooned the cooked food onto a nearby plate and cracked another egg into the pan. He waited for your invitation, good mood dampening by the second as you settled into your routine without another word. It was an expected reaction, to be fair. He hurt you yesterday and now he was paying for it.

Your questioning glance put him on alert. "Do you need something else?"

He wracked his brain for a response. Something that could keep him here longer without raising further suspicion. "Orange juice."

"It's in the fridge. Can you pour me some, too?"

Tomura forced himself to detach from you, taking his time to complete the task as he watched your progress from the corner of his eye. Cups placed on the table. Orange juice poured at a strategically slow rate. By the time he finished, your breakfast had been plated and you left it unattended to hurriedly put the forgotten box of eggs back into the fridge. Tomura used this distraction to take both plates to the table, setting yours across from him as he plopped down onto the chair and began to eat.

You caught on as soon as the fridge door closed. Tomura could feel your stare on him while he downed the orange juice. He glanced at you nonchalantly, eyebrow raised as though you were the one behaving abnormally.

"You're joining me?" you asked, a hint of hope coloring your voice as you sat down.

"Clearly."

You smiled so sweetly that he felt his heart stammer and restart. "Wow. Can I get you to eat some fruits while we're at it?"

"Don't push your luck," he grumbled, and that was the end of that.

Tomura silently listened to your happy chatter and the clanging of silverware on plates, wondering how the hell he found himself in domestic bliss. Sunlight streamed through the nearby window and illuminated your entire being, heightening your inner glow. You looked beautiful and peaceful. It calmed him far more than you could ever know.

Did he feel weak as he basked in your attention? Did he feel weak, knowing that you wanted him beside you even for the most mundane things?

The answer was undeniable.

He felt strong.

Different from the power trip he thrived on when he succeeded in yet another level.

Different from the sadistic glee he felt when the nomu followed his command.

Different from the sense of duty plaguing his mind when his teammates looked to him for direction.

This inner sense of peace steadied his mind and cleared his thoughts. How could it be weakness when he would tear the world apart for you?

The soft tap of your foot on his knee drew his attention to you. "This was nice," you softly said. "Next time I'll leave a trail of takoyaki outside your room so you can join me for lunch."

He huffed a dry laugh. "Make me botamochis and you got yourself a deal."

"You'll eat sweets made from red beans but not a single fruit ... " You innocently popped another strawberry into your mouth. "Not even these strawberries ... "

"Get over here and give me a taste then," he growled, settling back in his chair with a clear invitation of his own.

You accepted without delay.

[incorrect-ikevamp-quotes]

why does jean warn up to mc so quickly? ikevamp makes it clear that jean is a pretty reserved person and doesn't open up or let people in easily but he seems to let mc in quite quickly and it confuses me quite a bit.

Oh boy, where to begin with this one.

Well, I have a lot of Feelings^TM about this, but I'll try to be concise. Essentially, I think Jeanne doesn't recover in the other routes--or the general storyline--largely because he's just a lot to unpack narratively speaking. And without some pretty direct intervention, he has a hard time healing. MC’s direct intervention was meaningful because it was focused, consistent, and adapted to Jeanne’s specific needs. She also doesn’t make light of his experiences which is key; she fully understands that she can’t fathom what he’s been through. There is a very weighty respect and acknowledgement, a seriousness with which she treats his wounds that’s important.

It’s easy to make this a “why is MC nOt LiKe ThE oThEr GiRlS” but honestly that’s just not the sense I get when I look at all the information available to us. 

That being said, I also just feel like every person's recovery from traumatic events doesn't really look the same? I mean Leonardo’s cptsd isn’t going to operate the same way Jeanne’s wartime/Inquisition cptsd is going to operate. Some people require very individualized healing, others will often require a large scale group effort to lift them up.

Typically people don't ever just get over what happened to them and never worry about it again, either. It's usually a process of coping; the hope is that with time you find healthy ways to deal with grief and move forward. Therapists aren't magicians, they just help people process painful experiences/thoughts. It's honestly up to individuals to find meaningful ways to implement these tactics. 

Tl; dr: My contention is that Jeanne doesn’t open up or choose to stay alive because MC magically heals him, rather his recovery is a convergence of many people’s efforts and hopes that he stays alive. Gilles (he insists that Jeanne must live, asks him to promise), MC (affirms and bolsters that promise), Comte (makes a second life and recovery possible)--and in no small measure Mozart and Napoleon--all make an active effort to buoy him. As people often say, it takes a village to raise a child.

While Jeanne seems to respond most powerfully to MC’s attempts, it feels more like a product of chemistry/compatibility than it does a random cop out. There is no insinuation that only romantic love can heal; after all, MC gets close to him without any romantic intentions at first. They’re just good friends? It’s more that their feelings simply moved in a different direction after a point, which doesn’t necessarily happen all the time. Jeanne is also incredibly moved by Mozart’s love for him as a friend, Comte’s love for him as a father, and even Gilles’ love as a comrade to an extent. If anything, without their input Jeanne’s capacity for romantic love would be questionable at best.

Now, because I can never for the life of me stop analyzing, I have a more large scale outline of my thoughts below. Spoilers for Jeanne’s route:

If we look at Jeanne's life history, he has pretty specific trauma. Most of the harm he endured was a direct result of human rights violations after the war itself. He didn't enjoy fighting and killing people, but he's also very much a man that sees the reality of his position: it's either kill or be killed. His entire goal was to defeat the enemy as efficiently as possible in the hopes of ending conflict, and with his enormous resolve turns the tide. He had no innate interest in inflicting harm, or lack of control when engaging. He isn't pathological about it, and doesn’t dehumanize the other side. He was more "this was an act of necessity, but those are still human beings." So as far as I can tell he has a very strong moral compass and sense of duty, he doesn't show much delusion/confusion in that regard. (Also evident in his conversations with the young orphan boy.) Furthermore, he has been shown to have a sense of humor--cracking jokes with Gilles and boosting morale for his fellow soldiers.

His childhood abandonment is significant (he left his home because he was "not an adequate farmhand and they had no ability to feed all their children") but I don't know if I would consider it a huge trauma point for him. It seems as though he deemed it an act of necessity--not spite. It was simply the way of things, and he couldn't help his wiry constitution. You'd be surprised how common that was once upon a time, tbh... While it's certainly not right or fair, it does appear that in his perception it was the choice he made and he moved on after he became a soldier. Just focusing on what he could do, rather than everything he lacked. For people in his position, they often feel it is useless to linger on what should have been. There’s no time to linger or doubt, life hangs in the balance.

That leaves us with his time under the Inquisition, just before he was slated to be burned alive. I think this is the keystone trauma point for him, because there are a lot of moving parts to his powerlessness here. The first part is that his entire life's mission--ending the war so that people would no longer have to die and/or starve as a result of senseless violence--was just sabotaged. All those years of doing things he never wanted to do (wartime violence) and being forced to leave his family to ensure they didn't all starve, all of it treated like some kind of joke. Like he didn't sacrifice years of his life and sanity to protect a people who were happy to call him a monster and watch him burn alive. The second part is the overt gaslighting and rewriting of Jeanne's personal history (and overall French public perception) for the sake of the King's political agenda. To call him a treasonous danger to the country when he was once lauded a hero. The third portion is the actual physical helplessness of being arrested, starved, and continuously maimed for no reason beyond pure malice. While it's never right to do that to any human being, this was done to a man who prided himself on his stalwart moral code. To abuse and torture him for something egregious that he would never do (at the risk of death) is just another slap in the face to everything he is and believes in.

I just feel like the context clarifies why that period of time would be the tipping point. His entire moral code and life’s work is being called into question and swept aside, as well as his agency? He believes very powerfully in a sense of right vs wrong, what's fair and what isn't fair. Somebody else deciding that for him--and deciding in a way that is openly unfair/incorrect--further makes him lose himself and his sense of reality. A person in that situation begins to doubt if they are good or bad. His belief in god all the more pressing; if he was a good person, why would fate bring him so much suffering? Honorable soldier or not, his blade has drawn so much blood...

People often reference his stilted social skills (and I am of the belief that he is on the autistic spectrum) as a reason why he is so "people-adverse" but tbh? I don't agree. His memories before the onset of this trauma reveal that he was actually a very warm person, and that people were more than willing to fight under his banner. He had friends, and he had comrades--his country loved him. He was the picture of well-meaning civic duty. Just because he doesn’t integrate smoothly into larger social groups or adapt well to socially shifting circumstances, doesn’t mean he just hates people lmao. When people give him the space to exist within his comfort zone and don’t take advantage of him, he thrives. Compounded by that, we also have his actions in the present to further prove what is true and what isn't.

While he is stern with the orphan boy (I'm sorry I can't remember his name, damn it) there is no malice or cruelty in what he has to say. He doesn't punish the kid or do anything out of line. It may not be fair in terms of the adult level of discretion he asks of him, but the kid also didn't have a lot of options realistically speaking lmao. Same thing with MC, she and the orphan boy are nearly identical in how Jeanne treats them. He's a little rough, but the route reveals that his intentions are just a reflection of what he's been through. He truly believes that if a person isn't strong, they won't survive--because his entire life was a series of trying to be strong/reliable because nobody else would. There was nobody to protect him, and nobody to care for him went things went south. It was him and his sword against the world, and even his exceptional skill as a fighter did not protect him from the Inquisition's arbitrary torture. He has lived in a world where good acts can become absolutely meaningless, where following rules and helping people still gets you slaughtered. That's going to take a considerable toll on his mental health: where do you find the will to go on when the next second of your life could mean the devastation of everything that matters to you?

Spoilers: you don't. Or if you do, every minute of the day is a fight to stay alive. That is the point at which we meet Jeanne. Caught in the hellish whirlpool of wanting more, wanting better--but being terrified of the cost. The cost of hoping, only for his entire world to go up in flames again. It's not a small thing, in my view.

If you have any doubts as to whether or not that is the case, I direct you to literally every singular instance in which Jeanne's emotional sensibility goes visibly dark/south. When do these instances happen? When it rains, for one. And when Shakespeare deliberately starts pressing on his sensitivities: about the soldiers he was forced to kill, about the nation that spurned him, how he's truly "wicked" at heart and doesn't deserve to be happy--seconds before flames erupt for the festival. Does that really sound coincidental? I mean lmao. The rain is a painful reminder, but MC transforms that memory into something a little lighter with her bet. He has nothing to lose in her game, all she does is ask for time with him or offers him something if she loses. There's a playfulness there, a restoration of agency and ease that's invaluable to his recovery.

As for Shakespeare's deliberate retraumatization...I can't even begin to explain how damaging that event was. Shakespeare is undermining Jeanne's agency in that he--not unlike the corrupt monarch of Jeanne's era--is twisting Jeanne's beliefs to work against him. He knows full well that Jeanne doesn't feel like he deserves somebody so bright and understanding (we need to remember it's not really a luxury he's had much in life, especially after the war ended). He knows Jeanne has a tendency to impose that strict moral code on himself even more than he does on others. To reaffirm his every worst fear and lurking terror only throws Jeanne into a vicious downspiral. Jeanne doesn't reject MC out of disgust or hate. He rejects her because he literally cannot handle the concept of trying to be happy again, or of burdening her with his constant struggle to move on while he’s in the middle of a bad episode. He knows he won’t be able to stop reliving the past, that every second of his life and breath will be colored by his gruesome memories. He's trying as hard as he can to keep the intrusive thoughts quiet, to move on. But I'm not going to lie to any of you, that is incredibly difficult to do alone.

The next obvious question is, well why can't the other men help him? This isn't to say that they can't--we see how much solace Jeanne finds in Napoleon and Mozart. Even Isaac is gentle with the veteran. But there are limits to how much they can do. Napoleon is struggling with his own wartime trauma, and it's not identical to Jeanne's. Plus there’s a distinct difference in their sensibilities? Napoleon is the type to habitually seek comfort in helping others when he can't help himself, he's not as in tune with answering his own personal feelings and regulating them. (I mean just look at his new ES: he knows what he wants, but it takes a nudge from Isaac for him to go through with it.) He’s very communally reliant in ways Jeanne isn’t; Jeanne is a very private person, and typically prefers one on one from what I can tell.

Mozart is the definition of repression, and if you look at their interactions it's usually Jeanne that's smoothing over Mozart's rough edges. Mozart says as much himself: that he feels like a rotten friend because he knew Jeanne was struggling with a lot of intense trauma, but he didn't know how to unravel it without hurting him in the process. Mozart calls it personal cowardice, but honestly I just feel like they both had too much going on to be able to help each other effectively. (And Jeanne expresses this sentiment too? This idea that he's not angry with Mozart? He knows they're both carrying a lot, he's just touched Mozart cares about him in return.)

Okay, briefly unrelated, but like. Am I the only one that wheezes uncontrollably when Mozart is like "?????? Idk what it is about MC...I don't want her to be scared of me..." in his own main story in the baths. And Jeanne. IS TRYING SO HARD. NOT TO SPILL THE BEANS ABOUT HIM O B V I O U S L Y BEING IN LOVE. THE HILARITY I CAN'T DO THIS. Jeanne was like "yeah....yeah that's rough buddy.......[screams internally, give your boy time Jeanne he's fragile]"

Honestly? That's the thing about Jeanne too--he has incredible self-awareness and hyperarousal-related (I mean the PTSD kind, get your head out of the gutter) awareness to the people around him. He's very, very conscious of the fact that he is surrounded by geniuses when he can't even write his own name. Just because he has the fortitude not to lash out with his insecurities, doesn't mean he never feels stupid or inferior. And it doesn't help when there are people in the mansion who call him--a fucking war veteran from 500 YEARS AGO--nAiVe. He's not naive lmao. He just doesn't know how the world works so many years later, and it's a ridiculously steep learning curve? Leonardo and Comte are nearly 500 years old, but they lived throughout every hour of that time in a linear fashion. It is a big deal to be moved from 1430 to 1890 in the span of a second asynchronously, and then be expected to function without a hitch??? Given the circumstances he adapts well.

That atmosphere--this constant impatience with what he doesn’t understand, his inability to be caught up to speed quickly--is going to hinder his recovery lmao. He feels like a burden most of the time, and agency and freedom are crucial.

Another thing that occurs to me about the mansion's arrangement is that there is a power dynamic, just as any space with people in it has some level of hierarchy (unless you live with miraculously chill people). Jeanne is acutely aware that Comte is the most powerful being in that space, and he is not only hatefully angry at him--but likely afraid too. We have to remember that the biggest betrayal he witnessed in his life was at the hands of a monarch; it was the aristocracy that turned on him and erased the truth. Comte is openly a child that resulted from both that era and that type of lineage, I don't really blame Jeanne for being wary. He intimately knows how willing rich people are to throw normal folks under the bus to suit their ambitions/whims. Comte, while not deliberately threatening, also seems to be painfully aware of this impression he gives off. His "chad persona" as I've mentioned allows him to navigate his life in secret by necessity, but it’s actively damaging to his son. He can't reveal the truth because of Vlad's betrayal, and he's openly unsettled by what it could mean to be honest. Will they wonder about Vlad and find themselves ensnared under his mind control as Charles and Shakespeare are? Will Comte himself be subjected to the mortifying ordeal of being known only to lose them?? That's a risk he isn't willing to take--and that leaves him in a double bind.

What is it that they say, the truth will set you free? This is where MC and Comte come into enormous play when it comes to Jeanne's recovery. One thing to keep in mind is that most of the people in the mansion have their own traumas they're trying to carry, and I feel like a lot of them are unsure how to approach Jeanne. Or if they do, he's very guarded. It takes a lot of consistent effort to get through to him. What does MC do when Jeanne unleashes his harsh worldview on her? She's understandably frightened, but Jeanne isn't malicious (so she chases him around). In fact, he openly avoids and runs away from her--well aware that what he's done is wrong. If anything, he did it on purpose, bringing us right back to Shakespeare's verbal undoing; why does Jeanne attack her in the first place?

LMAO. He attacks her because she essentially says "oh thanks for helping me!" "I am not nice. Watch yourself." "But you seem like a nice guy to me?" "REEEEEE" Does the pattern become a little clearer? When people think kindly of him, his instinct is to shatter that illusion with an impulsive reprehensible act. When people think poorly of him or lash out, what does he do? When that orphan boy starts yelling and screaming, Jeanne is nothing but calm. He explains the situation, and offers the kid a choice, perfectly happy to be the bearer of bad news. This operates on many levels I’m sure, but I have a feeling it has something to do with him being hailed a saint and a war hero only to be tortured and branded a monstrosity (and he probably thinks being a vampire is doubly monstrous). He’s more comfortable being hated because he feels it’s what he deserves in a lot of ways.

Jeanne has a lot of internalized self-hatred because of what he's done, and because of how much harm was inflicted on him outside of his control (he's Catholic and he was tortured, come on this writes itself). If I'm honest, I think that's actually the greater part of why he hates Comte lmao. Comte refuses the very concept of being cruel no matter how much Jeanne lashes out. Sure he lectures him and scolds him, but he never actively limits what's important to him or controls or harms him. Comte fully realizes the tragedy of how Jeanne's life was used by a nation in dire straits, and knows he needs time and acceptance to heal. No matter how dismal or unhappy, Comte doesn't stop--he fully believes Jeanne should have time in his life where he can really live for himself for once. But therein lies the issue, Jeanne doesn't know how to live for himself.

Which brings me to how MC and Comte "heal" Jeanne. I feel like they give him the space he needs to recover, and that's what results in his gentled temperament and happiness. Remember that so much of his main story is MC endlessly chasing after Jeanne. No amounts of his hissing or running or threatening stops her. Even if his refusals are empty of real dislike, they're enough to deter most people. Not MC. She's able to see through to the depths of who he is, and doesn't just use him for her own ends? She actively seeks to teach him (to read and write) to help him settle better in this era, she actively tries to ease his distaste for rain with a well-meaning bet, and she never gives up on him. (Actions mean so much more to him than words in general too, tbh...). Love is more easily defined by work and effort than it is by attraction.

When he has his episode at the festival, sure she's rattled; but that's because she truly believed that he didn't want to be around her anymore. When she notices he really doesn’t want to be followed, she stops like any normal person would. It’s only when she reads his notebook and sees the truth for herself (that he’s given up despite having the same feelings for her) that her determination is rekindled. She doesn't approach him fearfully, doesn't treat him like he's made of glass either. She just wants him as he is--accepts and loves him as he is. Scarred, bloody, exhausted, abrasive, terrified. She doesn't define him by how easy he is to love. That is a huge issue with traumatized people lmao. Because of their maturity, people always just assume they don't need help, or they rely on them to an extent that isn't sustainable. The second they reveal need or that they struggle, people walk away or victim blame them because it’s easier than taking them seriously.

While MC's attempts may be a little more obvious (cherishing his lily field, wearing the hair pin he gave her, careful about his gruesome injury, really listens when he talks about the horrors of his life and accepts that he experienced a level of agony/terror she can never understand, tries to express her feelings no matter his evasion) I think it's also important to consider Comte's large scale effort. I don't say this to undermine MC, I say it because Jeanne's life was defined by a complete lack of security. He left his parents to make their lives easier, he lived in a war that meant life or death any second, and his country's leader branded him a traitor which lead to his endless torture and public execution. Jeanne does not know a life in which safety is the norm. Point blank. He does not understanding going outside and not expecting the worst anymore.

Comte not only understands that level of despair, but treats it with dignity and respect. He fully accepts being hated if it means Jeanne can use that hatred to live on and find a way to heal. And most importantly, when Jeanne begins to move forward with MC and Mozart's help, Comte never once holds it against Jeanne when the truth is revealed. He's not angry, this isn't about reprisal or reparations or revenge. It's just love.

Jeanne doesn't really have a concept of this? His entire life was mostly transactional, defined by strength and efficiency. Nobody gives a damn about your feelings. You either hurl yourself at the problem or die. Nobody is going to help you or carry you or save you. While he may have had a little more support while he was in the military from his fellow soldiers, that support system was ripped away from him during the Inquisition.

One very common sentiment regarding elongated imprisonment and torture is that survival occurs in pairs. It is an undeniable fact that people need others to survive. It is the nature of who we are. Individualism has never proven to be successful, or if it is, its dividends are astronomically minimal when compared to people working together.

What does it mean to be the most reliable, steady person in the room? Usually it just means you don't know how to ask for help when you are no longer capable of maintaining that stance. Napoleon is guilty of it. Leonardo, Comte, and Jeanne all are too. It's part of why MC and Comte's capacity to see what he needs and provide as much as they can is such a big deal. That sort of consistent support (without a constant necessity to beg for help) allows Jeanne to be able to re-integrate into his new reality and find joy. Even if his nightmares and memories never go away, they are now being actively overrun by positive experiences. That's the thing about recovery, really--it tends to be more about drowning out the negative as much as possible and coming to terms with it, than it is about forgetting or never feeling it again. It’s about softening the sharp edges of pain like sea glass.

So is MC magical and randomly got Jeanne to open up? Nah, I don't think so. I think it was a series of persistence and real acceptance of who he is that made him warm up. People really seem to underestimate how deeply affecting understanding is, but that's how damage is undone. Jeanne can't really linger on the idea of his own monstrousness, his unworthiness, a lifetime of misery, when the person in front of him actively listens and cares about him. Makes him laugh and smile and lose himself in warmth for the first time.

If I'm honest, I feel like people also just...underestimate the level of traumatic resurgence that's perpetuated and inflicted by society’s standards in general lmao. This rhetorical structure in which good and bad exist in moral extremes, this idea that people should be able to recover and never experience relapses or periods of sensitivity. The refusal to radically listen to people and their problems, and make active attempts--not matter how small--to mend/ease those hurt feelings. Granted there will always be people in the world who do not want to improve, but I feel like most people want to. It's hopelessness, silence, and stigmatization that remain the true enemies of traumatized/mentally ill people everywhere. And among that population are always war veterans...

[scripttorture]

One of the central characters in a fantasy story I'm writing has torture as part of her backstory. She was captured by an evil race, and one individual in particular put her through a "training" regime designed to turn her into a useful/trustworthy slave. Specifically the goals of the training were:

- destroy her sense of self / agency

- overwrite her ingrained response of healing herself when injured (she has magical healing powers)

- an affectionate or worshipful disposition towards her captors

- immediate obedience to any command

I feel like both physical and psychological torture / mental conditioning are probably appropriate, though I'm leaning away from including sexual abuse. I honestly don't know much about torture at all and the only things that come to mind as producing a result similar to what I'm looking for are the Game of Thrones torture sequence and the use of obdience collars in the Codex Alera book series. The latter is very interesting to me because it is a magical device that inflicts pain in reaction to disobedience but also inflicts pleasure to reward obedience.

I guess I'm just wondering if you have any advice for what kinds of methods would be good to include in a process designed to produce obedience, rather than torture for its own sake or to extract information, as well as if there are any common pitfalls I should try to avoid in writing about such a thing.

The training itself won't be in the book, but I need to be familiar with it for backstory purposes because later in the story this character encounters her torturer again, and is subjected to some further abuse before she finally overcomes her fear and kills him.

Alright well I’m going to be straight up with you: the scenario you’ve presented is a very common torture apologist trope. It’s incredibly unrealistic. And it’s unrealistic in ways that support torture by claiming it can be ‘useful’.

 Which probably means that you’re new to the blog and haven’t heard me give this talk before. That’s OK, we all learn sometime and it’s not my intention to shame you for the fact you’re not as obsessed with this stuff as I am or couldn’t afford to shell out for the books.

 Torture does not produce obedience. The best evidence we have right now suggests it encourages active resistance.

 If you got a lot of your inspiration from Game of Thrones then frankly I’m not surprised you came up with apologia. The torture in that series is incredibly badly handled. And a big part of the point of running this blog is that most people are getting their information on torture from shows like that. Which happens because the research is inaccessible and hasn’t been popularised the way fictional tropes (sometimes fictional tropes literally started by torturers) have been popularised.

 The important thing is what you choose to do now.

 I’m going to break down the problems here and make some suggestions for what you could do instead.

 Firstly: there is no torture or abuse that will guarantee obedience. Pain does not make people meek or compliant or willing to follow commands.

 Torture survivors are not broken.

 They are not ‘controlled’ by their torturers and the suggestion that they are is used in the real world to bar real survivors from treatment. It is also used to bar them from entering safe countries and to argue that they shouldn’t be allowed visas or passports.

 The best statistics we have for any sort of compliance under torture come from analysis of historical French data where torture was used to try and force confessions (something we know torture can sometimes do).

 The ‘success’ rate averaged at 10%. Under torture 90% of people will not comply long enough to sign their name.

 Secondly: torture does not and can not ‘make’ a victim feel ‘worshipful’ towards their torturer. The suggestion is kind of like asking if someone can tap dance immediately after removing the bones from their legs.

 Torturers have no control over a victim’s emotions. They have no control over their symptoms. They have no control over their beliefs.

 And there is no such thing as a torture that can change someone’s mind in a way torturers can control.

 Once again, this fictional trope is used by politicians and the media to justify marginalising real torture survivors.

 I have read hundreds, possibly thousands, of accounts from torture survivors. I’ve read historic and modern accounts. I’ve read accounts from all sort of people from all over the globe. I have never seen a survivor say anything positive about their torturers. I have never seen anything close to toleration.

 A lot of survivors are blisteringly angry at their torturers. A lot of them feel overwhelming levels of spite and some report literally putting themselves at risk of death in order to spite their torturers. And yes, a lot of them are afraid too. None of these emotions are mutually exclusive.

 Affection is impossible. We are not wired that way.

 Thirdly: I understand that ‘evil races’ are a long standing fantasy trope but it would be remiss of me if I didn’t mention the racism inherent in that idea. That some people are ‘born bad’.

 I’d strongly suggest you look up the Black, Indian and First Nations people that I know are on this site critiquing these kinds of fantasy tropes. Because they will be able to explain it better then I can.

 Fourthly: the term ‘psychological torture’ is a pretty common dog whistle for torture apologia.

 Most of the time tortures that people dub ‘psychological’ are things with real, physical effects that lead to lasting injury and death. They just don’t tend to leave obvious external scars. I use Rejali’s term ‘clean torture’ for these techniques. Researchers distinguish them from scarring tortures because they are harder to detect and prove in court.

 The majority of survivors today will have experienced clean torture. They will have no obvious physical scars. But they will still be disabled. They’re ‘just’ less likely to see any form of justice for it.

 Fifthly: torture is a terrible training method because it decreases a person’s ability to learn.

 Torture causes memory problems. It also often causes lasting physical injuries that make performing basic tasks more difficult. And it causes a lot of serious psychological problems which make performing basic tasks more difficult.

 A trained person who was never tortured will always out perform someone whose training involved torture.

 I probably sound quite angry here.

 I write fantasy and I also write about torture a lot. But I can’t imagine that it’s just flavour for a fantasy world or some artefact of the past. Torture is a real, present threat in the country that I grew up in. If I was to return now I could, literally, be tortured and executed.

 If you want to include torture in your world, in your story then you are committing to telling someone else’s story. You are representing an incredibly marginalised group of people and you are presenting that representation to a third group, one that has never had contact with real torture survivors.

 Are you comfortable with the idea of telling your peers that survivors are still controlled by ‘the enemy’? That they’re passive? That they don’t have the capacity to make their own decisions?

 Are you comfortable knowing that the popularity of this message keeps millions of genocide survivors in refugee camps, blocked from citizenship, aid and safety?

 I understand feeling attached to a story and a character. And I understand that this information is hard to find. Hell I’m probably going to end up with the only English copy of one of the pivotal textbooks because I’m shelling out to get it translated.

 You say you want to write a torture survivor. With respect I don’t think you know what a torture survivor looks like.

 I think the most helpful, and kindest, thing I can do here is describe what torture does to people. Because I can’t tell you whether that’s something you want to write. I could try and rebuild this scenario for you (and if you decide you’re interested in that after reading all of this and all the links then I suggest looking through the blog tags for ICURE, torture as training, Black Widow and Overwatch.) But I think you need to decide whether you actually want to write a torture survivor first.

 Here’s a post on the most common torture apologia tropes.

 Here’s the post on the types of memory problems torture commonly causes. I strongly recommend picking at least one.

 Remember that this would never go away. Improvement and recovery in torture survivors means learning to live with symptoms. The symptoms themselves are permanent.

 It’s a hundred different alarms set up on their phone to try and make up for the forgetfulness that makes them miss appointments. It’s the little bottle of perfume in their pocket to bring themselves back to reality when they get intrusive memories at work.

 Here’s a post on the other common symptoms.

 You want something in the range of 3-5 of those, though more are likely if your character is held for years. Each of them should be severe. Every single symptom should have a large, negative, impact on the character’s daily life.

 Do you know anyone with chronic pain? It warps their world. Work can become impossible. Basic household tasks like getting dressed, cooking, cleaning the dishes are done through gritted teeth or not at all. Hobbies and ‘fun’ activities dwindle as they struggle to find a way to do them that doesn’t hurt. Interaction with other people, even loved ones, can easily become barbed.

 Because the pain makes everything more difficult. It means everything takes more energy, more effort. Which means that things fall by the wayside, whether that’s by a pile of mouldering dishes in the sink or snapping at a child. It means tears and the social judgement that follows them. It means the world narrowing as it gets harder to go out.

 Do you see what I mean? Every part of life.

 That’s an example for one symptom. You need to work out at least four. Then figure out how they interact. Then figure out what the character can do to make her life better.

 With chronic pain that can mean painkillers but it’s always more then that. It’s re-learning how to do things; how to put on trousers without aggravating the bad knee, how to sew with one hand. It means learning to cut down on what they do and it means learning a new sort of flexibility; accepting that there are days when the pain is too much.

 It can mean having the same conversation about disability over and over again. With family, with friends, with colleagues. ‘I can’t do that.’ ‘I can do that sometimes but not always.’ ‘That will hurt me.’ ‘I can’t use that chair.’ ‘I can’t get my arms that high above my shoulders.’ ‘I need help with this.’

 And that sometimes means learning a kind of patience that is really barely held back rage. Or perhaps I’m projecting a little with this last one.

 If you’ve never met a torture survivor, if you’ve never looked at a survivor’s work, then all this is difficult. You’re trying to imagine something from first principals with nothing to fall back on.

 So let’s bring some survivors into the discussion here. Some reality.

 Who’s listened to Fela? How about Bobi Wine?

 Fela Kuti was the father of modern Afro beats music. He was tortured multiple times and during one attack, which destroyed his home, his mother was murdered by the military. When he got out of jail Fela marched her funeral procession past the biggest barracks in Nigeria’s biggest city. He wrote two songs about this attack and he doubled down on his opposition to the military government.

 Fela’s music started causing riots.

 You can read what I have to say about him here. You can listen to his music on youtube.

 Here’s an interview with Bobi Wine, which was conducted shortly after he was tortured in Uganda. He talked about how he was determined to go back and continue fighting. Which he did. He even ran against the president.

 I’ve also got a short piece on Searle who was a cartoonist captured by the Japanese during World War 2. His drawings of what happened in To the Kwai and Back are worth seeing. Especially if you want to write atrocities on this scale. They will show you the scale and how to focus on the small, human elements despite that overwhelming scale.

 Alleg’s The Question is pretty much a must, it’s one of the most thorough accounts from the Franco-Algerian war.

 Monroe’s A Darkling Plain is also a must, it’s a series of interviews with survivors of various different conflicts and atrocities. Some are torture survivors. Some are not. It is essential reading because it shows the variety in survivors as well as giving a sense of their lives beyond the symptoms.

 Finally Amnesty International has literally hundreds of interviews and studies available for free online.

 The most important decision for any story with regards to torture is whether it should be there at all.

 So much of this topic is intimidating and so much of it is difficult to write. Not just in the ‘oh this is horribly effecting’ sense but in the ‘I have twelve things to juggle in this simple scene’ sense.

 Ask yourself what torture adds to this character and this story. What does this backstory actually give this character?

 Because if the point is to have her vulnerable and then ultimately triumphing violently over her attackers I don’t think you want a torture scenario. You could get the same thing from a bad guy trying to drug her and having the kidnapping fail when she fights him off, clumsy but effective nonetheless.

 And she could still come out of something like that traumatised.

 Right now I really don’t see this adding anything but torture apologia to your story.

 Handling torture well in a story means accepting that it can’t be the same story without it. It means watching the characters and narrative warp under the weight of it. It means lasting effects, for all the characters and for the world itself.

 I believe you are capable of writing that if you want to, pet. But this ain’t it.

Edit: I’m having trouble seeing the beginning of the answer here. Can anyone let me know if there are formatting issues again please? The first word in the htmal is ‘Alright’ but what I’m seeing on tumblr starts 8 paragraphs in.

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Disclaimer

[julemmaes]

honeybee

this is a following to my modern au nessian called drivers license (part one)

A/N: YOU REMEMBER WHEN I TOLD YOU I WASN'T SURE I WOULD'VE FINISHED DRIVERS LICENSE? CAUSE IT WAS LONG AND IT WAS TAKING A TOLL ON ME. WELL, FUCK ME. I DIDN'T KNOW REAL PAIN UNTIL I HAD TO FINISH THIS

the song this fic takes its name from is called honeybee and it's by the head and the heart

warnings: abusive household, description of violence, hospitalization

have fun I guess;)

Word count: 9,246

the day

When Nesta had broken up with Cassian in the middle of the night all those years ago, she had never imagined that her life would change so much.

Looking at the sparkling ring around her finger, with that delicate tiny diamond set in the equally fine and elegant silver band, she couldn't help but think that she had made the right choice when he had gotten up and decided to leave.

She had never regretted that call and she certainly wasn't starting to on her wedding day.

five years, three months and eighteen days before

Nesta had mentally prepared herself to see him once the door opened. She had prepared herself to see his dark hair tied back in a tousled bun and his thick eyelashes framing his equally dark eyes, still they would sparkle upon seeing her - as they had done every time since the day he had found her on that library's floor.

What she hadn't expected to find on his doorstep though, was the girl with blonde hair and long slender legs bare of any clothing and her torso covered by a t-shirt that Nesta recognised as one of Cassian's. A shirt she had worn several times over the months they had been together.

He looked into her face and it was hard not to notice the imprint left by the pillow on her cheek, her tired eyes still heavy with sleep. She had been sleeping.

Nesta glanced towards the living room, completely visible from where she was standing, and any hope she'd had at that moment that Mor was sleeping on the sofa vanished into thin air like smoke when she saw no pillows on the cushions. No blanket.

She looked back at Mor, who was now staring at her with a dumbfounded expression, as if she didn't believe she was standing there in front of Cassian's house. If she wasn't sleeping on the couch, it only meant she was sleeping in his bed.

He didn't have guest rooms, she knew that.

She was sleeping in his bed.

Her ears began to buzz and Nesta's vision fogged as she tried not to scream.

She had known.

Pursuing her lips into a thin line, she lifted her chin upwards a little, daring the girl in front of her to say something, and then turned, starting to walk towards her car, poised never to return.

She could feel her heart beating in her chest like a war drum and every step she took felt like her legs gave out a little more.

She was tired. She hadn't been able to sleep for weeks. To eat, study, read.

Nesta had died again under the unrelenting weight of the loneliness that had found peace the moment Cassian had set foot in her life and that had swept through her existence like a hurricane, turning upside down everything beautiful she had managed to find.

She felt the sting of emotion build in her throat, the ever-growing knot of tears that couldn't wait to be released, that Nesta knew would explode as soon as she stepped into the car and his house was out of sight.

She was sleeping in his bed.

She had just tightened her fingers around the keys when she heard it, Morrigan's ringing voice, calling her, and then her hurried footsteps behind her. Nesta turned.

"You're making a mistake."

Her eyebrows shot up, "Sorry?"

Mor seemed to flinch at the tone of her voice, "You're making a mistake." Nesta had to laugh and didn't hold back the stunned chuckle that escaped her control as the blonde continued, "You shouldn't leave."

She seethed, "You're wearing his clothes." she pointed out, taking a step forward and then another, forcing the other to walk backwards. She looked into her eyes, frowning, "You were sleeping in his bed only a few minutes ago," her words spoken in a whisper, but the poisonous emotion and hatred that laced the words conveyed everything Nesta was feeling, "why would I stay?"

Mor remained silent, studying her face, "Cass should be here any minute."

The way she said his name. Cass, like she had some kind of dominion over his person. Like she was the only one who knew him.

Nesta couldn't stop the words before they were out, "Why?"

And this time she wasn't asking her why she should stay, wait for him to come back. No.

She took another step forward, "Why did you let him lie to me? Why did youlie to me?"

The dull, dormant pain she'd felt that month woke up like a child pulled from sleep by a nightmare and hit her full in the chest. That emptiness that should have been filled with anger, jealousy, betrayal.

"Why not ask him to leave me? Why steal someone else's boyfriend?"

And at those words, she recoiled, because it wasn't true. Morrigan had never stolen Cassian from her.

Cassian had never been hers in the first place.

The girl opened her mouth to reply, but Nesta didn't give her time to speak and raised a hand, continuing, "Cause I ask myself that every night. I wonder what he sees in you," she laughed, letting out a choked breath as her eyes filled with tears, "What else do you have? You're older, it's true. You're prettier, blonder, taller. Perfect." she spat that word out in disgust.

"And you know what? I knew it. God, I knew it and I was pretending not to. The way his gaze would occasionally wander when we were talking or the mornings when he'd arrive at school in his clothes from the day before because he'd been to your place and hadn't slept." she clenched her hands into fists and smiled mischievously when she saw Mor swallow.

She was about to attack, to bite, to strike wherever she could to regain the dignity that had been stripped from her, but a deep, surprised voice interrupted her, "Nesta?"

She stiffened, turning around slowly. She didn't want to say anything, she just wanted to run to her car, get on and drive away, but what was in front of her knocked the breath out of her.

Nothing. There was nothing of the man she had loved in front of her now. The ghost of what Cassian had been no more than forty days before.

His eyes were slightly wide and that excited glint Nesta had hoped to see when he opened the door was just a miserable memory, because the hazel brown she loved so much was gone, covered by an opaque veil of sadness and pain she saw every day in the mirror.

Her gaze fell on the slightly hollowed cheeks and deep dark circles under his eyes, the messy, grimy hair, the dirty clothes that looked like they hadn't been changed in days, and finally to the cast around his left arm.

"What happened to you?" she asked in a weak voice.

He sighed and his eyebrows drew together. His shoulders visibly sagged and then the bag he held in his right hand fell to the ground as he took a step forward, "Nesta." he breathed.

She looked into his eyes, "What did you do?"

He gave a half-smile, bringing his free hand to his broken arm, "I-" then chuckled, "You're here."

"Cassian." Mor's voice made them both turn, but Nesta's eyes quickly went back to the man.

She needed to know if he was going to enter the house with her or listen to her, should she speak.

It was as if he hadn't even heard the blonde. "How are you?" he asked her, taking a step towards her.

Nesta couldn't connect her brain to her mouth, she was like a broken record when she asked, "What happened to you?" because Cassian wasn't well. And she wasn't talking about the broken arm or the dirty clothes, she was talking about the light that she saw was going out even now with every passing second.

She couldn't move, but she wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he came to his senses.

"Nothing," he said with that stupid weak smile on his lips, "you came here- do you want to talk? Can we talk?"

She heard Mor inhale sharply and then saw her walk around her until she was in front of him, and although they were close, Nesta couldn't hear what she said. She felt her heart break a little more and wondered how it was possible that it wasn't already sand in her chest. All she knew was that Cassian stiffened and swallowed twice when Morrigan finished talking to him.

"I should go." she managed to whisper, torturing her fingers.

He shook his head, taking a step forward and the blonde's hand snapped on his arm. Both their eyes fell on that touch and Nesta couldn't take it anymore, she had to go. The grip of her lacquered nails around his jacket was overbearing, possessive, but it was also familiar to his body and he wasn't retreating.

She took a step back, intending to run away and never return, and lost her balance, stumbling on the grass of the flowerbed. She opened her eyes wide and saw the way Cassian lunged forward to catch her, but Nesta was already on the ground. She cursed under her breath and the urge to cry only increased when she realised she had fallen onto a yellow rose bush.

Nesta burst out laughing at the irony of the picture they were composing at that moment.

"Nes, are you alright?"

If it hadn't been for Elain explaining to her the meaning of flowers every spare minute of her days, she would never have laughed, but the fact that she was now removing the thorns of a plant that represented jealousy and betrayal while standing in front of the man she loved and the girl who had managed to take him away from her was comical.

She stood up perhaps a bit too quickly as her head spun wildly and a myriad of black dots blurred her vision. She staggered a little and it didn't escape Cassian's attention as he moved even closer and wrapped his hand around her wrist. Nesta held her breath at the touch of his skin, so warm, so rough.

He was looking at her with a wrinkled expression and she just wanted the ground to swallow her whole when he asked, "Have you eaten today?"

She looked at him in amazement for a second, breathing out a laugh and then turned her head to the side, biting her lip. Because of course he was going to find out. That Nesta was no longer living.

After all, this Nesta, the Nesta who was now staggering around like a desperate drunk in his front yard, was the same Nesta he had met on that library floor.

She snatched her hand from his grasp and without looking at him walked towards the car, "Goodbye Cassian."

"Nesta, what- where are you going?" he asked her, following her, his hands raised as if he could grab her, keep her with him once he reached her.

She turned her head and caught him by surprise as he jerked back when she pointed a finger at him, too close. "I'm leaving and I have no intention of coming back. Don't follow me. I was wrong to come here in the first place."

The shock on his face was like receiving a punch in the gut. He lowered his arms, defeated.

"Why are you here?" he said softly. And it was as if he wasn't really asking the question. It was as if his mouth had finally decided to speak the words that had been rumbling around in his head until that moment.

Nesta shook her head and a weak sob broke her breath, "I can't."

Cassian stood there as she made her way to her car and when she finally touched the door and opened it, feeling the relief of freedom, he met her gaze from over the roof. She met Mor's gaze and felt the world crash down on her again. Heavier. More imposing.

Cassian took a step forward, "Why are you here?"

And Nesta exploded, "Cause I still fucking love you."

Her voice broke on the last word and she didn't even notice as tears began to stream down her face, "Because I still love you!" she screamed, slamming the door and spinning around the car, "Because I love you and I don't have-" a sob broke the sentence, "And I'm not okay! But you seem to be doing just fine without me!" she squealed even louder, bringing a hand to her chest. "I'm hurting! I'm hurting and I'm alone! And I miss you!"

She couldn't see it, but his eyes were glazed over too, and as he slowly approached her, a lone tear slid down his cheek.

"Fuck!" she cursed, turning around again and opening the door. She took a deep breath amidst the crying and looked at him, really looked at him, trying to memorize every detail, "Goodbye."

He shook his head, "No."

And Nesta waited no longer, got into the car and drove away.

five years, three months and seventeen days before

Nesta

"How did you find my house?" asked Nesta, clutching her sweatshirt to her chest.

Mor, in all her beauty and poise, stood at the door of her house, with her own clothes on this time.

"Hi Nesta." she said, biting her lip. Not out of embarrassment, to keep herself from saying anything else.

She didn't move, "How did you find my house?"

"I'd like to talk to you," she continued, still ignoring her question.

"It's hard to talk to a person if you keep ignoring what they say."

The blonde closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, "I know where you work, I followed you here."

Nesta's eyebrows shot up, "I could report you for stalking."

Mor gave a tight smile, "But you won't. Can we talk?"

Nesta felt the sudden urge to call the police, just to show her that she could, but she only said, "Why would we?"

"Because yesterday after you left, Cass tried to get in the car and follow you and he can't drive," Nesta found herself nodding thinking about his broken arm, weakened from the sleepless night, surely not because she wanted Mor to know she agreed with her. "I had to pull him out of the car by force to keep him from killing himself against a pole. I've never seen him so shaken up in my life and-"

Nesta interrupted her, "I don't know why you think it's my problem. You're his girlfriend now, the fact that you're coming to me for advice is concerning." then she stepped back, clasping her hand around the door to slam it in her face.

The audacity...

"Cassian still loves you."

She froze, holding her breath and looked Mor in the eye. She chuckled softly, shaking her head, "No, he doesn't."

The blonde huffed, bringing a hand to her forehead and moving a strand of hair, "I'm not his girlfriend anyway."

Nesta smiled sarcastically, "That too, the fact that you can't define your relationship, isn't my problem and I'd rather you leave."

Mor laughed in shock as her eyebrows shot up, "You're unbelievable," then she frowned, taking a step forward to push the door open, "Cassian and I aren't together. We never have been and I'm fucking lesbian."

Nesta's eyes widened in surprise, then she quickly recovered from her astonishment and shook her head, "It doesn't change anything."

"Doesn't it?"

"No, Morrigan," it was the first time she'd said her full name. That she was saying it directly to her, "It doesn't change anything because he would still leave in the middle of the night to come to you," she shifted her weight on her left foot, "It doesn't change anything because he chose you every day and I'm sorry I didn't realize that sooner. It would have saved everyone a lot more time and effort." then she held up a hand when she opened her mouth to retort, "And I don't care if you're lesbian or not. Cassian loves you and if he doesn't love you with words, he certainly does with actions."

Mor stared into her eyes for a while, silently, then nodded slowly, shifting her gaze to the houses around hers. She adjusted her sunglasses in her hair and then looked back at her, "Can I come in?"

"Why."

"Please, I just want to explain why what happened happened. And why things have changed or are changing, but I can't do that in half a minute and-" then she frowned, wincing, "Look, I'm not doing this because I particularly like you, but because Cassian has saved my life more times than he thinks and than he takes credit for. Talking to you is the least I can do to repay him in some way."

Nesta felt something tug at her heart and for a moment she thought about slamming the door in her face and going back to the couch to watch a black screen, but then she remembered the sleepless nights she'd spent thinking about what she could do. For her, for Cassian... to the person in front of her who was begging her to let her in, and she stepped aside.

The surprise on Mor's face was a small victory on Nesta's part, but she quickly recomposed herself, closing the door behind her once she was in the house and telling her to follow her into the living room.

And despite the situation, Mama Archeron had not raised her daughters to treat guests badly. She forced herself to say, "Can I get you anything? A drink, maybe water, I have wine if you want."

Mor gave the imitation of a smile, "I'd take something stronger, but I have to drive. Just water will do, thanks."

Nesta walked out of the living room and into the kitchen, and once inside she leaned against the table with both hands, breathing hard as if she had run a marathon. What was she doing?

She had let Morrigan, the reason for her break-up with the man she loved, into her house.

She closed her eyes, clenching her jaw, begging her body to relax, and then, when she realised it wouldn't take anyone that long to pick up two glasses and a bottle, she moved.

Walking back to the living room was like walking a thousand miles without ever eating, sleeping or drinking and by the time she sat down, she was exhausted. That conversation could have settled everything as well as confirmed any worries and erased any doubts Nesta had about leaving that city forever.

Mor drank a whole glass of water before she started talking and it didn't take long for her to realise that the girl was just as nervous as she was. The agitation evident only in the twirling motion of her ankle as she sat with her legs crossed.

She took a deep breath, "I've never talked about this with anyone but the boys." Nesta realized he was talking about Azriel and Rhysand, as well as Cassian. "So understand if I stop now and then, these aren't things I tell lightly."

She could only nod.

Mor cracked her fingers, then took a deep breath and brought one hand up to massage her right eyebrow, where Nesta had always noticed the small white scar that kept hair from growing there. It was the only thing that people could tell wasn't beautiful about the girl, but Nesta had never believed anything other than that it only added to her curiosity in getting to know the deity she actually was.

Every positive thought she'd ever had about that tiny scar disappeared as Mor began to speak and a horrible feeling clutched her stomach in an iron solid grip.

"My father is an alcoholic."

Nesta didn't react. She didn't know if she should say anything.

"He always has been. Even before I was born. I don't know how my mother ended up in a relationship with him, but she's a lost cause too. She started using drugs when I was around six. I still remember it like it was yesterday.

"Keir, my father, has also always been a violent man." Mor took a shaky breath, swallowing, "He did this to me," she whispered brushing the mark on her face, "when I was fourteen and got my period for the first time. He broke a bottle on my head-"

The fact she’d gotten her cycle so late only sprouted more doubts in Nesta’s mind while her thoughts ran wild, picturing a malnourished little girl in that broken home.

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to," Nesta interrupted her, looking her in the eye, "I know you're trying to help me understand, that you're trying to help Cassian, but-"

Mor put a hand on her arm, blocking her, "Don't worry about it." she gave her a weak, sad smile, "I know I said I didn't like you, but Cassian loves you." seeing that Nesta was about to interrupt her one more time, she tightened her grip on her arm, "He loves you. And if this conversation ends the way I want it to, you'll be around for a long time to come. So you'd better be aware of everything, don't you think?"

There was something in Mor's voice that Nesta couldn't identify. She remained silent, contemplating her words, but then nodded weakly.

"There have been so many other episodes and I still bear the marks of most." she lowered her voice, clenching her fists several times. "If I'm here to tell you about them now though, it's only because of Cassian."

Nesta braced herself for what was to come.

Mor bit the inside of her cheek, "All the times he came to me in the night, all the times he left you alone at the last minute or had to come away in the middle of your dates... he was coming to save me." she said with teary eyes, "For years, they took turns as to who should come each time, between him and Rhys and Az. But when the other two had to leave a couple of years ago and only Cass stayed here, well," she sighed, propping an elbow on her knee and resting her forehead on her hand, "I feel guilty every day for what they do, what he does. I don't know how I'm ever going to repay him for everything he's managed to save in my life. My life itself. So I need you to understand that it's not his fault."

She looked into her eyes and Nesta was so shocked by everything she had just been told that she couldn't respond.

"The night you broke up with him," she resumed after a few moments, bringing a hand up to the neck of her jumper and shifting the fabric, revealing a portion of jagged skin just below her collarbone. The only evidence of just how bad the cut she had suffered must have been. "-I was going to die. Literally. I called the police so many times, Nesta, they never did anything. I didn't even try that night."

A rush of anger raced through her body at that truth. She knew she wasn't lying.

"My dad found out I liked girls, somehow, and things escalated quickly. My mom was half passed out on the couch and he had just come home," she paused abruptly, frowning. "The boys came into the house after I managed to lock myself in my room and while Az and Rhys were thinking about me, Cassian tried to take Kier down, that's why the broken arm."

Nesta's eyes went wide. For it to come to breaking a bone... it must have been a long night for everyone, frightening and scarring. She looked up at Mor, placing one hand on the one still on Nesta's arm and smiled reassuringly at her, but with a serious expression.

Mor returned the squeeze.

"I'm staying at Cassian's now, at least until the others find proper accommodation. We're all looking for a flat together so Cass can finally be free of us all." she said, fixing her eyes in hers, "From me. From everything."

Nesta nodded, then cleared her throat, finding her throat dry, "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" Why didn’t he, were the unspoken words.

Mor bit her lip, "It's my fault," she said apologetically, "I've been dealing with the opinion and criticism of the rest of the world my whole life. I didn't know you and all the guys' exes were always very quick to judge me without knowing anything at all about me. By the time I realised you weren't like the others it was too late."

"You can flip me off if this question is too personal, but why didn't you move out sooner? Why stay in that house if..." she didn't know how to finish the sentence, but it was enough to make the other answer.

"They controlled all my money and I was in no position to ask for financial support from the boys. I couldn't find anyone willing to help me get back what was mine by right, but we're looking for a way now. Az just got a job at a law firm, he just needs to convince them to take the case on probono." she smiled tensely and Nesta could tell that even that small act of generosity from her friend was weighing heavily on her.

Nesta ran her hands over her face, taking a deep breath as each piece fell into place and each question mark disappeared. Now that she knew the truth, it all made more sense.

But did that change things between her and Cassian? Did it change the fact that he had lied to her, despite for good reason?

She didn't have an answer.

But she did understand Mor. She understood why she had asked him not to tell her anything. It was the same reason she had never told anyone about Tomas except Cassian.

Looking at her out of the corner of her eye, as she poured herself another glass of water and drank it in one go, she made a decision.

She owed it to the person sitting next to her, to give Mor something back for the trust she’d put in her, she’d tell her everything about Tomas, her mother. The way her family had managed to heal and left her behind, alone, until Cassian.

She was about to open her mouth when Mor's phone rang and an amused smile appeared on her face. She lifted the phone so Nesta could see the caller's name and wrinkled her nose, "His ears must have been ringing, hmm?"

Mor chuckled and then answered, "Hello?"

In the deathly silence of the house, Nesta clearly distinguished the man's words.

"Mor, I'm so sorry about last night, we didn't mean to get drunk like that, I promise it won't happen again. I didn't think about what you would-"

"Calm down you overbearing mother hen," Mor said harshly, "but yes, it won't happen again."

"Where are you? Come home so I can make it up to you somehow."

The blonde smiled wickedly and looked at her nails before saying, "I'm at Nesta's."

A pregnant silence made its way into the room.

"What do you mean?"

"We're talking," the girl continued undisturbed.

Nesta had to restrain herself from laughing because she could well imagine the expression on his face at that moment.

"Mor, stop bullshitting."

"I'm not bullshitting, I'm serious, listen," and then she pushed the phone towards Nesta, who's eyes went wide, shaking her head. Mor nodded at her and she murmured a weak, "Hello, Cassian." before the blonde retracted the phone, bringing it to her ear again. "See?"

"What the fuck."

"Don't worry, I'll be home in less than ten minutes. I think." then she eyed Nesta, covering the microphone with one hand as Cassian began to insult her in every way imaginable. "Do you want to come with me?" she asked her with a hint of hope in her tone, "To talk to Cass maybe? I understand if you don't want to come, maybe you need more time."

But Nesta knew the truth now, and that seemed to be enough, so she nodded and smiled slightly at her. She owed it to Cassian too, to let him explain everything too.

Mor let out a squeak of happiness and then interrupted the list of insults that kept flowing from the phone, "Correction, we will be home in ten minutes."

“Morrigan-”

“Take a shower, we’ll be there in the blink of an eye.”

And then she ended the call without even saying goodbye.

Nesta snorted, "You gave him a heart attack."

Mor smiled at her, clapping her hands, "Do you need to get ready too?"

She looked at her clothes and thought that yes, she should have showered too, but furrowed her brow and grimaced, looking at her, "Actually, I wanted to apologize first. I know what it's like not to have the courage to talk about your problems and I know it must have been hard to talk to me. So thank you and sorry for calling you a cheating bitch."

Mor's eyes went wide, "He never told me-"

"Oh no, he doesn't know, but I felt the need to apologise for that too." she smiled sweetly.

The other burst out laughing and then they stayed at Nesta's for another good half hour, talking about their own terrible experiences with men, shedding a few tears and offering words of comfort only when necessary. They didn't notice how much time had passed until Az called Mor, asking if everything was all right. Overbearing mother hens, the blonde had said once the call had ended, but Nesta had gone to get dressed and now they were going to Cassian's house together.

Something had changed and she no longer felt the urge to slam Morrigan's head against the edge of the table every time she saw her, but things with Cassian would take weeks, months, before they were back to normal.

Or at least she thought so.

Cassian

"Cassian, where did you put... what the fuck are you doing?" asked Azriel as he entered his room.

His head snapped up, only giving his older brother a glance before he returned with his fullest attention to the room. He was running from side to side, tidying up as fast as he could, but with a broken arm, swamped with dirty laundry and cans poised on his fingers, he probably looked crazy now.

"Nesta is on her way here."

Azriel's eyes went so wide that for a moment he thought they were going to pop out of his head, "Meaning what?"

"Meaning that Morrigan," he grunted his friend's full name, wrinkling his nose when he found a pair of dirty underwear under the bed, "went to Nesta's house to talk and now she's bringing her here to-" he threw his arms up, dropping everything he'd picked up and feeling a note of pain in his left, but he didn't pay attention to it, "I don't know what she's bringing her here for, but this house is a mess and I have to shower and tidy everything up and find a way not to go crazy and make her-"

He froze suddenly again, feeling a gag of vomit rise in his throat after the unreasonable evening where they had probably scared Mor with all the alcohol they had ingested.

Azriel sighed, running a hand through his hair, "How long did she say they'd be here?"

Cassian shook his head, "I have no idea. I stared at the phone for ages after she hung up." he narrowed his eyes. "I need to wash up."

The other nodded, "Why don't you go take a shower and I'll clean up here? Rhys went out this morning and I don't have a clue where he is." he warned him, pushing him towards the bathroom.

Cassian had only grunted a vague reply to him and then gone to get ready and was genuinely shocked when he had come out and the house was actually all clean. He imagined that the two years he'd spent in the house with Rhys had paid off. He remembered how dirty and messy their room had been when they all still lived together.

He was tucking a t-shirt over his head when he heard Mor's ringing laughter followed by Nesta's controlled, but still lovely, laugh. Then Azriel said something else and they both burst into louder laughter and Cassian felt his heart tighten in his chest.

These last few weeks had been devastating.

When Nesta had told him to leave and never return, he'd had no choice.

It had been a matter of deciding between Mor's life and his relationship with Nesta, and as much as he loved her, there would be no way to convince his girlfriend that she had to go, that she couldn't let her friend get beaten up again. Or worse.

When he'd arrived at Kier's house, it had taken all his self-control not to grab the man's head and slam it against the wall and get it over with once and for all.

He'd spent the week after the breakup in bed, eating and only taking care of his body when others reminded him. With a broken arm it had been easy to tell everyone he couldn't do anything about it, but they'd heard him the times he'd cried at night thinking about Nesta and it had been Rhysand who'd told him to call her after ten days. He had simply shaken his head.

He couldn't do that to her. He couldn't drag her back into a relationship where his head wasn't one hundred percent present.

He should have left her long ago, he just didn't have the courage.

He heard Nesta's laughter again and shook his head, now was not the time to think about what had happened in Mor's life. He needed to focus on his own now. He had to at least try.

And if nothing changed, if he couldn't win her back, he owed her an apology, an explanation.

He slipped on the first clean pair of trousers he could find and then, with steps far too fast to seem vague, hurried down the hallway until he found himself standing in front of his brother, his friend and the woman he had been convinced would never leave him.

Her eyes immediately found his and the smile she was wearing instantly dropped when she saw him, but she gave a small nod, "Cass, hi."

He felt something break inside him and his gaze misted over.

Azriel gave a cough then walked towards the door, tying one arm around Mor's and pulling her towards the exit, "We'll leave you two alone, text me later, alright?" he asked, but he didn't wait for an answer and suddenly Cassian and Nesta were alone.

Alone after all that time.

He took a deep breath and stepped forward, opening his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

Nesta lowered her arms along her sides and smiled weakly, "I think we should talk."

He couldn't get the lump in his throat down, so he just nodded, pointing to the living room.

She looked well.

Not well physically, but she seemed to be more relaxed, more at ease than the other day.

Her cheeks were still hollowed out and the dark circles under her eyes so deep that the temptation to ask her if they could go to bed and sleep, cuddled up like they used to, so they could both finally close their eyes for real without regrets and nightmares pulling them from sleep was so high that he felt something crack in his chest again, for the millionth time.

He only wished he could hold her one last time.

When they were both sitting up, mere inches between them, Nesta inspected him as he had inspected her up to that point and saw the way her throat moved when she swallowed air, probably trying not to burst into tears herself.

They must have looked pitiful.

"How are you?" she managed to say, in a weak voice.

Cassian looked at her face some more, deciding whether to lie or not. He took a deep breath before answering, "I've never been worse in my life."

The muscles in her face twitched as she tried to keep her emotions at bay. She nodded softly, shifting her gaze to the unlit television, "I've seen better days too," she murmured, torturing her fingers, "Even before you came into my life I didn't think I could ever be this bad."

"Nes..."

Her eyes closed tightly. Feeling the emotion attached to that single word, her name whispered with that clear desperation.

She tried to change the subject as quickly as she could, "Mor told me everything. Why you ran away every time like someone was holding a gun to your head," she began, getting straight to the point, not wanting to waste any more time. She couldn't look at him though, despite the fact that there was now nothing but truth between them. "It was because it was admittedly life and death situations."

Cassian took a sharp breath, "I shouldn't have-"

"You shouldn't have, no," she interrupted him. "You shouldn't have, and if we had communicated in any way - if you had even tried to explain to me what the hell was going on, you knew. God, you knew, I wouldn't have blamed Morrigan. That I would have offered her a home if I'd known how serious the matter was."

He felt his stomach clench so tightly he thought he was going to throw up.

"I just want to be able to trust you." she whispered after a few moments of silence.

"You can." he replied immediately, "You can." he repeated, trying to convince her.

Nesta looked up at him. She licked her bottom lip, biting into the skin there a moment later and then shifted her gaze to the floor, "I miss you."

Cassian had to swallow a breath before he could speak, "I miss you too."

She said nothing and he continued.

"I miss you every damn second of the day. And at night, when I can't sleep, thinking about you, I stay awake until I pass out from exhaustion." his voice became rougher as he tried not to think about the day they had met, when he had found her asleep on the floor of that filthy library. "And when sleep doesn't come I regret and blame myself for all the wrongs that have happened."

"Every unspoken thing. Every misstep, every broken promise." said Nesta in a trembling voice. When her eyes fixed on him one more time, he no longer knew how to breathe when she murmured, "Cassian you broke me."

And the single tear that rolled down her cheek broke the last whole part of him.

He couldn't stop the instinct when his hand reached up to her face, the tips of his fingers brushing against her cheek and they both sighed, locking gazes.

And in an instant, the second his palm clung completely to her skin and Nesta closed her eyes, reveling in that touch and thrusting against his hand, Cassian felt every broken piece, every splinter and shard of his soul return to its proper place.

"I'm sorry." he said, extending his other hand to cup her face as well. "I'm sorry, for everything. Please forgive me." I love you, Nesta, please forgive me.

And as if she had heard him, she opened her eyes and nodded slightly before they both let go of a breath of relief that still echoed through the room when she launched herself forward, crashing her mouth against his in a desperate kiss that tasted of salt and love.

five years, three months and two days before

When Cassian had invited her on a date, this was definitely not what she had expected. After all, she doubted it was even remotely close to what Cassian himself had expected.

Their second-first date wasn't supposed to take place in a hospital, yet there they were.

Cassian was lying on the bed when Nesta entered the room. A tight bandage around his head was the only sign of the actual blow he had taken when he had carelessly fallen down the stairs in his haste to leave the house.

As soon as he saw her, his mouth split open in a bright smile, "Love..."

Nesta, who had stopped in the doorway and replied with an equally dazzling smile, felt her heart tighten in her chest at that pet name. The morphine they had given him must have kicked in. She took a hesitant step forward, clasping her hands around her bag, "How are you feeling?"

Cassian chuckled, turning to the nurse who had accompanied Nesta all the way there - Gwyneth, she had read on the label attached to her scrubs - before saying, "She cares how I feel."

The flame-haired girl snorted a laugh, "No shit." she said in a mocking tone, this time turning to Nesta.

She had the decency to blush under the nurse's amused eyes. After all, she had come into the emergency room demanding to know what had happened and where he was at that moment.

Gwyneth had been the one to reach her first and tell her everything she needed to know about the physical state of Cassian, who had apparently lied about Nesta being his wife.

The nurse wasn't stupid, and she'd told her as much when she'd realised that neither of them were wearing wedding rings, but seeing how terrified Nesta had been as soon as she'd set foot in the emergency room, she'd turned a blind eye and assured them that after a quick check to make sure Cassian was okay, she'd give them some time alone.

"She cares how I feel," Cassian murmured again, almost not believing the fact that Nesta was there, for him. Then he turned back to her and opened his mouth wide when he realised what she was wearing. He brought his good hand to his chest, over his heart, and whispered, "You are killing me."

"Try not to die while I'm on duty, please," the nurse muttered, before warning them that everything looked fine and that if he passed out they should call her immediately. She walked past Nesta, brushing her shoulder and winking at her, but she hardly noticed.

She only had eyes for Cassian.

When Mor had called her, telling her there had been a little accident, the world had fallen in on her. She'd kept it together until her new found friend had told her that they'd taken Cassian to the hospital by ambulance after he'd passed out from a very hard blow to the head. She'd been vague about how it had happened, but Nesta suspected that Cassian had already been late and had been running down the stairs when he'd fallen.

She certainly wasn't going to ask him tonight, because her non-boyfriend was out of it and completely high on drugs. And the only thing she cared about at that moment was that constant sound of the machines monitoring his heart, assuring her that he was alive, breathing.

The second the door closed behind her, Nesta moved and it wasn't even five minutes before she found herself lying next to him on the bed, her heels forgotten on the floor as Cassian wrapped his good arm around her and intertwined their fingers.

She rested her head on his chest and felt the way his lungs released a sigh of relief at the contact of their bodies. She could feel the beat of his heart, rapid and steady, alive, beneath her fingers.

They weren't saying anything to each other, and Nesta knew there was no need to.

In the end, it had always been like that between them. Their mere companionship was more than enough.

It wasn't until an hour later, when she began to close her eyes, that Cassian moved his other arm up to touch her shoulder, drawing her attention.

She lifted her head enough to rest her chin on his chest, and when she met Cassian's eyes, she smiled faintly at the expression of pure love and devotion that shone on his face.

She saw the way his Adam's apple moved up and then down as he swallowed and the way his eyelids flickered and he hunched his shoulders, wrapping his arms around her body. Before Cassian could speak, she did, "I love you."

And maybe it was the moment, the emotion that had surely both built up in the weeks leading up to their date that had ended in ruin, the sheer desperation and loneliness they had felt in that long month away from each other, but Cassian closed his eyes, nodding softly, "I love you, Nesta."

She leaned higher, stretching her neck towards him and pressing their bodies together until her mouth brushed against his. The kiss was not hasty, not desperate like the emotions racing through their hearts. It was like a window to the future. Their lips moved slowly in harmony, without worry, without urgency in that infinite kiss.

Because they both knew that there would be no one else for the rest of their days and they had all the time in the world to show each other the strong emotions of life. In that moment, they were each other's calm and strength.

When they broke away, it was only because Gwyneth had brought them food. If cherry jelly could be considered food. Either way, they'd been forced to interrupt their make out session to stock up on some sweet, clear edible stuff, which Nesta had devoured like few things in her life. Cassian had left her half of his portion and then they had snuggled back under the covers, talking about this and that, happy just to be both alive in this cruel world.

four years, six months and twenty-one days earlier

"When did you say they were coming?"

Nesta shifted her gaze to Mor's face, who kept her head resting on her thighs while her very long, very smooth legs remained on display against the wall of their living room. The position couldn't have been the best, especially considering the amount of alcohol her friend had swallowed, but the blonde had promised not to vomit on her so Nesta had no choice but to accept her temporary role as a pillow.

She shrugged, taking a sip from her glass, realising that the wine had finished. "They said they'd be here around ten, so any minute now." Mor nodded absentmindedly, toying with a lock of Nesta's hair.

Someone took the glass from her hand and she lifted her head just in time for her lips to collide with Cassian's, who had intended to kiss her on the forehead. They both smiled into the kiss and when he made to pull away to go and refill her glass, Nesta grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back to her mouth, making him laugh.

A cry of disgust came from down between them, "I preferred you when you weren't together."

Without taking his eyes off of Nesta's, Cassian told her to fuck off, adding shortly after, "Remind me who went to Nes' house to beg her to get back with me."

The blonde mumbled something not too nice and Rhys, who sat next to Azriel on the couch opposite to theirs, was about to retort, when the front door rang once and then twice. Az frowned, eyeing Nesta, "They're impatient."

Nesta shrugged again, a gesture she'd begun to pull too often and which Cassian said stemmed from her spending too much time with Mor.

That was going to be the night her sisters would meet her new group of friends from a few months back and Nesta knew it would go smoothly. Elain would be her usual kind and festive self and Feyre would have everyone in that room wrapped around her fingers in a matter of seconds. She didn't have to worry.

Besides, the only opinion she really cared about was her boyfriend's, and Cassian had had a chance to get to know his sisters well before their breakup.

Rhys had gotten up, staggering just enough to go answer the door, but Cassian had already done the honors, and when the youngest of the brothers looked up at the newcomers, he stumbled over his own steps for a completely different reason than the alcohol in his veins.

Feyre Archeron stood at the entrance to the living room in all her beauty. The tight black dress she had chosen to wear showed off everything the younger of the sisters had to offer and Rhysand looked more than ready to pick up every bit of whatever she threw at him.

Elain walked past her with nonchalance, greeting Cassian with a chaste kiss on the cheek, then introducing herself to Azriel and Mor, who had pulled herself up to hold her in a breathless hug.

Nesta felt Feyre's gaze on her and turned to her, waving whimsically. Feyre chuckled, shaking her head, "How much have you had to drink already?"

Nesta would have replied that she didn't know if Rhysand hadn't lunged forward towards her, risking bumping into Cassian, who was returning from the kitchen with a chalice full of wine for her and her sister.

Her boyfriend's eyes went wide, "What the fuck, Rhys, be careful."

But it was as if no one but Feyre existed for the man anymore.

Feyre stepped back, eyeing Cassian and taking the glass with a simple thank you. Az had approached as well, but as he tried to speak, Rhys interrupted him.

"Hello Feyre darling, I'm Rhysand."

Nesta rolled her eyes, just as Mor did beside her, and Elain chuckled.

Meanwhile, Feyre had never seemed so hesitant in her life. Nesta saw the moment she decided to let go and reached out to shake Rhysand's hand. And then Feyre used the voice that Nesta had only ever heard her use when her sister wanted to get something out of the evening and understood perfectly well how it was going to turn out in a few hours. "Feyre, but I assume you already knew that."

The look Rhys gave her and the nod of assent he did made her think that maybe they wouldn't even wait hours, but mere minutes before leaving the party to go find somewhere more secluded.

When the introductions were over, Cassian took a seat next to her, forcibly pushing Mor away until Nesta was clear of everyone else. Circling her shoulders with one arm and pulling her as close to him as possible, Nesta soon found herself sitting on his lap, sipping wine as one of his hands rested on her thigh, massaging circles with his thumb.

Hours passed between board games and indecent jokes exchanged between the younger in the room and Nesta thought she could never be happier than she was in that moment.

Relaxed as she was, it didn't take Nesta long to let herself go completely and when Elain and Azriel also started talking about their partners respectively, sharing funny stories on how they met, she closed her eyes as well, lulled by Cassian's breath on her face and the fleeting kisses he occasionally left on her cheek.

She could feel his eyes on her, but she couldn't find the strength to open hers, and it wasn't until Feyre and Rhys had left and Mor and Azriel had offered Elain a ride that Cassian held her tighter in his arms and carried her to their room, where a bed that had smelled like both of them for two months now remained unmade from that morning's activities.

And though exhaustion was at an all-time high, it wasn't until Cassian lay down behind her, pressing his chest against her back and wrapping himself around her, that sleep finally found them both.

the day

Nesta kept one hand on Cassian's shoulder and the other on his forearm as he rocked her on the dance floor of the venue they had chosen for their wedding.

A few feet away from them, over her husband's shoulder - husband, she was going to have to get used to that title from now on - she could see Elain by the buffet tables laughing carefree as she held onto Lucien, who was laying both hands on her ready-to-burst baby bump, talking to his girls. Nesta smiled as she thought of the countless times she had caught Lucien on his knees entertaining his two unborn twins with conversations about sports.

Moving her gaze to the other side of the runway, she saw Feyre clinging to Rhys, who was surely whispering to her about all the dirty things they could do in the wardrobe of that place judging by her sister's lost and giddy expression.

Trying not to think too much about Feyre in compromising positions, she found Mor and Emerie at the bar, drinking leaning against each other, exchanging jokes that Nesta knew had to do with the outfits of some of their relatives.

A little further on still, Azriel was pirouetting Gwyn so elegantly that she felt a note of jealousy. Az had a faint smile on his lips, but the way his eyes twinkled as he admired her friend's fiery red hair twirling as she spun and spun made her wonder how much longer he was going to wait before he proposed.

She was about to voice her doubts when Cassian's hands lightly squeezed her hips and she shifted her full attention to the man of her life.

Nesta's breath caught for the thousandth time that day when she looked into his eyes.

She raised an eyebrow in question. Cassian smiled, bringing a hand to her face and brushing her cheek, "You look beautiful." he whispered in a hoarse voice.

Her features relaxed and she smiled back, "You're not bad yourself, Mr. Archeron."

Cassian threw his head back, moaning awkwardly and drawing the attention of everyone present. Azriel gave them an amused look and Nesta waved a hand in mid-air, to say it was nothing fancy.

"Mr. Archeron." repeated Cassian, pulling her away from him for a second, as if expecting from that specific dance, only to pull her back against his chest a second later. "If I hear you call me any other name in bed from now on, I might file for divorce."

Nesta chuckled, moving a hand to his chest, "Of course, my love."

His eyes softened even more when they moved back to her face. And Nesta searched his expression for something to tell her that he regretted his decision. That he was lying to her and that in fact the idea of bearing her surname, of being linked to her, repulsed him.

She found nothing that day. Just as she would find nothing in the years to come.

Only adoration and love and respect for the woman she had become thanks to him.

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[hostilecityshowdown]

folds my little hands. Would u pls tell us what u think HBK/Taker’s relationship is like maybe w some hc’s. are they friends? do they hate each other? both? pls I am asking so sweetly

co-written by @sychosid

It had been over an hour since the miserable excuse for a song accosted his hearing.

The vocals, supplied by Sensational Sherri, were enough to make any sane man’s ears bleed alone. Combined with an annoying backtrack and the hysterics of the audience upon laying eyes on the Boy Toy, he was not looking forward to enduring this torture for the unforeseeable future. Slowly flexing his gloved hands, the Undertaker could only hope someone would do something about it soon, because it was stuck in his head. The idiotic piece of anti-music was on loop in the now distant part of his psyche that was susceptible to influence such as this. It was an obvious sign of his host requiring more repression and, shower-soaked hair hanging over his face, the Undertaker could only sit on the locker room bench and wait for his fellow mortician to fetch him for the next taped segment.

His only match was complete, unfortunately. He was already beginning to miss facing Sid Justice each night. A man who’s desire to do the right thing overwhelmed his fear, who had valiantly fought to escape his casket. Tonight… The man he liberated of evil had been a simple man, influenced by the demons that thrived on lowly greed. The Undertaker was not even certain he had done much more than defeat him as a show of force, despite Bearer’s insistence otherwise. The wall mounted clock ticked quietly; when was the Funeral Parlour segment supposed to be recorded…?

-

“Whuh.” The Sundome was hot, even with the air conditioning on full blast, but beyond the threshold of the locker room door was a surprising reprieve from the Tampa heat. A shiver wracked Shawn’s body, head shaking, hair askew. How soundless the action was reminded him that Sherri still had his earrings, but he didn’t care. They were hers anyway, and she was likely to snag more off Dibiase before they rendezvoused. Starting to unwind the tape from his wrist, he made a beeline for the showers, foregoing a towel or change of clothes. Knowing no one in their right mind could complain about an encore, he treated any stragglers in the rocker room to his own half-mumbled rendition of his new entrance theme. Not a bad performance, if he said so himself.

“I take cash or card!” Shawn shouted when he turned the faucet off, squeezing some water out of his hair. He’d let it air dry until he shimmied into some clothes, blow it out tomorrow. The Boy Toy confidently padded to his locker across the cold tile floor, slamming it open with enough force to make it bounce right back into his arm as he rummaged around for something to wear. Owch. Bulldog better not have left a bruise. Mentally kicking himself for forgetting to order that sweet tiger print shirt out of International Male, he squeezed into the tightest pair of Versace mens’ jeans he could order out of the winter catalogue on Sherri’s credit and realised, frowning, that no one was responding to him. He couldn’t possibly be alone, right? Nah, this was a wrestling company, it was crawling with sweaty guys who needed showers.

When he went quiet enough he swore he could hear someone breathing, slow and deep.

-

Infuriating.

As if once wasn’t enough, the man was insisting on performing his repulsive, juvenile song in concert. Unfortunately, the showers offered fantastic acoustics, and all the Undertaker could do was exhibit as much self control as possible and remain seated. He ignored the Boy Toy, waiting for him to leave, and was dismayed when he heard his cautious footsteps approaching. Out of the corner of his eye, the Undertaker caught him peeking around the row of lockers, hiding behind his hands like a child. His hair was damp and not drying very quickly in the low temperature, water dripping onto his eyelashes and streaking down his neck lazily. The shift in his body language was almost instantaneous, a smug expression shattering the almost stubborn curiosity he had first worn, hesitant walk transforming into a confident saunter. It was a wonder he even had circulation in those jeans.

Further slowing his breathing in an attempt to quell his rising anger, the deadman watched closely as Shawn walked right up to him and propped an arm across his hunched shoulders, fingers not hesitating before they found their way into the Undertaker’s hair. He had never been so disrespected, his personal space never so violated. A death rattle tried to dig itself out of the grave of his throat. Paul Bearer insisted he could not harm people unless commanded. Shawn was merely mortal, even if he looked down at him as if he was a meal. The Undertaker’s upper lip twitched.

“Heeeey, big guy,” Shawn drawled, voice rasping like sandpaper over the embalmer’s senses. He tried not to uppercut him and found success in envisioning it in great detail, instead. Shawn’s hands kept wandering and he hoped he developed frostbite. “You like my little show? I specialise in intimate performances, you know.”

Uppercutting him. Stomping on his face. Tying his arms up in the ropes and chopping the everloving hell out of him. Rolling him into a bodybag and-

“Say, isn’t Death Valley in California? Never been to a Death Valley, Texas, and, well, you and me, we coulda been Lone-Star-neighbours for all I know. Maybe when we finally get out of the Everglade State I can hitch a ride in that fancy little hearse of yours.”

The Undertaker remained silent. Perhaps, if he ignored him, he’d grow bored and leave. Deciding that refusing to acknowledge his existence may suffice, he fixed his stare on the locker in front of him and steeled himself against flinching away from Shawn's hands exploring his back and shoulders.

“Hell-ohhhh? Earth to planet Undertakerrrr.” The Boy Toy leaned forward to see his face, waving his hand in front of his face.

Enough.

A dark gaze snapped to him, thin pupils visible through the long, curling tendrils of hair. The Undertaker placed his hands on his knees and rose slowly. Shawn took a step back, his neck straining as he watched the deadman's veil of hair rise and rise. He straightened his back to stand at full height, shoulders square. Near-black eyes stared icily through Shawn as he let out a throaty growl, expecting it to get his point across.

Shawn bit his lower lip, tinted red from the frozen atmosphere descending upon him. Clearly some cogs were turning in his brain.

“You got a sexy voice, you know. You should talk more.” Reversing his retreat, Shawn took a step forward and stood chest-to-sternum with him. A manicured fingernail traced a vague outline of the deadman’s pec, the white French tips in stark contrast to his black shirt.

The Undertaker clenched his fists. Slowly, as if straining to do so, he raised his right hand, poised to seize Shawn by the throat. He tried to remind himself that the creature of avarice before him was just a mortal man. A flawed one, an annoying one, but still, nothing more than a human. There was no reason for him to wrap his fingers around Shawn's thick neck, raise him up, choke him, and shake him and lift him and slam him down to the floor with all his might. None at all.

The so-called pretty boy glanced up at the approaching hand without an ounce of fear. Lopsidedly smiling in a way that made his eyes squint subtly, Shawn took the Undertaker’s hand into his own. He squeezed it.

“Pretty cold, even with the gloves! You know I could help you warm up,” he offered, batting his thin lashes at the deadman.

A flicker of a sneer crossed the mortician's face. He squeezed Shawn's hand back, matching him in force. Gradually, he folded his fingers tighter until he held Shawn's hand in an iron grip.

Shawn tried to retract his hand and found he couldn't. The Undertaker wouldn't release him - he didn't want to. He wanted to teach the brat a lesson. Pain. Indescribable pain, which he wished to inflict on The Heartbreak Kid.

“Owowow! Hey, buddy, let go!” Again, Shawn tried to yank his hand back to no avail, throwing his upper body into the motion. His hair flew, the icicles forming on his split ends melting where it touched his bare skin. Taking one, heavy, creeping step, the Undertaker walked him backwards. He only stopped when Shawn's back was pressed against the lockers.

“Shut…up…” He grumbled, getting close to Shawn, his heavy breaths causing some of the drying strands of Shawn’s baby hairs to sway. It was freezing, Shawn's shaky breath visible, his hand starting to burn in the Undertaker's grasp. Panic slowly rising, he started smacking at the other man's wrist. If he wanted to hit the Undertaker, he was wide open, but fear was granting him hesitance… For now.

"L-Look, pal," Shawn started, voice failing. His throat was dry. It was starting to hurt to breathe, the burning in his lungs similar to the burning in his hand. His thumb was starting to turn red. "Let's both pack it up and go home, how's about it?"

For a few moments, the Undertaker considered this. He inhaled deeply, chest pushing into Shawn's and pinning him further - a sure tell he was going to speak.

"Shawnie!" Heels clacked towards them like gunshots, the suffocating aura dissipating as quickly as it came. The Undertaker fixed him with a wide-eyed, rageful stare as he stepped back. "Where'd my sexy boy run off too, huh?"

The Undertaker continued slowly stepping backwards, heavy boots silent as he released Shawn's hand. The light that he'd blocked out began illuminating the space around Shawn again, but the void the Undertaker was fading into only seemed to grow darker and darker. Shawn's voice was a pathetic wheeze when he first tried to call out.

"H-here," he finally croaked out, grabbing his cold, cold hand and trying to rub some warmth back into it. He slumped back against the lockers noisily and slid down. "I'm here, Sherri."