#also my mother is fully aware of this and is attempting to use it in her favor

[project-sekai-facts]

What grinds my gears is what when people say that the reason Kana5 is bad due to it trying to make Mafumon sympathetic.

A couple have even gone as far as saying that Kana5 is as bad as Toya5 for the same reason and I-

Look. I deeply understand the idea of abusers being more complicated than simply “evil trash” is hard to comprehend. And I may sound insensitive but,

They need to grow up. They should not let their biases cloud their judgement and assume something is bad just because a piece of media has something they personally don’t like

the difference between harumichi and mafuyumum is their awareness.

harumichi - fully aware of what he is doing, fully aware his son is his own person and does not stop him despite heavy disapproval

mafumum - completely oblivious to what she is doing to mafuyu, projecting an idealised version of mafuyu onto her (and possibly an idealised version of herself)

harumichi working toya to the bone is him applying how he learnt to toya. the intent was not to physically/emotionally harm toya but that is what ended up happening (physical exhaustion is to be expected, he should not have forced toya to keep working but he deals with the same so he probably doesn't think it's a big deal). that said, he is fully aware of the fact he is taking away from toya's childhood, and admits this in concerto that toya's life was not "normal".

mafumum is entirely unaware of her abuse to mafuyu. this is repeatedly made clear in events post sayonara persona. mafudad relays to her what mafuyu tells him and she's incredibly distressed to learn that she'd been hurting mafuyu and she doesn't know what she did wrong. she can be manipulative, but she's not aware that she's being malicious, she thinks she's genuinely doing what's best for her child who she loves. there's also some context clues such as her young age compared to other parents, the fact she doesn't have a job and the fact she's at a lower social standing to her husband that suggest she may also be projecting the life she didn't get onto mafuyu.

harumichi being given the attempted sympathetic backstory doesn't work. he is neglectful towards his son, but is slowly easing out of these ways a little bit. toya has already begun to make ammends without the need for making harumichi sympathetic. he's a bad parent who did a bad thing knowingly.

with mafumum it is justified. in her first appearance, we see her from the biased viewpoint of kanade, who sees her as a cold and neglectful parent towards mafuyu. however from mafuyu's pov, she is a loving mother who is misguided in how she shows this love. this is what unreliable notes is about. mafumum is a bad parent who did a bad thing unknowingly. she is sympathetic because she is a troubled mother coming to terms with the fact she ruined her child's life.

both characters are loved by their children by virtue of them being their parents. the story is going to convey that no matter how bad they are as people. yes, forgiving abusers in fiction is overdone and to some degree unrealistic, however we do not yet know if that is where the story will go. all we know is that there will be a reconciliation. but even if mafumum specifically gets forgiven, it would not be unjustified. i feel like the first impression we get of mafumum from Kanade POV left a strong impact on a lot of people that they can't let go of. the whole point of the current arc is to let that go. the game builds her up as this malicious antagonistic force so that it can deconstruct that when we get to see her from an unbiased POV. she's not a villain like many people make her out to be, she's a human who made a mistake. a very bad and very big mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. she is a loving mother who fucked up really badly because she was too obsessed over perfection to actually see her daughter for who she is.

if the writers try and make us forgive harumichi though fuck them he fucking sucks. like i feel like toya will because he's like that yknow but i don't think the audience should feel sympathetic towards him.

[platinumshawnn]

to strangers | benjicot blackwood x fem!bracken reader

a/n: yes i am fully aware i should be writing him as davos out of respect for the accuracy of the show and character but i'm still mourning what could have been. also leave it to me to write a little prequel tying this to my own fic a little bit by writing what this guy was really up to on his "hunting trip" lol. have some poorly written smut anyways, if anyone sees that I accidentally called the bracken’s estate “hedge stone” instead of “stone hedge” no you didn’t shut up it’s been fixed

synopsis: benjicot likes to rile up the women he likes i guess

Content warnings: MDNI — 18+, adult language, mentions of blood, violence, and war; era related sexism, smut (fem p in v sex, unprotected sex, degradation) [not proofread]

Word count: 5.5k words

you had never been one for conflict — especially not that of drunken councilmen who became red in the face, knocking over cups and irate over matters of politics as they shouted. despite your father’s efforts to maintain diplomacy and restraint during meetings, it almost always ended in a screaming match at the table these days — even your uncle could not bear to sit through them, and often doubled up on the amount he drank just to sit through them, barely able to walk as he stumbled out.

you were almost always met with apologies from your father as he found you outside the doors of the hall, given a squeeze of hand, and ushered to bed. you did not care for politics, but there was no escaping the recent events — it affected everyone, reaching beyond stone hedge’s walls, but your father the most. he appeared to have aged significantly over the past days, eyes exhausted and on edge whenever she greeted him.

but this particular night had been…a lot more than usual. your cousin, aeron, had come back, shaking as he’d returned from a survey of the lands with your brother; having got into another squabble over the boundaries with some blackwood boys who had dared to come too close to their land, in aeron’s words. the whole thing dripped of theatrics — “that filthy…cunt, benjicot”

your head popped up from the handkerchief you were working to embroider, your mother on your right as the pair of you sat in one of the several cabinet rooms that your father had designated for your lessons as a child; having since used it as an escape from the noise. even your mother had been alerted by the commotion as the boys clamored into the hallway, looking out through the door that had been cracked open to provide some airflow in the room. there, your cousin stood, his nose bloody and still dripping as your father summoned the maester while ranting to your uncle, attempting to shush the boy-knight who was on the border of shouting. your interest was only peaked by the name, sitting up and turning your body towards the three men, ceasing what you had been doing and placing the handkerchief in your lap to listen.

your father had made eye contact with you as aeron continued, grabbing him by the shoulder and reaching to close the door before you could hear as he dragged your cousin away. your mother had encouraged you to continue, the look she gave reminding you of proprietary and of your place — with a curt nod, you had returned to your task.

that had been at midday, and since then, there had not yet been a break. you could hear the shouts from your room, and you could picture your father amidst it all, trying to bring order and peace — a task he was successful in every so often, silence falling over the room and quieting to hushed whispers that would only last a short time before the yelling continued.

sometime before midnight, the silence had ended finally, stood at the top of the stairs as the councilmen dispersed; other members of your house trickled out. you had stayed up, waiting to approach your father, in hopes to get some sort of information on the outcome. but the exhaustion was clear on his face, being met by a soft, “on the morrow, not tonight, my dear.”

he had pressed a kiss to your head and brushed past you, receding to his chambers for the night, leaving you at the base of the stairs. as you went to retreat to bed yourself, you heard the cursing mutters of aeron who had finally exited the great hall doors behind you, still seething after several hours — you were relieved at least to find that his nose had since stopped bleeding.

“aeron,” you called out, turning to descend down the four stairs you had climbed just as he stopped in the hallway towards his own chambers. his eyes found you. you approached him, hand reaching out to grab his face between your fingers, turning to assess his face for any additional injuries you may not have noticed earlier in the day. however, much to your relief, he was otherwise unharmed, “you really ought to stop antagonizing those men— you’re going to get yourself killed.” you scolded, sighing and dropping your hand.

aeron winced slightly, more from the reprimand than any lingering pain. “I can’t just let them insult our family, you know that.”

you shook her head, a mix of frustration and concern in your eyes. “I know, aeron, but there’s a difference between defending our honor and looking for trouble. what good will it do if you’re dead?”

He avoided your gaze, jaw clenching. “I just can’t stand the way they look at us, like we’re nothing and like they can do whatever it is they please. Like they own the riverlands. someone has to stand up to them if your father won’t.”

“standing up to them doesn’t mean getting into brawls. use your head, aeron. we need you alive, not battered and bruised,” you said, your tone softening.

aeron had sighed and muttered something unintelligible, only able to make out a ‘yeah’ before he withdrew to his own rooms.

you had tried to sleep — you did. but at some point, the heat, humid and sticky, had made it impossible to; instead, turning and tossing in your bed, growing increasingly frustrated before you stormed from the bed with a huff. the conversation between you and aeron had been stuck in your head, the sight of him bloodied haunting you — how did benjicot look then? was he unscathed and unharmed?

you knew he had always been stronger, a fiercer opponent but you couldn’t help the worry that plagued you.

you had quickly changed as best you could in the dark, without falling over in a way that would alert the guards; pulling your dress on and watching underneath the door as you smoothed out the fabric, doing your best to be silent in opening the door. peaking your head out and checking that both ways were clear, you slipped out and closed the door behind you, walking on your toes as you snuck through the house and out a backdoor that led into the fields.

you did your best to stay low and out of sight as you bolted through the fields towards the boundary stones, trying to remember who would be on surveillance — you couldn’t for the life of you remember, despite your best efforts to eavesdrop on your cousin's conversation earlier.

hell, you weren’t even sure you would see him.

sometimes you did, other times you didn’t — weeks would pass sometimes before you saw him again. sometimes it was hours before you saw him, sat, pulling at grass as you waited, knees to your chest.

today felt like one of those days, as you approached the river, out of sight from any prying eyes and sat by the edge, your eyes straining to see through the dark. the moon did little to penetrate the dense patch of trees. as the hours passed, your head had begun to drop against your knees, dozing off. there would be no way of keeping yourself awake all night, after a long day, opting as a last ditch attempt to awaken your senses by dipping your toes into the stream as you kicked off your shoes.

the water was a nice welcome in the heat, a content sigh leaving your mouth as you kicked your feet; splashing the water upwards. the wait seemed to drag on forever, growing impatient and trying to decide on whether to return home or not.

you’d give him another hour at most. If he didn’t come, then you would go home.

your gaze scanned the river, serene and peaceful as the rushing body of water sloshed around your feet; cool and refreshing. you’d have time.

you stood back from the water and fumbled to strip down to your chemise, discarding the dress to the grass by your shoes before easing down and into the water, letting out a hiss. slowly, wadding into its shallow depths, you moved forward until the water touched your thighs, lapping at your body as you cupped some of the water between your hands and tossed it up in front of you.

“you’re far from home, lady bracken.”

your head whipped toward the sound of a voice from the treeline, water sloshing around your legs as you faced the boy who the voice belonged to. the ends of your skirt had been released in the turn into the water, feet tangling in the soft sand of the river’s floor, just catching yourself from falling into its rapid rush by the luck of the Gods; the ends of the fabric now soaked by the flowing water that swirled around you. there he stood, barely peeking out from the cover of the trees as if that would somehow conceal his identity, hugging close to the trunk of one while he watched you from his shaded spot. there was hardly any way of seeing him in the night, the moon’s light not quite reaching him but his voice -- you would know that voice anywhere.

you stepped forward, halfway across the shallow depths of the river that flowed between the two lands of bracken territory and blackwoods, the cold water just reaching mid-thigh as you looked up at him, “as are you.” you quipped, heart rate rapid as your heart thrummed against your ribs.

despite the limited visibility, you could see his mouth quirk up in a half-smile, his amusement clear as his head tipped to the side while his eyes continued to watch you closely like some sort of prey. the limited sense of vision allowed you the ability to hear as he inhaled through his nose, breathing outwardly before he finally stepped forward to the edge of the water, his hand at the hilt of his dagger on his hip as his eyebrows rose, “and do you always take moonlit strolls through my land?”

you stilled, hands resting at your sides as your fingers dipped into the cool water below you, the cold nipping at your fingertips, “only when called for— the night was too beautiful to resist.” you replied, chin lifted to look up towards where he towered over you, “and what’s your excuse?”

he snorted, boots shifting against the dirt with as he moved to widen his stance, “the same perhaps,” he said, eyes glancing up to the sky above the riverlands that was littered with stars, “or maybe I was hoping to find a curious lady wandering too close to my territory.” he said, his voice a low rumble.

there was nothing threatening about his tone, however, his body language said otherwise — his eyes scanning their surroundings before looking back to your face, his body suggesting that he was on edge. as though he expected bracken men to burst through the trees behind you any minute. you took another languid step forward, closer to enemy territory, the thrill of it never failing to excite you.

“are you suggesting I’m trespassing?” you asked, your words steady as you bordered taunting the man who eyed you.

you could see as he squinted, narrowing his eyes at your words, “just…observing that you’re quite far from where you’re supposed to be at this hour, my lady.”

you hummed, eyebrows raised as the water continued to lap at the fabric of the cream coloured chemise that had been worn underneath the dress of typical bracken colours of yellow and brown having been discarded at the edge of the grass. you could see the moment his eyes lowered to scan down the length of the fabric, disappearing into the water and drifting higher up your thighs, bordering translucent against your skin, slow in dragging his eyes along the length of your body, “but i suppose the river doesn’t care for borders, does it?” he suddenly asked, his eyes returning to meet yours.

your mouth curved upwards, a wry smile on your face as his gaze emboldened you, “no it doesn’t, but neither do I, it seems. I don’t believe the assize said anything about the river.”

benjicot tutted condescendingly at her, smug as his hands shifted over his dagger, “careful, you're starting to sound like your cousin, bracken.” he warned, tone sharp, “do you not ever worry about what might be lurking in the shadows? his words came lighter now, the tension gone from his voice.

you let out a dry laugh, beginning to feel the effects of the frosty water that reached your hips the further you wadded, a cool breeze causing your skin to prickle with goosebumps. you shivered, sucking in a deep breath through clenched teeth, “only when they carry a dagger and a half-smile, I suppose.” you said.

his hands twitched, the grasp at his blade loosening as he seemed to contemplate reaching forward to drag you from the water at the sight of your shivering frame. however, he stopped himself and instead lifted his chin, mouth pressing into a tight smile, “then its a good thing I’m in a benevolent mood tonight.”

your head lowered to look down at the water, using your fingers to skim its surface, “I will take my chances.” you confidently said, lifting your gaze after a moment of pause.

he let out a ‘hmph’ sound, watching as you slowly closed the gap between the two lands to stand directly in front of him, the water shallow once again and only meeting mid-thigh. the now soaked gown did nothing to provide any ounce of modesty, sheer and clinging to your lower half as you stared up at him. your eyes followed his movements as he crouched, bringing him eye-to-eye as an elbow planted against one of his knees, “well, I suggest you be careful, my lady. the night is full of dangers.” he said, his voice low and quiet.

“and so is the day, but I’ve never been one to shy away from either.” you said, voice matching his volume before you stepped forward until you stood against the ledge, your other hand planting in the grass just between his boots as you lifted your right hand toward him, “are you going to help me or shall I call for my men?” you taunted, a grin on your face.

he rolled his eyes, smile broadening as he stood upright and bent to grab your hand, using his strength to pull you up and over the ledge, out of the waters with ease. you were brought to your feet, stood face-to-face with him, his face leaning close to yours as he spoke, “you wouldn’t dare.” he muttered, “how do you plan then, to explain your presence so close to blackwood land at this hour? alone, in a nightgown, with the heir?”

your chest brushed his as you leaned in towards him, “I’ll figure something out— you underestimate me.”

he hummed with a nod, his nose bumping yours in the close proximity. though his mouth did not yet make contact with yours, his breath fanned over lips, his eyes scanning your face, “oh, I’m sure you will. but do you think they will believe you?” he asked, the lazy smirk on his face laced with arrogance, “do you think there won’t be whispers? said whispers, questioning your maidenhead?”

“they’d be foolish to make such accusations against the daughter of amos bracken.” you countered, shoulders squaring with pride.

the man in front of you let out a sardonic chortle, releasing the hilt of his dagger and finding your hip, gripping the fabric of your chemise in his fist, stepping back and forcing you with him, “oh please.” he mocked, his hand dropping from your hip to reach down to your thigh and begin to hoist the soaked fabric upwards towards your waist, leaving you bear to the elements, “if only they could see their lord’s daughter, out parading herself like some whore on blackwood land. What do you think they would say then, hm?”

“‘Tis not their business what I do, nor my father’s.” you muttered.

“oh but i think they might say otherwise. you’re a noblewoman,” he jeered, his knuckles brushing against the bare skin of your belly as his hand dipped below your naval, “a highborn womb.”

you knew benjicot did not share their views -- in the very few occasions he had opened up during your late night escapades, red in the face with anger, rambling on about the audacity of his councilmen as he dressed. he had ranted about what the very outlook had done to his mother, that women were more than for breeding. but he enjoyed knocking you down a peg sometimes, humbling you back down to earth during these moments. he liked to mock the sanctity of your womanhood, even if for a moment, but then he would go back on himself and praise you once all was said and done — praise the very thing he mocked. However, on this particular night, something about his words lit the flames of pure, feminine rage, staring eye to eye with the man you had visited countless times over the past months.

“I am more than that.” you muttered, trying to keep your voice steady.

he let out a melancholic hum, “you think so?”

he spoke to you like you were a child, who lived under the guise of a delusion — like a childish dream that you were expected to grow out of. the tone of his voice, paired by the sudden feeling of his hand between your thighs bred a slew of confusing emotions to spread within your chest; shamed and desperate, humiliated and seething as his fingers found the sensitive bud between folds that were slick with arousal that had you hot with embarrassment, fingers gliding up along your folds as you gritted your teeth, “how dare you—!”

the nature of his words stung when you knew how much he despised when other men looked down on women the way you had grown accustomed to; somehow after he had entrusted you enough to open up to you, he still had the nerve to throw it in your face—

he caught your hand that came up towards his throat, eyebrows raising as if to warn you, a grin on his mouth as his hand between your thighs stilled, “no need to be so hostile, sweet girl.” he said, guiding your hand down to your side as he moved to drive your back towards a tree, that hand coming to hold your chin in the space between his thumb and fingers, “I know you are a brave, resilient woman…” he quietly muttered, face coming close to yours and trapping you between his body and the tree, a knee coming between your thighs.

despite the rage that still burned within you, scorching like a wildfire, the warm contrast of his fingers on cold skin was welcomed; jolting up as his fingers pressed against you, fingers circling the bud and earning a soft sigh of a moan as you reached out to grab him, pulling him closer as though you were trying to crawl underneath his skin and become one. His mouth finally made contact, attaching itself to your throat and placing open-mouthed kisses to the skin, nipping the delicate skin with his teeth as his fingers worked against you.

“my clever, beautiful girl.” he praised, mouth reaching your collarbones.

you belly clenched, another moan elicited by his words as your hands fisted the cloak around his shoulders, his hand moving briefly to tug the fabric of your gown back up and out of his way as it dropped from its place around your hips. benjicot had a way of leaving you breathless and desperate, a flustered mess under his touch, the only man that could draw out the carnal sounds of pleasure; broken sighs and crying out as his middle and ring finger pushed themselves into you.

by the roots of his hair, you brought a hand to the back of his head and tugged him towards your mouth, his lips encapsulating yours in a feverish kiss; all teeth and tongue. you cried out, muffled by his mouth, as his thumb continued the prior pace, rubbing blind shapes into your clit as your mouth dropped open, too distracted by experienced fingers that slipped in and out of you with ease to reciprocate the kiss, “oh—, fuck.”

“yes, just like that,” he encouraged, voice soft. “just relax, my love.”

the weeks of pent up hunger and anticipation for this moment curled within you, settling into your lower belly, thighs attempting to clench around his hand. though you were stopped by the firm, strong thigh that had been planted there to prevent such from happening, his hips pressing into yours.

“ben, please…” you cried out, beginning to become overwhelmed between his mouth that returned to your throat and his hand, his pace increasing.

rather instead, he knelt suddenly, head buried beneath the thin chemise that draped over his head as he leaned into you. his shoulders brushed your thighs as his mouth replaced his thumb’s task, latching to the bundle of nerves and leaving you gasping, gripping his hair as your chest heaved. a low groan vibrated through your core from the man below you, reaching every end and nerve of your body as you struggled to keep up on your feet as your peak washed over you. his arm wrapped up underneath your right thigh, holding you against him and pressing against your hip as if that would somehow ground you as you nearly collapsed against him, your entire body alight as your walls squeezed around his fingers, clenching so tight it could restrict movement.

he was barely any gentler as he reemerged from your skirts, your head slumped back against the tree as he stood to tower over you once more, using the fabric of your gown to hold you up and practically manhandle you up against the tree that scraped your skin with each move. loose strands of hair had freed themselves from the half done up style, hanging in your face as you panted, mouth agape as you looked up at him; lips glistening with the reminisce of you — your cheeks heated with embarrassment, reaching out to touch his cheek.

he was beautiful, especially with you on his lips.

you dropped your hand and pulled him towards you by his hips, using the belt to your advantage to jerk him forward, his own lazy smirk mirrored by your tired smile as your hands fumbled to undo the laces of his pants. he aided in the task, skillful fingers pulling them with ease and shoving his pants down just enough that they sat high on his thighs, freeing his hardened cock from their confinement, your hand instinctively coming down to wrap around the length and stroke him. his lips parted above you, hands coming to cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as his nose nudged yours.

you could have stayed there forever, in that moment — with the sight before you, a flush in his face as he appeared fucked out already, hair in a disarray from your fingers.

he reached across his chest to undo the clasp of his cloak, dropping it from his shoulders; getting rid of the only shield that hid you from any potential prying eyes — if anyone burst through the bushes then, there would be no hiding the act and it would be without any doubt what was happening.

‘parading herself like a whore on Blackwood land’

benjicot would be correct. if your cousins had dared to wander close to the borderlands again, you would be done for. there would be no protecting any ounce of your dignity and modesty at that point — you would be shamed by your entire family, and even worse, your father…he would be beyond furious and nothing less than gutted.

the thought and feeling of sheer shame it brought had you clinging close to the man in front of you, his body easily capable of concealing yours as one hand went above your shoulder to the tree, too blissed out to put an end to this and go home right then as his mouth pressed to yours in a sweet, affectionate kiss. you moaned against his mouth, his hand replacing yours around his cock to glide it up along your slit; gathering the slick as a means to lubricate the head of his cock, that already leaked pre-cum that mingled with your own arousal, the tip red and angry.

you braced against the tree, trying to regain footing, nearly slipping into him. he steadied you with the arm above your shoulder, wrapped around your ribs and forcing your chest against his as he slid into you, earning a gasp, breaths mingling as your own arm wrapped around his shoulders; clutching to him like your life depended on it — and in some ways, it did.

he held you up against the tree, having to shove the fabric of his tunic and doublet high up on his hips out of the way as he thrusted up into yours. each movement of his hips, shallow due to the position, his pelvis brushed against your clit, providing enough stimulation to leave you struggling for air as you fisted his clothing in your hands.

“fuck…” he rasped, lips brushing your own as they parted, each breath from his mouth sucked into your lungs as you relied on him for the strength to stay upright, slumping into him.

you were a jumbled, incoherent series of sounds as any paranoid thought of fearing your cousin's appearance went out the window, all consumed by him. your leg lifted by his hand guiding it by the back of your knee, thigh hooking around his hip and pulling him further, deeper into you and releasing a sob. you felt so full, it physically ached, walls clenching down around him and eliciting a hiss of air from him.

the sound of a branch cracking somewhere in the distance of the bushes caused you to jolt against him, eyes peering over his shoulder, wide and panicked as the thought crossed your mind again just how open you were to being exposed. you had done this time and time again, but never with his own men just several feet from the bush you were hidden among, and never during a war that had everyone on edge. the looming war had your father in particular paranoid, leading to an increase in fleets that surveyed the boundaries of bracken’s land and the thought instilled again, that fear that you could be caught.

as if he sensed your worry, his mouth caught yours in another kiss, forehead pressing to yours, “my love…” he muttered, bringing your attention back to him.

and he was successful, your gaze doing one last scan and straining into the dark before you were faced with his tired, lust-filled face, his cheeks flushed and striking even in the dark. the sweet name swelled your chest with adoration, your breath quick as you let out a moan, spiraling into bliss against him as his hand came between you to once again rub against your clit.

“ben, i can’t— please—“ the sound was weak and feeble, choked out and gasping for air as your body burned.

it was met by deaf ears as he gently shushed you, his mouth grazing yours, cock relentlessly rutting up into you with desperation — seeking for release as your walls fluttered around him. the groan he released was animalistic, deep from within his chest and carnal as you clutched onto him, struggling to keep yourself up against him and pulling him into you; seeking some kind of anchor to keep you grounded as his hand on your clit worked in unfaltering shapes that had you weak.

a final sob of pleasure left you as you clamped down around him, body tense and slumping against his as you released yourself around him. the final plea of his name and your walls were followed by a few sharp, final thrusts as he released his seed into you; fucking it deeper into you with a deep sigh of your name, a hand coming to your throat as he glanced down, his forehead resting against your chin.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

you stepped up onto the riverbank of your family’s side; thighs still aching while benjicot’s hand supported you from behind before he too crawled up behind you, not seeming to care that he was now soaked from his thighs down. He stood back, allowing you a silent moment to wring out your dress of any water as best you could, hands twisting the fabric and letting out a grunt of exertion before letting it drop back down to your feet. You bent to collect your dress, benjicot finally stepped forward to help in your task of redressing, hands smoothing the fabric over your hips and straightening your shoulders with a gaze down, not daring to make eye contact.

you both knew this could have been the last time you saw each other, the dawning realization casting an awkward, tense silence over the two of you as you eyed the fabric of his doublet; making a mental note of its ridges, the pattern of the woven article of clothing. he tensed as you lifted a hand to touch the fabric with your fingers, too intimate a gesture as fingers ran across his chest and up towards his shoulder before stilling there, your palm coming to place over his heart.

“when are you to marry the…” he began to ask, his face screwing up in disgust at the idea as he spat out the name, “Lefford boy.”

you gaze only briefly lifted towards his face when he spoke, a small snort leaving you at his reaction and smiling softly at his antics. The smile dropped after a moment, though, inhaling and sighting out a breath as you straightened out his own clothing with gentle tugs, brushing over the fabrics, “two nights from today.” you quietly replied.

he made a sound of disapproval, his gaze on your face as you finally looked him in the eye again, his hand rising to capture your wrist in his hold. You had heard the whispers as well throughout the halls of stone hedge, trying to picture it as you looked at him, “I hear rumors you’re to be married, too.” you pointed out, his face twitching.

he released your wrist, stepping back and looking towards his feet as he fixed his sleeves, “My father plans to betroth me against my will.” He admitted, his words a grumble as he shook out his arms and looked up at you again.

you nodded, “who? has he said anything of his intentions?”

“some girl.” he admitted, shaking his head with a shrug of his shoulders, cheeks expanding with a sigh, “the lord paramount’s granddaughter, I suppose.”

you smiled, tilting your head as you looked at him, “serra tully, right? that’s her name, yes?”

“unfortunately.” he grumbled in complaint.

“she’s quite beautiful, I hear.”

he shrugged again, letting out another grunt.

“well, you should probably be on your way,” you said, hands folding behind you as he looked across the river, the sun already beginning to come up. “your men will be looking for you soon.”

benjicot nodded, stepping forward and reluctantly reaching out to your waist, fingers gently pressing into your sides as he leaned forward to press a sweet kiss to your mouth, “I will see you soon.” He said as he withdrew from your mouth, face still hovering close.

you raised a hand and pressed it to his cheek, smiling as you looked up at him, “yes. maybe.”

his eyes rolled as you lifted a hand as if to gesture ‘just as I suspected’, looking over you as a sharp whistle sounded from somewhere beyond the trees from his camp, hands dropping from your sides and straightening the belt at his hips; you watched as his fingers went to the dagger at his right hip, removing it from its sheath, much to your confusion. He withdrew it and used his free hand to pull one of yours forward, pressing the blade into your palm and looking at you, “a wedding gift.” He quietly said.

you looked down at the blade, frowning and blinking rapidly a couple of times before looking up at him, mouth opened in a stutter, “benjicot, I- I can’t accept this. you might need-”

“I have plenty back home,” he assured, wrapping your fingers around the handle of it and licking his lips that were then pressed into a line that resembled an amused smile, “have it…in case that Lefford boy ever pisses you off.”

you let out a laugh, a smile coming to his face as your hand dropped from his, the dagger clutched by your side, “very charming of you.”

He chuckled and pressed another quick kiss to your forehead before he brushed past you, hurrying into the river with a splash and sloshing back in the direction he had come from. you watched as he climbed out of the water, entering back out onto blackwood territory and giving one last glance as he retreated back into the trees.

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Rip Tide | Chapter XIII

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 11.247 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

My boss is a nepo man-baby who has not a lick of self-awareness in him so I'll apologize in advance if the rich people hate is stronger in this one. Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

A part of you never fully understood moral crises as a concept. 

Though you were no stranger to self-hatred, it always seemed foreign that something fair could feel wrong enough to unravel a person, to send them spiraling into existential dread so profound that they began to question their entire moral compass —the parameter by which they defined their worth as a human being.

So when you woke up that morning, the sun still far from rising, your head splitting from the remnants of last night’s drinking, and your chest squeezed tight with something you couldn’t yet name, you were confused, to say the least.

You moved, attempting to stand, only to be pulled back by the weight of an arm draped over your waist.

Barry’s arm.

Around your naked waist.

You look down, moving slowly as the mattress beneath you moulds to the shape of your body, and realize that you’re on his bed.

Again.

The weight in your chest solidifies into something heavier, something you recognize all too well —Guilt.

It wasn’t the first time you felt like this. 

You’d been sleeping with your brother’s best friend for months before this moment, and every time, you found yourself wondering whether your lapses in judgment were signs of an unraveling mind or just the consequence of grief you hadn’t even begun to process.

But this time, it was different.

This wasn’t just you —avoidant attacher you, your mother’s daughter you— breaking down in self-loathing after having sex, like you did, every time it happened. This time, your conscience hit you like a ton of bricks.

Because this wasn't just some drunken mistake.

You remember last night.

You were conscious.

You remember kissing Barry, already guilty, already knowing you were using him to distract yourself from the things you weren’t ready to face —that whatever fractured thing you once called family was now gone, irreversibly lost to you.

You remember hiding your face in the crook of his neck, swallowing tears as you got on top of him, desperate for something, anything, to make you forget the night before. You remember his hands on you, grounding, steady, something close to safe—but even that memory sours when you let yourself recall why you’re there in the first place.

Because you also remember before that.

You look down to see new bruises forming around your arms, remembering the iron grip JJ had around you, his unchecked anger, his recklessness almost getting you killed. You remember the bike ride, the raw terror, your nails digging into the mattress just as they’d dug into his skin, the aftershocks of a brush with death still rumbling through you.

You remember John—John B— and realizing just how little you matter to him. 

And you remember Barry.

The way he drove you to that bar, even after he explicitly told you he was taking you home, so you wouldn’t be breaking your own heart over and over until it killed you, so you wouldn’t self-destruct. 

And yet—here you were.

You swallow hard, staring at the ceiling, at the peeling paint, at the cracks running along the plaster like veins, trying to steady the breath rattling in your chest. The weight of last night settled over you in layers—guilt, exhaustion, something darker beneath it all, something that felt too much like mourning.

Because this was mourning, wasn’t it?

Even if you couldn’t name it, even if you refused to.

You had lost something. A version of your life that—however much an illusion, a lie you told yourself again and again to make that draining existence bearable—was still yours. And now it wasn’t. Now, you were outside of it, looking in, knowing you could never go back.

You press your palms against your eyes, willing yourself to stop thinking, to stop feeling. But your mind betrays you, conjuring up everything you had left behind in that house. Your clothes, your books, your pictures, your past, your whole life. Everything you had fought to hold together, however precariously, was still there, still waiting for you, lingering in the rooms you had once called home.

And here you were. In Barry’s bed. Having to search through the lost-and-found drawer of clothes his past hookups left behind just to find something to wear to work.

The thought makes something twist in your stomach, sharp and bitter.

You shouldn’t be the one going through this.

You did things right.

You worked. You sacrificed. You held everything together when no one else would. When John was too fractured to understand the weight of your father’s absence, you carried it for him, even though you’re the younger sibling, even though he should be the one taking care of you. You bent over backwards, strung yourself thin, barely balanced work and school and the endless responsibility of making sure he was okay, while he disregarded that all, not working, already graduated, uncaring of your grief, as you made sure that he had something stable to hold onto. And now?

Now, you’re the one in exile. 

You’re the one sleeping in someone else’s bed, shaking with grief and guilt, scrounging through clothes that don’t belong to you, wondering how the hell you ended up here.

How is that fair?

John has done everything you’ve done and worse. He’s lied, he’s stolen, he’s run off without a second thought, leaving you behind to pick up the pieces. And yet he is still there. He still gets to call that house his home. Like JJ, who has left a trail of destruction wider than the island itself, and still has people who will defend him, who will fight for him, who will let him back in.

While you are the one forced to shrink, to leave, to suffer, while they get to sit in the ruins of the life you built for them, unscathed. While they convince themselves that you are the problem.

Like you were never meant to matter.

And now they’ve taken everything from you.

And they still think they are the ones who have been wronged.

You sigh, sitting up carefully, already fighting tears as you peel the sheets back and move. Barry shifts beside you, exhaling something low and unintelligible, but he doesn't wake. You glance at him briefly, at the mess of his hair, at the bruised knuckles resting against the pillow, at the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest —You want to be thankful, and you are, but there’s something that doesn’t sit quite right about him taking you to a bar and plying you with alcohol at the lowest moment of your life. You know it wasn’t right to let him kiss you, let him reward himself for comforting you, for helping you, by taking you again. And maybe it’s the resentment in you speaking, but you almost feel taken advantage of.

Your eyes shift away from him as if the sight had burned you, and you stand up, feeling the full scope of your bad decisions —the drinking, the fighting, the sleeping with someone who has heavy enough hands as it is— take form in an ache that permeates your entire body, almost sending you back down.

You catch yourself on the nightstand, picking up your jeans, forgotten on the ground beside the marina shirt Barry had been wearing. You search for your underwear, avoiding the pieces of your dignity that are scattered across the ground as you retrieve them.

– A little early for clean-up duty, don’t you think? – The hum startles you, husky, still riddled with sleep, and you clutch your clothes to your chest as he leans his head on his hand, covering himself with the sheets. – Tryna get some brownie points now that I’m your new roommate, sweetheart?

You hate that about him.

That he has it in him to be charming even while half-asleep. That he always smiles like the world is devoid of problems even when everything is falling apart. That he manages to make you not hate him even when you really should.

It's infuriating.

– Are you that unfamiliar with cleaning up that just the sound of it wakes you up? – You sigh, and he chuckles, low and careless, looking at you from the cloud of sleep that still floats over his head.

– Shit, maybe. Gonna have to get a grip on that now that I’m living with a neat-freak, huh?

– Oh yeah, Barry. Your days of peace are over.

He grins, not even registering your tone. – It’s early, though. Even for you. – He looks between you and the empty space beside him, a silent request. – C’mon. The mess can wait.

– It's fine, Bee. I have to get ready anyway.

A quiet scoff leaves his lips. – For what? The six AM shift?

– I have to be there at seven today. – He makes a noise of disapproval, expression shifting into something like outrage. – Mr. Cameron has this laundry list of requests for breakfast. And it’s Kareem’s day off, so I have to do the prep.

– Kareem’s the other cook? – You nod, folding his clothes and leaving them on the chair as he stands up, reaching for the wardrobe behind you. – Two whole ass chefs just to make three meals a day. And here I was thinking these people couldn’t get any more ridiculous.

– I'd be out of a job if they weren't. – You mumble, and he hands you a fresh towel. – Kooks are gonna Kook, I guess. 

– You betcha. – Barry gets a hold of your arm before you can go to the bathroom, a strange sympathy in his eyes. – You sure you don’t wanna sleep another while? You need the rest, especially since…

You don’t know what’s worse, him trailing off without actually saying it or making it clear just how horrible of a situation you were in. – Since I’ve been disowned?

– Since your birthday is coming up. – He corrects, laughing easily. It takes you a moment to process his words, and the doubt must have been clear on your face, since he nods over to a calendar glued to the back of his door. – Only a week from now, sweetheart. Feel any wiser yet?

You blink at the date, staring at the numbers like they belong to someone else.

Your birthday.

Your eighteenth birthday.

It doesn’t feel like it’s in a week. It doesn’t feel like anything at all.

You never had the chance to expect much from birthdays. Most years, it passed like any other day, save for a half-hearted “oh, yeah” from John if someone else reminded him. But at least it was still yours. Even if it went unnoticed. Even if it meant nothing to anyone else.

Now, it doesn’t even belong to you.

It feels like another thing lost in the wreckage.

You’d convinced yourself that it was supposed to mean something this time around. That since you were finally gonna be an adult, this one should mark the start of something new, something bigger, something better. You’d talked about it with JJ, and Pope, and Kie. Going to Charlotte, having a roadtrip, maybe buying cigarettes with your real ID for the first time around.

The thought feels foreign, muddled. As if it’d belonged to someone else.

Because there won’t be any candles, no off-key singing, no cheap gas station cupcakes hastily picked up at the last second.

Just you. And Barry. And a room that isn’t yours, in a life you didn’t choose, putting on someone else’s clothes to go to a job that also doesn’t belong to you.

You exhale sharply, shaking it off before it can settle.

Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe now you don’t have to pretend it ever mattered.

Barry watches you carefully, waiting for a reaction, but you don’t give him one. You just reach for the towel in his hand, force a smirk, and roll your eyes. – Oh yeah. I bet I look much wiser too, hungover and all.

Barry laughs, eyes lingering on the calendar as if he’s looking at something special. – We should do something, y’know. I still remember the party you threw for me when I turned eighteen.

The thought of it makes you wince. 

You’d saved money for months. One of Barry’s other friends came through with the drugs, you bought a couple of kegs, made him a cake and had everybody he knew write the stupidest things on it with frosting. What you remembered of it was fine, but you don’t remember much of it at all, only that the two of you had slept together that night as well. – If I drink that much ever again liver failure will be the least of my problems. – You chuckle. – It’s fine, Bee. There’s no family to invite, it’s gonna be a day like any other.

– Hey, I’m family. Ain’t that what I’m here for?

– What kind of family is family you fuck?

He grins, pretending to ponder for a second. – The good kind?

– And yet you called JJ “Alabama”. – You laugh. – I’m gonna shower, you go back to sleep, okay?

– You don’t want company? – You can hear the smile on his face as you turn around.

– No thanks, I plan on leaving the bathroom some time within the next three hours. – His laughter accompanies you down the hall, still lingering lowly as you close the door behind you.

You don’t bother looking in the mirror.

It’s not just the hangover, or the exhaustion, or the bruises that make your body ache in ways it shouldn’t. It’s the feeling that if you do—if you really look at yourself—you won’t see you anymore. Just the wreckage. Just the aftermath of another night spent unraveling.

So you don’t.

You step into the shower before the weight of your own reflection can settle. The water is hot, almost scalding, and for once, you’re grateful. The heater at home had been broken for months because John never cared enough to actually follow through with his promise to fix it. You’d gotten used to cold showers, to bracing yourself against the chill, to starting every morning with a shiver.

Now, the heat seeps into your skin, loosens the tension in your shoulders, makes it feel—just for a second—like something is being undone. Like something is melting.

But it doesn’t wash the bruises away.

It doesn’t erase the fingerprints around your wrists, the darkened smudges along your arms, the imprint of hands around your hips. It doesn’t stop your mind from conjuring the feeling of JJ’s grip, Barry’s hands, the weight of it all pressing down, sinking in, refusing to leave.

You press your forehead against the tile, eyes shut, letting the water drown out the noise in your head.

It’s fine. It’s just another day.

When the heat becomes too much, you shut the water off and step out, wrapping yourself in the towel before reaching for the pile of clothes. Your jeans, your underwear, the borrowed top. 

The fabric feels unfamiliar—worn-in but not yours, carrying traces of someone else’s perfume, someone else’s presence.

It’s simple, but nice, a little more 2000s-y than what you would usually wear, with a low neckline, that isn’t low enough to be scandalous and a little too camisole-y to actually look like a going out top. The powder blue fabric looks pretty enough against your skin that you don’t even have it in you to be annoyed at the fact it leaves your bra straps showing.

You’re gonna be cooking all day, you shouldn’t be worried about what you’re wearing.

You sigh, pulling the top over your head.

By the time you make it to the kitchen Barry is standing at the counter, attempting to make coffee. The scene is almost comical—him, squinting at the ancient coffee maker like it’s personally offended him, a bag of grounds torn open beside his hand.

You lean against the doorway, crossing your arms.

– Please tell me you didn’t just set the coffee pot on fire.

Barry turns, eyebrows raised, entirely unbothered. – It’s fine.

You glance pointedly at the plume of smoke curling up from the machine. – Bee.

He waves a hand, grinning. – Okay, mostly fine.

You shake your head, stepping forward to rescue whatever’s left of the coffee. – Jesus Christ. – You chuckle, looking through the cupboards. – You have a moka pot in here somewhere, don— Here. I’ll make us some coffee.

– I was trying to be nice, – He sighs, but doesn’t argue. – You like coffee, right? You always make it when I’m hungover.

You pause for half a second, hands hovering over the powder – Yeah. Thanks, Bee. – You say, voice softer than you meant it to be. – But you don’t need to do that, you’re already my landlord, you don’t have to be a brewist too. – Barry just smirks, sitting down and watching you, sleep still clear on his face. – You take yours with milk right? I’ll warm that up—

– No, there uhm, there’s no milk. – He says, almost bashful. – I haven’t gone grocery shopping yet.

– It’s fine. Add that to the list too. You can text me what you need, I’ll go grocery shopping this afternoon.

Barry makes a face, shifting in his seat as  he leans a hand on your arm. – Don’t— Don’t spend your money on this, okay? It’s fine.

– Yeah it is, cause it’s not my money. It’s Cameron money. They leave us a card for food shopping, we can sneak in some essentials, free of charge. Don’t worry about it.

He laughs, standing to get the cups as you take the pot from the fire. – Thank God for these rich fucks. You milk ‘em as much as you can, sweetheart. – His eyes linger on you for a moment as he sips from his mug. – That’s a nice shirt. – You smile, sipping from your own coffee. – Ain’t that a little too dressy for work though?

– Dressy? It’s just a top.

– I’m just saying. – He takes your arm, looking at the watch. – We should be going already.

– Oh, I’ll take the bus. And don’t argue. Your bike’s still at the bar, and the bus station is much, much closer. 

Barry grabs his keys from the counter, tossing them once in his hand – You sure? We’l walk to the River Styx together, it’ll take half the time it takes the bus.

– I’m fine, Bee. You drink your coffee. – You roll your eyes, grabbing your bag from the floor. – Plus, how will I enjoy your services as a chauffeur later if someone crashes against you because you’re driving half-asleep?

He exhales through his nose, unconvinced, but doesn’t argue. Just steps in front of you as you reach for the door, close enough that you catch the familiar scent of his cigarettes, the faint trace of you still on his skin, on his shirt —your shirt.

His hand brushes your shoulder as he reaches past you, fingers ghosting over the strap of your top. The keys in his grip skim lightly against your collarbone as he adjusts the fabric.

He presses the house keys into your hand, mumbling something about making copies later as he takes the empty coffee cup from your other hand, moving through the motions with the same absentminded ease he does everything else.

You mumble a quick thanks before stepping outside, but when you glance back, just to say see you later, his eyes are already on you.

Steady. Lingering.

There’s something on his mind, something you can’t quite get a read on, but it vanishes the second he raises his hand to wave you goodbye, the careless ease of his smile taking over that flicker of something else, but not erasing it.

The door shuts, and whatever it was—if it was anything at all—disappears with it.

You think about it all the way to the Cameron House. You’re still thinking about it as you push the door open to meet the empty, hollow kitchen, still bathed in the half-light of the early morning. 

You go through the motions: put away your things, wash your hands, check the list of reminders Kareem left for you. But you feel hollow yourself, a husk of what you once were in the daylight, just like the house you stand in.

The kitchen hums with silence, still untouched by the chaos that will inevitably unfold later in the day. You let the quiet settle over you like a second skin, trying to sink into it, to focus.

You check the list again. Hollandaise. Eggs Benedict. Toast golden, but not crunchy. Bacon, one side only—the fat can’t be too wrinkled.

Your hands move on autopilot, reaching for the ingredients, setting the pan on the stove, measuring out the butter, the egg yolks, the lemon juice. You fall into the rhythm, but your body still feels off, still feels like it’s moving at half-speed, like some part of you is lagging behind, still standing at Barry’s doorway, still thinking about—

You shake it off, glancing at the clock. 7:12.

You whisk the hollandaise, slow and careful, watching the sauce thicken with each pass of the spoon. The water for the poached eggs bubbles, waiting. You butter the toast, flipping it at just the right moment to get that perfect golden shade—light, delicate, nothing too crisp. The bacon sizzles on one side, untouched on the other.

Everything has to be exact. —You can’t afford any mistakes with Mr. Cameron. Not now.

Your mind keeps racing —Your things, back at home. Your bedroom, still a mess. The laundry you were supposed to do today, sitting untouched in the baskets. Your hands itch, lost in the movement, yet still restless— all the things you didn’t do coming back to haunt you.

You exhale sharply, pushing the thoughts aside. Focus. 7:36.

You plate the eggs, layering them neatly over the toast, pouring the hollandaise in a careful stream. The espresso machine hisses to life, filling the air with something warm, something bitter.

The coffee drips slow. You tap your fingers against the counter, eyes flicking back to the watch. 7:41.

You press your lips together, shaking your head. It’s fine. It’s just another part of the routine.

7:59.

The house is still quiet, still asleep. But from behind Ward’s office door, you hear the hum of the fan, the scrape of his chair against the wooden floor, the slow exhale of breath through his nose—measured, thoughtful. You wait there, the tray heavy in your hands, feeling as though you’re knocking on Satan’s door.

A chill creeps up your spine as his voice comes through the wood, low and indifferent. – Come in.

You step inside, unease settling in your bones as you set the tray down on the edge of his desk with careful hands. He almost seems surprised to see you.

– Good morning, Mr. Cameron.

He hums, setting his papers aside, leaning back in his chair. His eyes don’t leave you.

– Good to know you remembered to bring it up, Miss Routledge.

– You asked me to, sir.

A low laugh escapes him, but it's cold and hollow, like that first warning movement a rattlesnake makes when you step on the wrong spot.

– That’s not enough for most people. – Your eyes meet the ice of his as he lifts the coffee from the tray, something dark flickering at the corners of his expression. – It’s not enough for my son, that’s for sure.

His eyes move towards you again, expectant.

Ward’s hand ghosts over the edge of the tray, back and forth, as he watches you plate the food. 

– I don’t have any kids of my own, sir, – You say, keeping your voice level. You don’t know why he wants you to say something, but he keeps looking at you, almost inquisitively, measuring every little expression that crosses your face. – But I’ve been babysitting since I was old enough to walk. The cleverest kids are always the ones that seem to do everything they can to disobey you.

Something shifts in his face as he tilts his head. The movement cold and cryptic, like every expression he’s ever worn.

– It’s hard to think of a child disobeying you, Routledge. – His voice is even. Almost idle. But there’s something beneath it, something pointed. You’re not sure you want to know. – Tell me, – He continues, – how did you handle these ‘clever kids’?

You hesitate, but the answer comes quickly, instinctively.

– The bad thing about being clever is that you want everybody around you to think you’re clever, too. That’s why they don’t follow orders—they think it means you see them as stupid, and they can’t handle that.

He chuckles, crossing his arms, considering.

– Interesting take.

– With kids, everything is about validation, – You continue. – If you make them believe they’re the ones choosing to do what you want, and they think you’re only praising them because you’re impressed, they’ll do it. Even when you don’t ask.

– The praise here being the important part?

You nod, unable to hold his gaze for too long—yet still feeling it on you.

– Rafe's right when he says that everybody likes a little flattery. It's just that everyone likes it in a different way.

Ward leans in on his chair and takes a bite of the toast, eyes finally closing—just for a second, the only moment where he isn’t watching you. But you don't have time to feel relief, as his gaze finds you just as soon as his eyes open again.

He’s still chewing when he leans back. – Very well then, Miss Routledge. – You search the weight of his tone, trying to read between the lines. But you can’t, he doesn’t give you the time. – Off you go.

You take the empty tray from the desk, nodding.

– Enjoy your breakfast, sir.

– Oh, I will. – The laugh that follows is quiet. Not like a warning rattle this time, but like the sound a snake makes after it’s struck. – I will.

You don’t realize how tightly you’ve been gripping the tray until you step into the hallway, until the door to Ward’s office clicks shut behind you and your fingers finally loosen. The weight of it shifts, pressing against your palms in a way that makes your skin prickle.

His voice still echoes in your mind.

"It’s hard to think of a child disobeying you, Routledge."

You still don’t know what he meant. 

Flattery? Mockery? Knowing? Something else entirely?

You exhale through your nose, forcing your shoulders to roll back, to shake off the feeling creeping up your spine.

It’s fine.

It was just breakfast. Just another interaction with a man who enjoys making people squirm, who speaks in riddles because he likes watching you try to solve them.

And yet—

"Oh, I will."

The way he said it. The way his voice dipped just slightly, there was something else beneath the words.

You step into the kitchen, setting the tray down with a little more force than necessary, the sound sharp against the silence. You press your hands against the counter, reaching for the cigarettes in your pocket, for the lighter you took from Barry's place.

– Rough morning?

The lighter clatters to the floor. 

The voice startles you.

Sarah is perched on the kitchen counter, legs crossed, picking at the hem of a shirt that definitely does not belong to her.

Your stomach tightens, a flutter of irritation rising from your chest.

– An ambush, huh? Classy. What can I do for you, Sarah?

– You can talk to him. – The scoff leaves your lips before you can think to stop it. And you keep laughing, a bitter taste in your mouth as you turn away, grab the lighter, turn your back. – I don’t know why you think this is so funny, Y/n.

– Oh, I bet you don’t. – Your hands move without thinking. Too caught up in the audacity of it all, you move from the fridge, to the counter to the pantry, grabbing all the things you know Sarah has for breakfast. The things you used to make for her, before she threw it all away. – I just bet that you’re completely unaware of just how hilarious it is that you are the one asking me to talk. 

– You’re being ridiculous, okay? – She thunders, hopping off the counter, her sandals whistling against the marble floor as she nears you, all but shouting, an inch away from your face. – Both of you are! You know that you went too far working here, and he knows that he went too far letting JJ kick you out, so why don’t you just say it already and apologize?!

– Apologize?! I should apologize because he kicked me out of my own fucking house?!

– He didn’t kick you—

– You’re right Sarah, there’s a world of difference:  For him to kick me out he’d actually have to grow a pair of balls and be a fucking adult about it. Which he isn’t! Point taken!

– You are so immature! Just talk to him!

– TALK TO HIM ABOUT WHAT?! I’ve said it all! On my knees, in tears, and he still didn’t fucking listen to me! He doesn’t care about me, he never did! And neither do you!

– Oh yeah! Shift the blame to distract from your mistakes. That’s so much easier than actually being accountable for the things you did and saying sorry.

–And exactly what should I be sorry about?! Huh? – She looks at you, completely still, rolling her eyes, knowing she has no argument to counter. – About working to support him? About wanting to hang out with my friends?

– Rafe isn’t your friend.

Yiu laugh before you can stop yourself.– You could’ve fooled me.

Sarah’s face falls. – Excuse me?!

– I said “could’ve fooled me”. Rafe’s been nothing but good to me since we met. He comforted me when I got fired, he got me this job so I wouldn’t starve. He’s helped me out every day since that one, and he keeps doing it. Shit, he treats me much better than any of you!

– You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Y/n.

– And you don’t know anything about me, Sarah. You don’t know anything about John. You don’t know anything about this life you’re pretending to live.

– What did you just say to—

- I mean, interrupting me at work? Trying to strongarm me into talking to a grown ass man who clearly doesn’t wanna hear shit from me? Exactly what do you want me to say?! Should I go up to the guy that’s bullied me my whole life, that used my money to pay for his stupid little parties in the boneyard and the even stupider illegal shit he does all the time, and tell him what?! “Oh, hey! I’m so sorry that I needed to get a different job to pay our bills! My bad! Next time your friend Kie is bored enough with her suburban life that she actually feels the need to get me fired, I’ll be sure to warn you in advance!” 

– Oh, woe is you! You know very well you didn’t need to come here to work again! You could've gotten a job literally anywhere else! – She screams at your face, her breath fanning against your skin, close, too close, but your hands don’t falter. You keep working without looking at her, your voice not even wavering anymore.

– Oh! Yeah, right! Because that’s so easy, right Sarah? I could just bound down the street, knock on the first door I saw and get a job on a silver platter! It’s not like getting a job that pays a decent wage and contributes to the career I want is hard! It’s not like it takes time, sometimes months, months in which the bills that are already late would pile on because John never bothers to pay them. It’s not like John, the only adult in this situation, could get in trouble with the law for not paying those bills. Because you know what? Money isn’t real. Money doesn’t matter to me. Money is just this magical little thing that drops on my lap every month free of charge like your daddy’s allowance!

She all but gasps, as if what you said was some outrage. – Are you really gonna bring this back to “pogues and kooks”? Really? You’re so predictable!

– You’re right! I should’ve just been born in a family that actually gives a fuck about me, maybe then I could look down upon them and pretend I’m on some high moral ground because I’m sleeping with the lower class. That’d be unpredictable, huh? 

– You did not just—

– You’re right. I'm misinterpreting the situation. How rude of me. You actually don't just look down upon your entire family while you're slumming it at my place, you also waste all the things that I spend my hard-earned money on, and then come back here to tell everyone how much better than them you are. My bad, Sarah.

– I can’t believe you. 

– Well, tough fucking luck. You want something to believe in? Attend a church. I don’t have the time to sit here and twist my words until they’re out of touch enough to make sense in your privileged little mind, okay? I can’t lounge in a house I don’t pay for, eating food I didn’t buy and pretending to be something I’m not—

– Unlike me?

– Exactly. – The word leaves your mouth like a bullet. Her lips part, like she might have something to say, but you don’t give her the chance. You step back, just slightly, the food you've been making for her done and plated before you, the hierarchy of this argument more than clear.

But you've let yourself be walked all over way too many times to let this go.

It doesn't matter to you that she's your boss’ daughter. That she's a rich kid, that she thinks she owns you even if she pretends she does not— None of it matters.

Because your eyes meet hers again, and for the first time since you two fell out, you're not letting her off with a slap on the wrist.

– You think you’re standing on solid ground, Sarah, you think you get to tell me what’s right and wrong because you’ve convinced yourself that you’re better than the other kooks just because you hang around a couple pogues? You're not one of us. And this— Your fingers brush over the fabric of her shirt, John's shirt, over the bracelet around her arm you know that John gave her, over all the things she uses as a costume to pretend she isn't exactly the thing she so hypocritically pretends she isn't. – This act? This jungle fever thing? Whatever the fuck it is that you think you’re doing, it doesn’t make you a pogue. It's an insult. To me. To John. To your family. To you.

Sarah’s jaw tightens.

– You wanna sit here and pretend? Get on your high horse and ignore the fact that you're part of the problem? Fine. You can do whatever you want, Sarah. You always did. But don't expect me to give you any brownie points for using the proletariat costume, because you know damn well that you could live just fine without having to work a day in your life.

The words land like a strike.

Not loud. Not shouted. But harsh all the same.

– I’m tired of you and Kie pretending you know anything about this life. You wanna know this life? You wanna have the right to talk shit about rich people? Here’s an idea: get a job. Get a job in which people like you can come into your place of work, interfering with the single thing keeping you from living on the streets, demanding explanations for things that don’t concern them, and then come back to me. But you won’t do that, will you? Because what you like is being able to cosplay poverty and then come back to your million dollar mansion at the end of the day. Your lifestyle is a fraud, Sarah. Don’t make this my problem. 

She stares at you the same way she used to do back when you were friends.

When she needed your help with homework, when she needed you to lie to a teacher as to why she wasn’t in class, when she needed you to put her name at the end of a seminar she didn’t write so that she wouldn’t be stuck with an F —The “poor me, I’m so irresponsible” look. Sarah and John were masters at it, but people have been looking at you like that your entire life. Asking you to take responsibilities you shouldn’t have to handle because they were too busy doing things they knew they shouldn’t do. 

You’re at your wit’s end.

You have been for a long time now. – Ooh, what’s that? Is it the seventh grade again? You think you can bat your little eyes at me and I’ll be the one apologizing for the shit you’ve put me through, again? – The words filter through your lips like straight venom, sickly sweet and double-edged. A trick you’ve learned from her. – I’m not your lap dog anymore, Sarah. You can’t lead me on and then screw me over, like you used to. You’ve got John B for that. So take your breakfast, go eat it in any of the thousand dining rooms you have in this house, and leave me alone.

You’re holding the plate up to her, waiting for her to do right by you for once in her life. But she doesn’t. Sarah keeps looking at you like you’re the bad guy. Because people like her cannot conceive of the idea of not being in the right.

Her lips part, pursed with the sour taste of whatever it is that's waltzing through her mind.

– I'm your boss, too. – She says, bitterly, childishly. – I can fire you if I want. You can’t talk to me like that, Y/n.

You don’t even get the chance to scoff.

– She can, actually. – The voice comes from the other side of the kitchen. Rafe, of course, is leaning against the doorway, half-dressed, arms crossed, with the smuggest look on his face. – And you’re not gonna fire her, Sarah. Not unless you want me to tell dad about you John B fucking on his boat.

Rafe’s eyes meet yours right then, a boyish smile flashing across his face before he looks back at his sister, thoroughly amused.

Sarah’s face twists, anger flaring in the way her lips part, in the way her breath stutters—caught between disbelief and pure, boiling rage.

– You’re disgusting.

Rafe laughs.

Not a chuckle. Not a scoff. A full-bodied laugh, like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

– Oh, come on, – He drawls, shifting against the doorframe, arms still crossed, that smug grin widening. – You’re just mad cause I beat you to it. You wanted to play the ‘I can ruin your life’ card, and turns out? I’m holding a better hand.

– Fuck you, Rafe.

His laughter is loud, genuine. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him enjoy himself so much. – Clearly you're the only one here who's not fucking, Sarah.

Sarah looks like she might actually lunge at him.

Her fists clench at her sides, her shoulders heaving, her jaw tight enough that it looks like she physically has to stop herself from swinging at him.

– You're fucking disgusting.

– Says the person threatening someone's job just because she told you some truths about yourself. Get off your high horse.

– You don’t even care about her, – She spits, shaking her head. – You’re just doing this to fuck with me. Like you always do.

Rafe exhales a sharp, amused breath, tilting his head. His gaze flickers toward you for half a second—just long enough to see that you’re still not stopping him.

And when he gathers you aren’t, he grins.

– That what you think? – His voice is all mockery, slow-burning cruelty, his eyes flicking back to Sarah with something sharper in them now. – That’s so typical, Sarah. You think the world revolves around you.

Sarah’s glare deepens.

– Oh, fuck off, Rafe.

– Nah, let’s talk about it, – He continues, stepping closer, voice going low, venomous. – Let’s talk about how you’re nothing but a stupid little spoiled girl who throws a tantrum every time someone doesn’t kiss your ass.

Sarah’s hands ball to fists.

But Rafe is thriving. He barely stutters.

– You think you’re different? – He scoffs. – You think you’re better than every other rich bitch in this town? You think slumming it with your little Pogue boyfriend makes you special? – His laugh is sharp, mean, cutting through the tension like a blade. – You’re just like dad, Sarah.

Sarah flinches.

Actually flinches.

But Rafe isn’t done.

– You're always on this high and mighty act, pretending you're better than everyone. But as soon as someone doesn't bend over backwards to do what you want, you jump right back to threatening people's jobs, like the spoiled little girl you are. – He leans in, eyes flashing. – You’re not a pogue, Sarah. Dad might have worked his way up, but you? All you do is leech off of people. Just like John B.

Sarah moves before she thinks.

Her nails dig into his shirt as she lunges, knocking him back a step, swinging at him, snarling, completely losing control—

But you are already there.

You don’t hesitate. You don’t even think.

Your hands clamp onto Sarah’s arms, pulling her back before she can actually land a hit, dragging her away from him, holding her back.

– Stop it! – You snap, grip tightening as she thrashes against you, her breath ragged, furious. But you don’t let go. – Get out already. Here, take your plate and fuck off! You’ve done enough.

Rafe watches it all happen, eyes gleaming, completely and utterly pleased. 

Sarah is seething. Shaking.

– Tsk, tsk, – He murmurs, straightening his shirt, brushing off absolutely nothing. His smirk is slow, smug, thrilled. – So violent, Sarah. Are you gonna try to bruise her too? You and John B really are a match made in hell, huh?

Sarah jerks forward, still trying to get to him, but your hold doesn’t budge. 

– Get out, Sarah. I'm not playing with you.

– You two deserve each other. – She spits, pushing the plate off your hand. It shatters on the ground, food splattering all over.

Rafe actually giggles at that. – Aww, someone’s getting grumpy! – He shouts as she storms off, slamming the door behind her like a petulant child. 

He’s still smiling when he looks back at you.

You lean down, reaching for the shards of a porcelain plate that probably cost you half of your monthly salary, but Rafe moves to stop you, and you have to stop him in turn. – Don’t— Don’t! You’re barefoot, Rafe. You’re gonna cut yourself.

He laughs again, that same boyish look flashing bright and easy through his eyes.

Your hands barely brush his chest, trying to guide him away from the mess of razor-sharp edges and microscopic shards, but he only takes your hand, pulling you closer, smiling so damn bright as he pulls you into him, arms wrapping around your waist like it was meant to be. – You're so worried about me, huh?

– Rafe.

– It's fine, baby. – He kisses your cheek, that toothy grin peeking through as he presses his lips against your skin once, then again, and again. – I like it. I like you. God, I really like you.

– That's really lovely, Rafe, but I—

– Kiss me, c'mon. – He leans in before you can even answer, humming lowly. – C’mon, baby. I know you want it.

You push at his chest, glad for his unusual joy, yet unable to feel it for him. – Let me clean this up first, okay? Sit on the counter. Can you do that for me?

He obeys immediately, chuckling lowly, his fingers brushing the fabric of your top slowly as he watches you pick up the pieces and wipe the floor clean. – That was really hot, y'know?

Your laughter comes out a scoff, and you exhale sharply, shoving what's left of your breakfast prep on the sink, scrubbing at it harder than necessary.

Rafe hums behind you, completely unbothered, naked feet slapping against the now dangerless ground as if you didn’t just pull his sister off of him minutes ago.

He’s leaning against the counter beside you, watching you, grinning like a fool, arms crossed loosely over his chest—his entire body language so easy, so relaxed it’s almost irritating.

– Come on, baby, – He murmurs, stepping closer, fingers ghosting over your spine. – You’re just gonna ignore me after that?

– Rafe.

His hands find your waist, thumbs pressing in slightly, a touch so possessive, so natural it nearly knocks the air out of your lungs.

– No, seriously, – He continues, grinning against the side of your head, like he can’t help himself, like just being near you is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. – That was, like, the hottest thing anyone has ever done for me. You wanna do it again? Maybe next time you can hit her for me. Fuck, I'd love it if you could do that.

You sigh, twisting in his grip to look at him, raising a brow. – You’re insufferable.

– Oh yeah.

He’s so close.

Too close.

His fingers trail down, brushing lightly over the curve of your hip, lingering at the hem of your shirt, like he’s considering slipping under.

– Don’t even think about it.

– Shh, – He smiles, brushing his nose against your cheek, so soft, so devastatingly sweet. His hands tighten slightly on your waist, pulling you closer, pressing against you in a way that should be overwhelming, but the warmth of his palms comforts you, even as it wanders aimlessly. – Just a minute, – He whispers, pleading, cloying, clingy, burying his face in your neck. – Perfect Sarah was just knocked down a peg by my newbie, okay? Let me enjoy this one.

– ‘Your newbie’, Rafe? You talk about me like I'm a dog.

He laughs, hands heavy around you, around the fabric of your top, the sides of his hands brushing the naked skin beneath. – You were like a pitbull, though. My faithful little pitbull named cupcake.

– That's not funny.

– It is a little. – He hums. – C’mon, I'll let you bite me if you want.

You laugh, and he does too, holding you so close, so close, you can feel his heartbeat on your back.

You should push him away. 

But you don’t. 

You keep washing dishes as he pulls you even closer, clinging thoughtlessly like it's only natural, like it’s only right. – They do that, huh? – You hum, and it's bitter, but Rafe's hold tightens around you like it's the sweetest thing in the world. – The golden children. You tell them something they don't like one damn time and suddenly it's like the end of the world.

– Fuck them, baby. – He whispers. Lips moving against the crook of your neck, the ghost of a smile still lingering there. – Fuck them. Family disappointments like us are much fucking better.

You don’t answer.

You don’t laugh this time.

Because the words sink into you —You are the trouble child, the family disappointment. But you don’t know that Rafe is. Yeah, he's reckless, he's troubled. He's the black sheep. But disappointment implies that he's been given up on, and though Ward doesn’t understand him, he's certainly still trying.

You set the last dish on the rack, wipe your hands on a towel, and pull away from him.

Rafe makes a small noise of protest, his grip tightening instinctively, like he’s not ready to let you go yet—but you slip free anyway, your hand in his, even as you turn your back on him, reaching for the pack of cigarettes you left on the counter.

– Gonna take a break, – You mumble. – Be right back.

You don’t wait for his response.

You just push open the back door, and step outside. Your fingers stutter slightly as you light the cigarette, the flame flickering in your unsteady hands as you hold the tobacco to it, watching the edge burn.

You take a long drag, tilting your head back, staring at the sky, at the shifting clouds, at nothing in particular—

But the feeling doesn’t go away.

You think about Ward, about how he mentions Rafe at every chance he gets, and you're almost envious of how large a space he takes up in his father's mind.

The weight lingers.

It always does.

Because Rafe can say fuck them, like it’s easy, like being the family disappointment is almost a compliment, even if it's not.

It’s never been.

And no matter how much you tell yourself you’re fine with it, that you’re past it, that you’re not still that kid trying to be enough for a father who never wanted you and a brother who never saw you—

The feeling still settles deep in your chest.

Still claws at the back of your throat.

Still hurts in the same place where the nicotine warms you. It still weighs despite the numbness that rises with the smoke.

You take another slow drag, exhaling through your nose, closing your eyes.

And then the door creaks open behind you.

You don’t turn.

You don’t have to.

You already know who it is.

Footsteps. A pause. The shift of fabric as he leans against the doorframe, watching you.

– You’re mad at me.

Rafe’s voice is soft, almost hesitant, like he doesn’t quite know how to navigate this version of you.

You don’t blame him. You don’t know either.

You let out a short breath, shaking your head. – How could I ever be mad at you? – You say, and your voice is lighter. You reach for his hand and he holds it up to you as if you’re offering a lifeline. – You’re a peach, Rafe. Sweet.

A beat of silence.

He steps closer.

– You’re mad at something, – He presses, voice quieter now, watching the way your hands move over his as you do the same.

You don’t answer at first. And his words mix up with the smoke, light and gray, warm and cold at the same time. – C’mere. – You tell him, pulling him closer, brushing the hair away from his face with the same hand he's holding.

He takes another step. You can see the hesitation fluttering away from his face. He leans in, his breath brushing your skin, but you hold him back before he can kiss you. – My lips are bitter right now.

He tilts his head and takes the cigarette from you with a smile, taking a quiet drag, his shoulders easing the slightest bit. 

His pupils are larger when he looks at you again. – Mine too. 

It's charming. 

Enough that you don’t expect it.

Enough that it makes you smile.

You reach for him, fingers brushing along the side of his face, the curve of his jaw, soft, lingering, in a way that makes something flicker in his expression—something warm, something raw, something startled.

You laugh, leaning in before he has the time to do so, smiling into his lips as he melts over you.

The warmth of the cigarette in his hand brushes your leg, and you see it fall to the ground, half-smoked, as he pulls you into him.

Your hands tangle in his hair, around his neck, about his shoulders. 

You know you shouldn’t. You know what you’re doing is wrong. That you've done the same thing just some hours before, and that using affection to distract from your problems has gotten no healthier in the span of a night.

But you don’t have it in you to care.

Because you've done what's right and it's gotten you nowhere —You’re always the one fixing things that others break, so what does it matter if it breaks now or later on? You'll be the one who has to do it regardless.

– Baby, – He whispers, dazed, reverent, like it’s the only word he knows anymore. His hands are pulling at you every time you slow down, every time you take a breath. Like you’re abandoning him every time you so much as shift in his hold.

You hum, tilting your head slightly, brushing your nose against his, soft, teasing. Rafe follows the movement like he’s chasing a fix. – What's wrong, Rafe?

– Pay attention to me. – He whines, and it's so clingy, so perfectly pathetic, that you pull him in again, laughing as you follow suit, mind clear of every other thought.

His lips find yours again, searching, impatient, his hands pressing into you, fingers flexing, tightening, like he’s afraid you might change your mind.

And for once—

You don’t.

You let him have it.

Let him pull you flush against him, his warmth seeping into your skin, his touch dragging along the curve of your waist, your ribs, the space between your shoulder blades. And even as he’s lost in you, his hand still covers the tattoo on your collarbone.

So you let him kiss you like he needs it to breathe, like he’s never been kissed quite like this before, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself now that you’re finally letting him in. Fully, completely, without hang-ups.

And when you sigh softly against his mouth, when your fingers slide into his hair, tugging, grounding him—

He groans.

Low, guttural, like the sound has been sitting in his chest for years, waiting to be pulled out of him.

His hands wander, cling, pull, searching you like he’ll die otherwise. Like he doesn’t know what he’ll do if you let go.

Like he doesn’t think you’ll stay.

But you do.

For now.

For just a little longer.

He has you pressed against the wall, hands traveling up and down your thighs, over your hips, around your ass.

– Fuck, – He mutters, nosing at your jaw, licking over the skin, sucking just slightly before letting up. His fingers tighten on your hips, dragging you closer, pressing you against the wall like he physically can’t handle how much he wants you. – You had to have known, baby, – He whispers, voice gravelly, raw, breaking at the edges.

– Huh?

His hands skim over your ribs, curl under the fabric, press against your stomach like he’s trying to feel every breath you take.

– This top, – He exhales, mouth trailing down, lips grazing the exposed skin of your neck, hand still lingering above your collarbone. – This fucking top, – He repeats, voice dark, feverish, wrecked. – You put this on for me.

It’s not a question.

You laugh, amused at the absurdity of it, at the way he says it like it's a fact.

– Don't pretend. – He laughs too, but it's darker. Still feverish. – You fucking knew blue was my favorite color.

His grin is sharp, smug, so pleased with himself—but his hands tell a different story.

Because they’re almost shaking.

They’re clinging.

They’re tracing your skin like he doesn’t know what he’ll do if you pull away.

– Wanted to drive me fucking insane, didn’t you? – He whispers, hot, breathless, desperate as he noses at your throat again. – Wanted me thinking about you all fucking day—

He laughs, hoarse, breathless, like he’s already lost his grip on himself completely.

– Well, guess what, baby? – His fingers tighten, dig in, press into bare skin like he needs something to hold onto. – You win. I’m already fucking gone for you.

It's almost sweet, but there’s something darker in his voice. Something lower, rougher, like it’s coming from the pit of his stomach.

His hands tighten on your waist.

– You fucking love making me like this, don’t you? – He breathes, pressing you back against the counter, holding you there, eyes dark, unfocused, locked on you like he���s trying to burn the image into his brain. – You’re a tease.

– Rafe, – You sigh, pressing your hands against his chest, trying to push him away the slightest bit—but he doesn’t budge.

If anything, he presses closer.

– What? – He grins against your neck, nosing at the curve of it, his hands sliding up your sides, curling over your ribs, feeling every inch of you under the fabric of that stupid top he’s obsessed with.

– I've got things to do. – You mutter, but he barely lets you get a breath in. The words are almost lost against his lips.

– Yeah, you have me to do. – His voice is serious, completely deadpan, barely smiling even as you laugh. – You're always fucking working. – He whines, voice lower now, rougher, more impatient, like he’s getting frustrated with you, with himself, with how bad he fucking wants this. – I've got shit to do, too, y'know? I'm going out with Topper and Kelce right now.

You scoff. – Sounds really demanding.

– It is. God knows they don't get off my dick about it.

– How rude of them.

The irony flies over his head. – Mm-hmm. You could come.

You chuckle, pushing his hair back, content at how he melts into it. – Leave my job and go?

– You ain't gonna work much longer today. My dad's taking Sarah and Wheezie to the country club right now, and they’re gonna have dinner at the Wreck or something.

– Even so. I can’t really leave.

– C'mon. I'll be good. – He nods against your skin, hands sliding lower, squeezing at your waist, gripping at you like he’s trying to ground himself. – I’ll be so fucking good to you, baby. Just gimme a chance.

You laugh, tilting your head to glare at him, but his expression is so hungry now, so overwhelmed, so fucking consumed that it throws you off completely.

– You are so full of shit, Rafe.

– Yeah? – He grins, but his breathing is heavier now, his grip is tighter, his body is pressing closer.

– You did wear this for me, though, – He murmurs, mouth trailing down your jaw smiling smugly, teeth scraping lightly, breathing against your skin like he’s barely restraining himself. – You look so fucking hot in this, too. Don't you wanna show off a little? – His fingers press into your waist, fisting the fabric of your shirt, pulling slightly, like he wants to tear it off of you. – You wanna act all tough, but I know you, baby.

– Rafe—

– Nah, I know you. – His hands slide up, gripping at your ribs, brushing against the curve of your chest, like he’s memorizing you through the fabric.

– I told you blue was my favorite color, and now you’re walking around looking like this? – His laugh is dark, hoarse, almost wrecked. – You fucking knew what you were doing, didn’t you?

– Oh yeah. – You chuckle. – I live to drive you mad, Rafe.

The irony flies over his head again, his lips meeting yours with the same heat as he lifts you. 

His mouth is back on your neck, his fingers curling tighter in your shirt, his entire body pressed up against yours like he needs to feel all of you at once.

– Baby, c’mon. – You mumble, and he sighs against your throat, pressing you closer to him. – I have to go back to work.

– Fuck, call me baby again. – Rafe’s voice is low, strained, muffled against your throat as he presses another open-mouthed kiss there, his breath shaky, uneven, like he needs this more than air itself.

– Rafe—

– No, say it. C'mon, baby please. – His grip tightens, pressing you higher against his waist, pinning you between him and the wall like he’s trying to keep you there forever. – Say it again.

You laugh, shoving at his chest, but he just grins, lazily nipping at your jaw, dragging his mouth along your skin, completely ignoring the fact that you’re trying to put distance between you.

– Rafe, baby. – He all but purrs against your skin. – I need to go back to work.

– And I need to keep touching you.

His hands grip tighter, curl under your thighs, drag up your sides, like he’s mapping you out, trying to commit every inch of you to memory. 

– You can be as sweet as you want, Rafe— He raises his brow, pretending to glare at you. – Sorry. You can be as sweet as you want, baby. I still have to go. – You press your palm against his cheek, tilting his face up, forcing him to meet your eyes.

His pupils are blown, his lips swollen, his breathing is all over the place, and he looks at you like you just tore the world apart and handed it back to him in pieces.

And still—

He doesn’t let go.

– Don’t look at me like that. – You murmur, rolling your eyes, but softer now. Rafe smirks, tilting his head, watching your mouth like he’s still hungry for it. – You are impossible.

– And you, – He whispers, grinning, – Are so fucking hot in this top.

You shove at his face, laughing despite yourself, but he doesn’t move far, just grins wider, lips brushing against your jaw again, against your cheek, stealing another kiss before you can stop him. – Rafe—

– Okay, okay, – He laughs, finally setting you down, but his hands still linger on your waist, fingers squeezing slightly, like he still doesn’t want to let go. – But you’re coming with me next time. 

– Sure I am.

– And you’re wearing that top. 

– Whatever you say. – You turn toward the door, ready to shove him out before he can try anything else, but his hand curls around your wrist.

He pulls you back in, stealing one last kiss, slower this time, softer, deeper, like he’s savoring it. When he pulls away, he’s smirking, but his eyes are dark, hazy, still completely wrecked over you.

– I’m leaving now, – He mutters, but makes no move to actually do so.

– You better. – You warn, nudging him toward the door, shoving him toward it when he still doesn’t move.

And when he finally stumbles back, laughing, barely catching himself before hitting the doorway—

He grins at you, smug, flushed, completely, devastatingly gone.

– See you later, baby.

And God help you, you don’t correct him. You hear his steps echoing across the kitchen. You hear the door knock closed, and there’s still something light, tingly, lingering within your chest as you step in and get back to work.

The pain is gone, you don’t even wonder.

And you think about how distracting yourself might actually be good for you as you plan out a lunch and a dinner, despite what Rafe said.

He knocks on the back window as he leaves, giving you that same sharp smile as he waves goodbye, dressed up in a polo that’s the same blue as your top, car keys in hand. 

The warmth is still there, lingering, buzzing under your skin, as you see him step away.

You don’t even question it.

You just exhale, shake your head, and turn back to the counter, back to cleaning up, back to work. Your hands move without thinking, pulling down ingredients, planning out the next meal.

A whole hour passes.

And you think Rafe might be right. Maybe the house will be empty for the rest of the day. Maybe you can actually relax for a while. You pull on the pen and paper at the counter, trying to think of something nice and simple to make for you and Barry when you get home.

– Taking a break, miss Routledge?

Your entire body locks up.

Your stomach drops.

Your hands are still over the counter, fingers tightening slightly around the pen.

You didn’t hear him come in.

You didn’t feel him.

But when you turn—

Ward is already there.

Standing by the entrance of the kitchen.

Watching you.

– Did I startle you? – He laughs, stepping closer. Holding the empty breakfast plates in his hand. – I didn’t mean to.

– I didn’t hear you coming at all. You could’ve rung for me, I’d bring the plates down for you, sir.

His posture is relaxed, casual, unreadable. But there’s something too deliberate, too patient, too careful in the way he’s standing, in the way his eyes flick over your face before settling on your hands. – It’s no bother. I wanted an excuse to see how you keep this kitchen. Much better than Kareem does, apparently. He leaves a mess all over the place, only starts cleaning up before he goes. It’s not a good habit. – His hands drift over the counter, and he stands beside you, looking between your eyes and the piece of paper in your hand. – Writing down a recipe?

– Shopping list. There’s some things missing for the lunch prep. Why, did you want anything specific?

He stops just short of the counter, eyes sharp, watching you with an interest that doesn’t feel casual at all. – No. Actually, you don’t have to make anything for lunch. Or dinner. I’m taking the girls to the Country Club. It’s a beautiful day for golfing.

– It sure is. Would you like me to prepare anything for when you return? A snack, maybe a dessert?

His eyes linger on you for a moment, but you’re really sure what he’s looking at. Whether he’s looking at your arms, at the faint, fading bruises; at the wrinkles Rafe left on your top as he grabbed and pulled at you like a toy; or at something else entirely, is unclear. But he gives you a smile at some point, and it just barely reaches his eyes. – Were you a disobedient child, Miss Routledge?

The question sends a chill down your spine.

– Sorry?

– You’re clever. – He says finally, but it doesn’t really sound like a compliment. – You anticipate my needs. I like that about you.

– Thank you sir, but I’m just doing my job.

– And you do it well. – He hums. – Indeed you do. You can go home if you want, Miss Routledge. I was going to tell you to clean up, but clearly, you’ve anticipated that as well.

– Yes, sir. – Your breath is caught. Your grip on the pen is too tight. You feel like he might jump on you if you say something wrong. – Any requests for tomorrow?

He smiles again, and this time the lines form around his eyes, deeper, more genuine, yet still all too cold. – No. I’m sure I’ll like whatever you have planned. – He gives you one last smile, standing at the door. Something else in his face, in his posture, that you can’t quite catch. – That’s a nice shirt you’re wearing. Blue looks very nice on you, Routledge.

He doesn’t even give you the time to say anything else before he goes, leaving you to your doubts, all alone in this kitchen that suddenly feels colder.

It takes you a moment to fully come back to your senses, and maybe the half-assed smoke break has left your nicotine cravings to haunt you, but you’re almost rushing to the door as you gather your things.

You don’t realize how fast you’re walking until the house has fully disappeared behind you. You don’t realize where you’re going until you look up and see the bus stop.

It’s muscle memory, instinct, a habit formed over years of just going—of putting one foot in front of the other and figuring it out later.

Your hands are cold.

You should’ve called Barry.

But you didn’t even think to.

You inhale sharply, rubbing your arms—

And your phone rings.

The sudden vibration makes you jump.

You fumble for it, barely sparing the screen a glance before swiping to answer.

– Hello?

There's a pause. A beat of silence that stretches just a second too long.

– Miss… Routledge? – The voice is steady. Firm. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach knot. – This is Sheriff Peterkin. We need you to come down to the station.

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @myluvingera @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez @sassyvilliantrope @vampiriito @sassybearfire

[crazybiscuit]

Uptown Girl

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Reader Summary: You, an out of touch rich pureblood, recently moved to England for yet another engagement prospect. Unfortunately, things don't go to plan as you somehow find yourself constantly running into a werewolf, who has developed a valid reason to dislike you. Warnings: This is going to be a long fic and the reader will be a bit of a bitch at first. The story will definitely contain violence, excessive use of alcohol, smut and mentions of death. This chapter doesn't have any graphic content though. On side note, this is set in 1983 and sadly, Lily (my wife... 😔) and James are dead. So Sirius is in Azkaban and Peter is "dead". Word Count:  2287 Credits: @saradika-graphics thank you for the divider! A/N: Let's pretend I didn't mean to post this yesterday... London was an actual nightmare to map out in my brain and I'm fully aware the title doesn't make total sense considering uptown and downtown is a mostly American concept but I figured it fit the context of the story. So for our sake, Remus will live in East London, closer to the Thames, and you, my dear Readers will live in West London, more North of the city. On a side note, fuck JKR and her disgusting beliefs. Also, to anyone struggling, whether it be personal life or political climate, I hope you're doing alright. Writing is my current escapism and I hope I can help someone else in the process. On another note, chapter 2 should be posted on the 28th!

 

“When is that damned exterminator going to get here?” your father’s gruff voice was muffled by his handkerchief he held to his nose as he walked into the parlour.

“We should’ve just called the ministry,” the woman sat next to you snapped, her head sticking out of the window taking advantage of the fresh air, “No one would’ve ever cared about our little problem. But no, you had the brilliant idea to hire some random man you found in a pub.”

You brushed your damp hair, trying your best to ignore the foul stench emitting from beneath the floor, “There’s nothing small about our problem, so I’d much rather keep this discreet myself.”

You should’ve known better than to oppose your poor, dear mother, as she grasped her chest as if he couldn’t breathe, “Discreet! I don’t care how discreet we are dealing with this! This man will fail to help us, screw up and we will have to call the ministry anyways. Hell! He’s probably a fraud and planning to rob us. Do you have any idea how much worse that will be! People will think we are fouls who can’t maintain our estate.”

You didn’t bother hiding the way you rolled your eyes as you glanced back out to the cloudy sky, which caused mother to rant about disrespect to the old man, now sitting in his recliner.

The fall wind was a welcome guest as you began to carefully style your hair, turning your attention to your faint reflection in the window. The bundimun infestation might have stalled the redecorating efforts of this old dirty hole of townhouse, but it was certainly not going to stop you from looking your best.

“It’s lucky Josephine is still in France. I'm beginning to doubt any amount of magic can revive this place.”

“Enough complaining,” your father cut in, as he cast another scouring charm in an attempt to lessen the smell, “We all know this isn't ideal, but you should be grateful we even found this estate for you.”

You felt slightly annoyed as you finished your hair, frowning at him through the glass reflection. Your hand dropped dejectedly as you glanced back with a sigh. He was right, despite every one of your arrangements falling through due to the war, your parents had still managed to find you a respectable match, “I know, I know… I'm sorry. This is all just frustrating.”

Your parents shared a look but remained silent. However, this didn’t last long as your mother suddenly stood up, “I feel like I might faint.” 

Your father let out an exasperated sigh at her theatrics.

“I am sorry, dear, but I cannot do this anymore. You'll have to deal with the exterminator yourself, I'm going out for lunch with Y/N–”

Before your father could protest in annoyance, you interrupted, “Actually, I still need to finish my makeup, so you can go with Papa.”

They put very little effort into arguing and quickly vanished from the house. The silence would've been appreciated if it weren’t for the disturbing smell surrounding you and you found yourself tilting your head back as you leaned against the window sill. Even upside down, the townhouses that lined the street bored you, and you decided to stare at the sea of grey clouds slowly drifting across the sky instead.

You figured, much to your annoyance, that it would likely rain again today. Your attention snapped to the street when you heard the crunching of the colourful leaves beneath someone’s shoes. You flipped over to get a proper look of the man coming up the street and your interest peaked. He stood out against the pristine houses, his dark clothes seemingly worn from years of wear on his tall, though lanky figure, and he seemed handsome enough even from the second floor.

You quickly grabbed your wand and summoned your silk robe, slipping it over your nightgown. He must’ve been the man your father hired, and with that thought, you grabbed your perfume bottle to apply some.

By the time the doorbell rang, you had grabbed your lipstick and you carefully applied it as you looked at yourself in the mirror against the wall. The bell rang a second time and you sighed, quickly wiping off the colour that was out of place. You smoothen out your silk robe before heading to the front door, opening it and finding yourself faced with a man’s hand frozen midair, ready to knock.

“Oh, sorry,” your eyes snapped up to the face that spoke and you met the man’s slightly startled hazel eyes. He was taller than you expected when you saw him outside and his light brown hair was messy but still made him look rather charming. He seemed a few years older, likely in his mid or late 20s. But what truly caught your eyes were the scars scattered across his face, neck, hands. Any bit of skin you could see was littered with scars, “Hi, you hired pest control..?”

His deep voice snapped you out of your daze and you noted the faint Welsh accent as you stepped aside, opening the door wider for him, “Right… come in.”

The man took notice of your outfit and nonchalant demeanor, but remained professional as he followed you in. His expression remained steady despite the familiar pungent smell filling the house. He awkwardly adjusted his bag on his shoulder. Your father hadn’t told him the exact issue, only promising to pay him nicely, and Remus hadn’t exactly allowed himself the privilege of worrying about the oddity of the situation. However, you did notice his stance relaxed as he recognized the infestation he was handling, “Bundimuns?”

“Unfortunately, that is correct,” you sighed, looking back as you opened the door to the area where the test was the most prominent. You noted his slight hesitancy to walk in as he observed the half-decorated house, “Our house warming party is in a few days and we need this issue to be solved quickly so we can finish the renovations.”

“Right…,” Remus tried his best to hide his expression of confusion and disbelief as he stared at the loud decor scattered around the room, “This seems like it would’ve been easier to report to the ministry.”

“Probably,” you agreed, making your way to the open balcony, “We’ll take our chances though. I’d rather only have one person know about this than deal with official records of the infestation.”

That confused the poor man, who had set his old messenger bag down on one of the uncovered powder blue sofas, but he wasn’t about to push for more answers. Rich, purebloods were always preoccupied with reputation, he knew that very well.

You leaned against the cold, metal railing as you watched him digging through his bag for his notebook, “How long will this take you?”

His gaze met yours for a split second before going back to flipping through the yellowed pages, “It’ll take two or three hours. This is a pretty serious infestation and this building is a lot bigger than it seemed outside…” 

It was clear he had questions but it didn’t seem like he was going to ask. You figured you’d explain the situation to prevent any rumours to spread (though you doubted his words would actually reach any important ears), “This house was built before the ban on extension charms for houses. We have ministry approval to keep it that way.”

Remus smiled a little apologetically, finding the page he was looking for, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound accusatory. It really isn’t any of my business, so I wasn’t going to ask.”

His passiveness was mildly surprising but you brushed it off. It was nice not having to worry about him talking and clearly he needed the money, so you figured he'd stay quiet. You finally moved and sat at the table on the balcony as he began to read the most effective spells to get rid of the secretions and creatures.

It was fairly cold outside but you figured you should keep an eye on him. To entertain yourself for the next few hours, you figured you should write to your sister and friends back in France. You flicked your hawthorne wand, summoning your quill, paper and other supplies wordlessly.

The two of you worked on your separate tasks quietly, barely interacting for over an hour. You had lost interest in watching him as he cleaned the house out of the green menaces, using spells you had never heard off, and only headed back inside due to the charming British weather. Rain was always such a nuisance.

You carried your stack of letters with you as you walked back into the house. The smell, though still lingering, had mostly vanished from the house, which was a relief, “I'm going to be upstairs. I trust you won’t steal anything. Though I doubt he’d even be able to identify the actual valuable objects.”

The last part was mumbled under your breath but with the context, it was easy for the brunette to infer it was likely an insult. Remus watched you disappear to the third floor, “What?”

“Feel free to ask the house elves for help. They’re in the basement. They’ve been trying their best to deal with the acid,” with that, you shut your bedroom door, completely missing the man’s expression of disbelief and mild offense.

Another hour passed and Remus had done everything in his power to avoid you as he finished up the rest of the house. This would’ve worked wonders if he didn’t have to worry about getting rid of the last few bundimuns in the house, which conveniently were hidden behind the double doors leading to your room.

He sighed. He was never skilled in divination but something in his gut was telling that you were trouble, but he needed the money and he wasn’t about to half-ass his job because of some spoiled brat. So he knocked.

You opened the door and he immediately took note of your outfit change. You were no longer in your silk robe and pajamas, instead dressed in a simple but classy turtleneck and skirt, “I need to charm this room then I’m done…”

You hummed, letting him in as you walked back to your four poster bed, tying the stack of at least 15 letters together so that your owl could carry it. This gave Remus at least a few minutes of peace as he finished up, but it seemed you sensed he was about done as you spoke up, “You know, I know a potion maker in Saint-Brieuc, who is very skilled at Scar-Diminishing Serums.” 

“I beg your pardon?” his Welsh accent seemed deeper now that you’d upset him. The unprompted comment caught the man off guard and he scoffed, unable to believe anyone could be this insensitive.

“I’ve used them a few times and they work wonders. Great way to boost confidence and better your appearance,” you paused, sensing he was upset, much to your confusion, “Don’t get me wrong, you’re fairly handsome, but I think it would definitely hel–”

He suddenly got up after casting one last spell, “I’m done.”

His voice, though composed, made it obvious he was pissed. You hesitated slightly, trying to figure out what you did as you followed him down to the first floor, “No need to be so upset, I was just trying to give you advice.”

He interrupts, surprisingly calm for someone getting insulted every other line, “Well, I kindly reject it, thank you.”

He stopped in front of the front door, almost considering leaving without payment, not wanting anything from you. Before you could protest, he opened the door and your mother let out a yelp, not expecting to see the stranger.

“Oh! Remy, was it?” your father smiled, glad to see the exterminator.

“Remus.”

It finally occurred to you that you had never even introduced yourself or asked for his name.

“Right, right! You must’ve finished! Y/N, did you pay him yet? I left the galleons on the table in the office,” he kept rambling, walking past Remus and you to get the money. Your mother smiled nervously, looking at the man, who she had already predetermined as creepy and untrustworthy, and tried her best to maintain a polite demeanor.

Unfortunately for her, she did a terrible job and her expression visibly relaxed when your father came back to save her from the conversation, “Here’s the 10 Galleons we originally agreed upon, and I figured you could get an extra 5 for–”

“Actually the 10 will suffice,” Remus forced a smile. He wasn’t stupid. It was clear you and your family were hoping to buy his favor to avoid any bad mouthing, and he wasn’t going to do that. Hell, he didn’t even want to talk about you to anyone (not that he really had anyone left), but it was a matter of principle.

You parents were stumped. They had rarely, if ever, met someone so quick to deny their money, “Sir, we insist–”

Remus had stepped out, taking the 10 Galleons, cutting off your mother with a thigh smile, “Honestly, I’m good.”

Your father, in a desperate attempt to get some sort of upperhand spoke words that made your  jaw drop, “Well then, please consider joining us for our solstice party on the 21st.”

Your mother’s expression mirrored yours and you knew they would argue about this later. Remus’s eyes met yours and something awoke in him, a slight sense of amusement he hadn’t felt since Hogwarts. He looked back at your father, adjusting his old bag on his shoulder, and smiled slightly, “I’ll think about it.”

[lesyeuxdemoii]

paige bueckers x oc

: parent issue, cursing, mention of sex.

that’s all that i’m aware of, lmk if anything else

: hii ! extremely happy to join pb community. this is my very first fic, and eng is not my first language, so🙏🏽

also, this work is heavily inspired by: @sommerbueckers and @arlertwhore , that’s why i’m giving full credits to them.

————————————————————————————

I’m not exactly sure how i got into this.

I can’t remember the time that I had any complications in my personal life, yet, i never had one. My main focus was always ballet. Always. I was involved in that endless circle since I was 7. My mother, a former ballerina herself, after unsuccessful attempts to force my older sister to follow her path, took me in her hands, and because of my gentle and submissive characteristics, I obliged. Not that I complained, I did enjoy ballet. I didn’t see myself without it, it was part of me and my persona. School didn’t happen to be a problem as well. I didn’t just get good grades, I got the best ones. In simple words — I was the golden child, the one that was always bragged in rare family gatherings.

Speaking of, the opposite of me was my older sister — Giselle, we called her Gigi. She had that outgoing, extroverted, energetic personality, a personality that was indeed stronger than mine. Gigi’s life was full of parties, passion, dedication, fun. I adored her, her appearance, her lightweight character. We became inseparable when our parents started the train of their “business trips”, leaving us fully alone. They were never at home, never cared enough. They even skipped my 18th birthday, the one that was so important for me, but I hope guess FaceTime saved the situation. It was fine for a while, though, me and Gigi had each other, and that was enough.

My life, apart from yearning for my parents, that i tried to deny, was good. Until… until I got too close with my sister and her friends. That one friend, in particular. That’s how my calculated life was ruined, forcing me to face with something, that I wasn’t entirely prepared to handle. Not alone.

Why did i even come to this party? It was never my thing, I preferred extra practice more, than being trapped in direct contact with sweaty, high, drunk people. They were all so wasted, meanwhile I barely had any sips of my drink. I just couldn’t say no to Gi. She insisted that I need some distraction from my robotic routine, of course I had to say yes, and of course I had to lie to her, hiding the fact that I already owned a distraction, for months, actually.

I stood in the kitchen, leaning against the wall, scrolling through my Instagram feed and periodically checking the time. After a while of mindlessly staring at my phone, i heard that someone entered the kitchen, someone tall, specifically blonde.

“Can’t you just have some fucking fun?” - a voice came from the door, looking up and down my petite, delicate body, compared to her athletic and strong one. I didn’t have to raise my head, already knowing that the signature smirk was present on her pretty face.

“I’m having my own fun here, you don’t have to worry” - I replied without looking at her, trying to act unbothered by her presence, which I most likely failed to do.

“C’mon bro, you can’t isolate yourself from everyone. From me, at least.” - she answered, slowly approaching, and standing closely in-front of me.

“Don’t call me “bro”, I’m not your buddy, Paige.” - she slightly chuckled from my response, taking the phone out of my hand, forcing to look at her.

“First of all, look at me when I talk to you, secondly, you are my buddy.” — she said, studying my face with her beautiful eyes. It looked like she was trying to draw my portrait in her head.

Sure, she absolutely had to mention that I’m her “buddy”, as if it didn’t hurt like knife. I don’t remember how I ended up being engaged in half-situationship position with the infamous Paige Bueckers. I’d met her through Gi, obviously, nothing surprising. She was the walking charm, the magnetic and utterly unattainable girl. Paige was one of the most desirable people, she could have anyone, anytime, anywhere, yet, she chose me to be her secret. Why? I was absolutely clueless. Maybe my innocence was something that attracted her, but you never know. Although, the two things I certainly knew were,

1) She was unbelievably good at everything. (sex and basketball, especially). 2) I was deeply inlove with her, but she didn’t seem to know that, or she pretended not to.

“Seriously, what do you want? I’m already on my nerves, don’t try to piss me off, like really.” - I said, staring back at her, while crossing my arms, as she put my phone on the nearest table.

She smirked, clearly unaffected by my fake attitude, when she brushed my hair behind my ear, resting her hand on my cheek. - “I can take you home, baby.” - she whispered, her voice went down especially during the last part. My eyes softened, and i found myself leaning into her touch.

“Can’t leave Gi here.” - I frowned a bit, but my sister was always my N1 priority.

"She’ll understand, Don’t worry. I will talk to her.” - she moved her lips to my temple, placing a soft kiss there, then to my cheek, repeating the action. I was satisfied by the affection that I received, so i simply nodded, letting her take the control.

Car ride was peaceful. I didn’t know what Paige said to Giselle, but she knew what she was doing, and i fully trusted her. Her hand rested on my thigh, as she drew small circles on it with her thumb, her eyes being fully focused on the road. Her touch was possessive, yet so tender.

When we reached to the destination, Paige demanded to see me off to the door, ending up entering the house. As soon as the door closed, her lips were smashed against mine, her hands pulling me impossibly close by my waist, while I was holding her face. The kiss was passionate, almost sexual. Our lips moved in perfect sync, as if they were made for each other. It was so intoxicating, so intense. Her grip on me tightened, and i slightly hummed in response, causing her to smile. She slowly moved down to my neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses all over it. And for one second, I almost forgot, that everything we were doing was not right, it was a secret.

Sweet secret, that only we were able to knew.

[zombiigrll]

──────────────────────────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

INSECURITIES. ⋆｡°✩ carl grimes x reader .ᐟ WORD COUNT .ᐟ ⭑ 1.1K ꩜ .ᐟ WARNINGS ⭑ hurt to comfort, use of y/n, spoilers for twd 6x9, carl and reader are already in a relationship .ᐟ SUMMARY .ᐟ ⭑ you help carl after he gets shot. ꩜ .ᐟ A/N .ᐟ ⭑ ive been rewatching the early seasons of the walking dead and seeing everything carl went through again makes me SOB HYSTERICALLY. so ofc i needed to write this and make you guys feel my pain 😈 my creative juices have also been flowing a little bit more recently... but its also a little short too......... hope u dont mind 🙏

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────────────────────────────

he never showed any of his insecurities to you before. he always made sure that you felt comfortable telling him things, but he would never fully open up to you.

you were aware of his mother passing, that his dads friend died, and just how he's experienced so much death. but he never told you how anybody died. he wouldn't tell you no matter what.

that was until the walkers flooded the streets of alexandria.

as always, you were by carls side. you held his right hand in line as you two along with rick, michonne, jessie, ron, and sam walked through the herd in gut-stained ponchos, attempting to lead them to the quarry nearby.

but everything went downhill. fast.

sam saw something in the herd. no one was sure what, but he freaked out. his cries were loud, and gave away his position.

the walkers killed him, then they made their way to jessie, who had refused to let go of sams hand.

and if it wasn't for you using your machete to cut her arm off, carl would've died, too.

you thought that was it, that you would just have to slash through some more walkers to get somewhere safe, but not yet.

you looked to the side and noticed ron pointing his gun right to you.

but right as he shot, michonne stabbed him.

you were supposed to get shot. but due to the timing...

"dad..?" you heard carl from your left.

you turned to face him, and you immediately noticed his eye.

it was gone. a trail of dark crimson leaking from his socket. you caught him before he could fully fall.

"no.. no, no!" you cried trembling as you held him.

rick runs over and picks carl up. you and michonne pull out your weapons and begin clearing a path with adrenaline coursing through the three of you.

you guys eventually make it to the infirmary.

rick places carl onto the bed. the rest of that night, a loud ringing played in your ears.

your mind raced wildly. thinking of all the possible outcomes, but you were sure he was going to die. i mean, he was shot in the face.

after the nurse helped patch him up the best she could, you sat on the opposite side of rick. rick held one of his hands, you held the other. you rested your head on top of his shoulder, sobbing.

rick was crying, too. praying for carl to be okay.

that's when you felt his hand hold yours back, tightly.

you lifted your hand up to look at rick, and he had the same expression. he was holding both of your guys' hands.

your sobs turned hopeful as you began to smile.

...

a few days had passed. carl was awake, thankfully. he tried to get you to leave the room, but you refused.

"i don't want you to see me like this." carl strenly spoke, his voice cracking slightly as he attempted to hide his face.

you walked over to his side, putting your hand up to his face to carefully cup his now scarred cheek. you turned his face so he could look at you. "i'm not going anywhere."

he sighed and closed his eye, knowing he wouldn't be able to make you go away. "i don't understand you."

"what?"

"after everything i've done.. you're still here with me." he lightly chuckled. "i'm really not a good person, y/n. theres so much you don't know about me."

"nothing you could tell me would make me believe that." you shook your head, moving your hand down to his and holding it tightly.

"you say that now.." he turns his head away. "if i told you what i've done, you'd think i'm a monster. you'd hate me."

"you're not a monster, carl. what are you talking about?"

"i've killed people. a kid i didn't know the name of, my dads friend.. my mom." he kept his eyes shut as he spoke, his voice and body trembling.

you held his hand tighter, looking at him softly. "i'm sure there were reasons to all of that. i don't believe you're a monster."

carl stayed silent.

you brought your other hand up, moving his hair behind his ear before holding his face.

"i love you. no matter what." you smiled at him with your eyebrows furrowed. "no matter who many people you've killed or hurt, no matter if you've done shitty things in the past, no matter how many scars, i don't care. because i love you."

he opened his eye to look at you, he quickly sat up and put his arms around you, putting his head in the crook of your neck.

"hey.. be careful for your eye." you put your arms around him carefully, your hand on the back of his head.

"i love you, too." he silently mumbled. "i don't understand how i got so lucky with you."

you laughed, kissing the top of his head. "i've done bad things too, carl. it's just something we can't avoid now. it doesn't make us monsters." you pushed away from the hug, leaving your hands on his shoulders. "i got lucky with you, too. in my eyes, you're an angel."

his eye moves all over your features. you knew he had been adjusting and learning how to see without his other eye, but seeing it happen right in front of you was a bit difficult to witness.

"i should've been the one that got shot. you saw me kill jessie." you sighed, your gaze turning down to the floor. "he was aiming at me."

carl shakes his head. "it's not your fault. it's no ones fault. if he had shot you, i think he would've really killed you. but i got shot, and i'm alive." he smiles at you, tilting his head as he continues taking you in. "i'm glad it was me."

you tilted your head, pursing your lips slightly. "i guess either way, no matter who got shot, no one would be okay with it." you laughed, trying to make light of the situation. "...you should get some rest."

"i know." he moves away and lays back down, looking back up at the ceiling.

you stand up, leaning down to give him a quick kiss on his forehead before turning back away to the door. "goodnight, carl."

"wait."

you turned back around. "hm?"

"...could you stay?" carl asked, his voice softened.

your lips curved up into a smile, walking back over to him. "of course." you sat back down next to him, holding his hand again, similarly to when he was first shot. "get some sleep, okay?"

he nodded, closing his eye. "alright. i love you."

"i love you too, carl. always."

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────────

[vasito-de-leche]

;R1999 MEDICINE POCKET - General Headcanons

Compilation of headcanons and analysis on Medicine Pocket as a character and other related things.

started going thru my askbox, saw there's an insane amount of medpoc prompts, and then realized I haven't thought that deeply about this feral dog so here we are!

I missed doing analysis like this oooo the feeling of neurons making connections as I go thru the character's entire page oooo. since I still don't have them, screenshots and examples will be taken directly from the fandom wikia as usual!

On the subject of intersex identities, Medicine Pocket's mother and their gender identity.

It's worth noting that as of the time writing this (with GL currently in 2.2 and CN having just released 2.5) the game still has only two characters who have been confirmed to live outside of the gender binary, both released during launch; The Fool, who uses male pronouns but states that he has no gender, and Medicine Pocket, who couldn't care less about pronouns and explicitly mentions being intersex in one of their voicelines.

The game is consistent with this, as Medicine Pocket is often referred to with "they/them" pronouns, and occasionally "he/him," such as a daily tidbit from November 18th 2024.

As far as I know, they've yet to refer to Medicine Pocket with female pronouns.

While Medicine Pocket seems to approach the subject of gender identity as an afterthought at best and a nuisance at worst, never stating which labels they identify with, it's important to note that they're still openly queer. Upon a first reading, I didn't think much of them, but now I realize that a big chunk of their character does focus on their queerness in ways that are just as unconventional as they are.

Their 01 Story allows us to learn about Medicine Pocket's background, namely their mother, as it focuses on her for the most part. This is also the second instance of Medicine Pocket's status as an intersex person being brought up.

While I'm not intersex myself, I'm a nonbinary queer person who is fully aware of the many, many convoluted and cruel ways society has enforced in order to "correct" and assimilate us into the norm, such as conversion therapy and intersex surgeries, all done with the pretense of "helping us adapt." Medicine Pocket seems to be an example of this.

One may interpret this as a misguided but well-meaning attempt from a concerned mother, but I interpret it as a heartless moment of dehumanization.

In this Story, there is a very clear parallel being drawn between the dogs at the kennel she owns and her own child, between money as her only source of happiness and the necessity to pay for her child's operation.

Her entire world and business revolves around the kennel, it's stated to be a family business with good reputation, and the dogs are described as a positive thing--"man's best friend," and friends who can keep you company--but her reaction to both is of indifference and, at worst, contempt.

The priority here isn't the thriving family business, nor the dogs she's selling to the University of Utah, nor what will come out of the experiments they will go through; the priority is the money.

And what is this money for? Her own child's operation, with the specific intent of helping them become "an ordinary person." Not for their health, not because they asked for this--because she wants them to be normal, thus highlighting the themes of assimilation within society.

As seen before, Medicine Pocket confirms they lack any reproductive organs. I don't know enough to speculate or research what sort of medical condition they have, but the fact that they say "I just don't have any reproductive organs" could imply they did not receive that operation in the end. After all, becoming "ordinary" would imply living within the binary of female or male genitals exclusively.

With the lack of information about their childhood, I personally like to headcanon that this is when the parallels between Medicine Pocket and dogs continues from their mother's perspective; maybe the cons outdo the pros, maybe the procedure was too expensive, maybe she didn't feel like nurturing this specific puppy anymore, regardless of the reasoning, Medicine Pocket's mother simply chose to give them away to someone else who had a use for them. Exactly like the previous batch of puppies.

As agile as usual, her child got into the white van without looking back. That van had taken away countless almost-weaned puppies from their mothers, and on this day, it was doing the same thing to her.

Another personal headcanon I have following that one is that Medicine Pocket was given away for experimentation purposes given their uniqueness--an intersex arcanist child. It certainly lines up with other darker themes within the game, such as the treatment orphaned arcanist children receive within SPDM, the ableism and bigoted mindsets towards arcanists that parallel real issues in real life, and the appropriation of arcanist culture into human society, etc etc.

Of course, in retrospect, there is also something bittersweet in the way that the only thing Medicine Pocket seems to have inherited from their mother is the aspect of money, as a big part of their character is based around finding ways to receive funding for their experiments. Money is the focus of their Insight voiceline, their First Encounter voiceline also involves finding new investors, and there is a distinct focus on how much Medicine Pocket's actions COST Laplace overall, even in the Main Story. Their Story 02 is literally named "The Wrecker of Laplace" and involves their expenses report. This is a very small detail and connection, but I found it quite interesting!

The last thing I want to bring up for this specific bullet point is how Medicine Pocket grew up to be exactly everything their mother did not care about.

The opposite of an ordinary person; they are considered an unconventional albeit irritating genius within Laplace, as seen in their Storyboard.

They are a noisy dog who went out and pioneered an abundance of inventions and research, such as the development of Picrasma Candy shown above, their study of arcanist bloodlines and an arcanist's arcanum that later helps Enigma during Chapter 7 "Vereinsamt," and more. They are a team leader and a renowned, published biological researcher, as seen in the LSCC trailer and another voiceline of theirs.

It is a testament to Medicine Pocket's determination, stubbornness and self-centered personality, the way they were able to thrive in life and in every aspect that their mother did not care about nor support. And this aspect relates heavily to their Beast Afflatus and animalistic themes!

On the subject of Medicine Pocket's self-experimentation, animals and Laplace

We already discussed the way Medicine Pocket has been compared to the kennel dogs sold for experimentation, but we only explored this from their mother's perspective. On a general level, we can understand that Medicine Pocket's animalistic and dog-like behaviour exists because they were raised alongside these very same dogs, and their affinity for Beagles is a direct reference to the "Beagle Club" radiation experiments--it's a very clear motif within their character, but I would still like to expand on it a little!

First of all, we need to talk about Laplace, its ethics and practices. So bear with me!

Over the course of the recent patches, we have seen certain members of Laplace being shown together for most promotional material; this is later on confirmed within 37's Anecdote as a "friend group" consisting of 37, Mesmer Jr, X, Medicine Pocket and Ezra. For this discussion, we are going to set aside 37, an outsider to Laplace, and Ezra, a human character.

Both X and Medicine Pocket both have animals commonly used for experimentation as their Udimos; X has a Laboratory mouse, and Medicine Pocket has a Beagle puppy. On the other hand, we have Mesmer Jr. whose Udimo is not an animal, but a representation of the Artificial Somnambulism Therapy machine. With this, we can trace a pattern within the arcanists of Laplace, which paints them as not only expendable resources, but as something a little more tragic considering their respective themes--X, who harbors a deep-seated hatred for authorities that abuse their power (as seen in his own Anecdote), Medicine Pocket, who is based on the "Beagle Club" radiation experiments, and Mesmer Jr., who carries internalized bigotry for her own kind and is treated as nothing but an extension of her family's legacy.

While I won't be discussing the broad history of animal rights and ethics in experiments from real life, there are lines to be connected between these specific themes and the dehumanization of these characters--which also extends to the rest of members of Laplace like Lucy and Ulrich, by virtue of being Awakened and not being able to comply within the expected "norm" of humans, nor arcanists (the main theme of "Vereinsamt"). As players, we understand Enigma's reaction to Lucy being demoted, and there is a nuanced conversation to be had about the consequences of Lucy's orders even if they led to a great outcome; it is both tragic and inspiring.

But we must also understand this: Lucy's actions are still objectively within the scope of the Foundation's own history and ethics as I've mentioned them before, she is merely being used as a scapegoat due to the visibility of these casualties, which causes the Foundation to lose face.

And how does this relate exactly to Medicine Pocket?

Because their work ethic of self-experimentation follows this very same pattern. In the trail "Experiment Record" from Chapter 6 "E Lucevan le Stelle" Stage 19, which details the process of making Picrasma Candy safe for consumption, the extra addendums indicate that the one consuming all this candy during the experiments is none other than Medicine Pocket.

Their self-experimentation is only considered an issue and a nuisance because they are loud, reckless and take up space and resources. Because this is a coworker who canonically runs on all fours when excited, bites furniture and chases after frisbees, exactly like a dog.

Out of the three characters discussed before, only two are able to subvert the expectations of their respective Udimos: X and Medicine Pocket. The former by putting on an innocent and obedient act while doing whatever he wants behind the scenes, and the latter by being so shamelessly disobedient and self-serving that it is near impossible to stop them.

After a quick and surface look into why beagles were used for the experiments, some articles mention their docile and compliant nature, the total opposite of Medicine Pocket's personality. The subversion is clear there. Rather than being someone else's guinea pig, Medicine Pocket happily uses their own body as their main playground to test their experiments and research; look at their third item, "Beagle 0-1 Fluid Analysis Apparatus," which quite literally turns their own blood as a weapon, aside from monitoring their vitals. They have voicelines urging Vertin to give them a full dose despite the potential dangers, or noting the effects of another self-inflicted experiment--both their "Sleeves and Hands" and "Clothing and Torso" voicelines respectively.

Rather than assimilating within "proper" lab etiquette and polite society, Medicine Pocket is shamelessly themself above all, doing the things they want to do whenever they want to. There are many ways to read their character; perhaps, because their mother took away their bodily agency, they can now reclaim power over their identity by being as chaotic as a feral puppy or by using their body for self-experimentation. Perhaps they have a special connection with dogs because of the way they were raised and thus actively chose to act like one, since they felt more like family than their own mother, etc etc.

This aspect of reclaiming power over their own body and identity, alongside the way others openly disapprove of them for various different reasons, can be seen within the Beast Afflatus--which focuses on the focus of the individual, one's survival and struggle against traditions or systems that aim to contain them, the power and freedom to choose and carve a way for oneself. It's the struggle of one person against the majority. All of these things can be seen in Medicine Pocket!

Round of extra headcanons I didn't have the energy to fit anywhere else

I like to think Medicine Pocket's hair is white (simply because their eyebrows also seem to be white in art) so the brown parts are dyed specifically to look more like a beagle.

Alongside being intersex and nonbinary, they also couldn't care less about conventional romantic relationships--while uninterested in sexual relationships overall, I can see them having meaningless one-night stands for research specifically. They're shameless and very open about it. The only type of serious commitment I can see them having are QRPs, but their partners get bullied even harder by them so no one is sure if this is a good thing or not.

Medicine Pocket has one voiceline which states that they do even more fucked up experiments in the suitcase; I like to think they're the equivalent of the ThoughtEmporium over on Youtube, doing things like getting rid of their own lactose intolerance, creating meat grapes and such.

They just happen to be allergic to most things that dogs are allergic to. In the same vein, they bark but it sounds nowhere close like a proper dog's bark and everyone thinks its sort of cringe, but saying this out loud within their vicinity will only earn you One Huge Fucking Chomp from them.

Unlike Pavia, who does not quite keep track of the names of the wolfpack, Medicine Pocket can tell apart every single dog they meet, no matter how identical or how long it's been since they last saw them. They have a lot of knowledge on how to care for animals from their childhood, and often bring back all sorts of dogs; from rescues to literally stealing someone else's dog just be cause they thought its owner was being a shithead. It's usually a problem, because they often just sneak them into their office without telling anyone and suddenly it's Barbie's Great Puppy Chase Adventure in Laplace.

I also like to think that the dogs they're not allowed to truly keep are given away to people Medicine Pocket personally checks and makes sure will be a good fit for the dog.

[snailsgoingdowntown]

Small idea thing may or may not be canon to my story

Yan! Dion agriche x fem! Reader

Arranged marriage

Warnings: slightly implied slight codependent behavior, jealousy, mention of murder attempt(s), mention of past murder, toxic familial (?)relationships, toxic marriage/relationship, some yandere themes probably. Please tell me if I missed any.

NSFW kind of warnings: suggestive and implied dub-con-ish, and definitely a sexually frustrated Dion

Can be read as it's own thing not sure if I'll include this in main story so POSSIBLE SPOILERS FOR 'HELP I REINCARNATED AS THE FEMALE LEAD'S SISTER-IN-LAW"

MINORS/BLANK BLOGS/BLOGS THAT DON'T INTERACT WITH FANDOM RELATED THINGS DNI

I couldn't get this out of my head and I just needed to share it so bad it was eating me up alive.

==

Lowkey think Roxana would pour affection (platonic) at you just to annoy Dion aka small bouts of revenge once she realizes he has a soft spot for you (aka stealing your time, smiling sweetly at you, maybe even make physical contact via pushing your hair back or the very rare looping her arm around yours as you walk in the garden together. Inviting you to dinner sometimes when Dion returns from a mission, getting in his way of his own little goal of spending time with you. Basically becomes your 'bestie' (she denies she cares about you but we all know that's a lie) and enjoys the glares Dion sends her way whenever you're having fun with her and not him.

And truthfully, despite knowing she's using you for something, you enjoy her company after a while. However, you're unable to fully give in and become essentially a sister to her or a 'bestie' because at the end of the day, she is still Roxana Agriche, an Agriche and general and you genuinely cannot see yourself becoming an important person to her or anyone else, still thinking everything is a test to see if they should dispose of you or not.

And while you're aware your husband has a 'thing' for you or even 'love's' you, he's still an imposing figure, still a man who didn't blink twice at killing his own half-brother and would gladly kill one of his step-mothers just to see Roxana cry. So, really, despite your smiles directed at the blond and your sparse forms of 'affection' to your husband, you don't really accept what they show you. Because at the end of the day, you grew up in two very different environments and you are not meant to be here. Your definition of 'love' is vastly different from their own and while Roxana knows how healthy 'love' is supposed to be, it's been so long since she's received it properly. Meanwhile Dion has a hard time understanding it still.

The story has been changed enough. And you're not sure if it should change some more.

And maybe it's because of that you unknowingly refuse to see just how soft Dion Agriche is with others (no where by much, just by like 00.6% since they're not you. ) had become ever since you entered the scene. Because if you acknowledge it then you'll start to see him as a decent person - everything he is not.

Also Jeremy would literally crash any alone time you have with Dion out of both spite for him (he's too weak to fight him just yet + Roxana probably doesn't want them to fight and he's her #2 fan - Cassis takes 1st place and you 3rd.) And some werid younger brother like affection he has for you.

And Dion would definitely steal you away once the opportunity arises and if they were normal siblings he would stick his tongue out at Roxana but since they're traumatized af they just glare at each other so sharply it could cut skin. Proceeds to awkwardly show you affection that both makes you uncomfortable and feel some pity for him because damn, Maria and Lant are horrible parents. If he acts nice enough he might get a kiss on the cheek before you scamper away otherwise (from experience) a make out session you really shouldn't enjoy breaks out but he still gets cock blocked by someone OR you stop him once his fingers start to undo the strings on your dress or his kisses travel to your neck instead, and his excitement is very much noticeable via his actions and the budge in his pants he doesn't even bother trying to hide. Sure, he's very attractive. However, pushing the fact you're still wary and/or 100-80% scared of him aside, he's big and it hurt badly the first time and you really, really like having working reproductive parts and the ability to walk + your gut tells you that there's a chance he won't stop at one (1) round.

Every night you stay up questioning if you're actually in a coma and not reincarnated.

After all, why else would these people concern themselves with you? Why else would they start to get closer to you? Why else would Dion Agriche proclaim that he's your dog?

[bluvlet]

Some of my notes for my  'The Trolley Problem' and 'The Riddle of the Sphinx' comparison under the cut. 

Sphinx and Trolley Problem are humiliation rituals for Squires and Blake (Pemberton), perpetrated by Tyler and Drew (Shearsmith). Both episodes represent an intrusion and subsequent violation of Pemberton's psyche; he is deconstructed, humiliated, and then punished as a consequence of his transgressions towards Shearsmith, who undergoes a catharsis. 

Though Pemberton's relationship to the 'gimmick' (classics, cryptic crosswords, psychology, and ethical thought experiments) first establishes him as the authority on the matter, it is actually how Oedipus Rex, the crossword, and the trolley problem are used by Shearsmith in his revenge which is the episode’s defining characteristic. 

The first act sets up Pemberton as the principal intellect through him 'teaching' another character who he perceives as intellectually less than him (through being present as implicitly or explicitly working-class, which ‘Nina’ and first act Drew both are). 

The locations also serve this intrusion. Pemberton dominates through his familiarity with the spaces, which belong to him, and are reflections of his superiority; Blake takes advantage of this familiarity when he cuts the power in the third act. Both spaces are adorned with possessions that indicate his comfortable status quo. Importantly, Shearsmith is both times invited into the space (Blake picks up Drew from the bridge, Squires telephones Tyler to request his assistance, though Charlotte breaks in Squires was aware she would do so and allows her) which aids Pemberton’s superiority over him and the humiliation when Shearsmith seizes control from him. Drew holds Blake hostage in his own kitchen, Tyler turns Squires’s rooms (Charlotte’s body, the crossword) into a crime scene to frame Squires. His space is physically violated as is his psyche. 

Robbie and Nina are both killed through revenge. Both their deaths involve slow suffocation (as does Simon’s hanging). Charlotte is killed by Tyler acting through Squires (who poisons Charlotte under Tyler’s unconscious influence). Robbie is killed Blake acting through Drew (unknowingly leaving his son to suffocate). 

The other two children commit suicide. Ellie and Simon’s suicides are both caused by domination, and then rejection by Pemberton. Ellie is taken advantage of by Blake, then discarded when she becomes an ‘inconvenience’. The episode suggests that this series of events is what pushed her to commit suicide when she did - presumeably overdosing on the antipsychotics Blake prescribed her. Simon enters the Cambridge cruciverbalists competition to, in Tyler’s words, ‘earn back his mother’s love’. When Squires’ beats him unfairly, the rejection from his mother, and the humiliation from being beaten by Squires is overwhelming: he goes home and hangs himself. These suicides are covered up, or at least never adressed by the Steve character in favour of his career, until another character forces it into the open. The suicide of each child comes as a consequence of Pemberton’s obsession with his image. Blake cannot tell the truth to the authorities because he would lose his licence to practise, Squires cannot accept the possibility of ‘The Sphinx’ losing the crossword competition. Blake even goes as far as to attempt to murder Drew to maintain his equilibrium. Therefore, it serves as the greatest punishment of all for Drew and Tyler to strip Blake and Squires of their identities through the appropriation of what they have lauded themselves as experts in. Drew and Tyler do not merely formulate a revenge plot, but model them specifically after concepts established as belonging to Blake and Squires’ - and Blake and Squires do not fully realise what is happening until the very end. It is best described as the ego-death of Pemberton.

Sphinx and Trolley Problem are knee-deep in Oedipal imagery. Whereas Sphinx retells the original Oeidpus tale by literally addressing the play, The Trolley problem remains in the unconscious, alluding to Freudian theory in the implications of its relationships (“she was estranged from her father and she saw me as some kind of…”) The Trolley Problem is arguably overall more fragmented and unconscious in its themes and characters than Sphinx. 

Shearsmith is emasculated by Pemberton: Squires replaces Tyler as the husband and as biological father to his children, Blake describes himself as being a replacement father for Ellie. Father and husband as patriarchal dominating forces Shearsmith is cast out from. Shearsmith is almost entirely sexless (or coded as a potential victim), which also emasculates him (“I’m a red blooded mammal Tyler, not like those molluscs you spend half your time with.”) Pemberton is driven by sexuality to the point of being a predator; tied with his control and superiority, he represents a traditional masculine violence. Pemberton cannot view Shearsmith as a potential threat because of his sexlessness, which is aided by Shearmith’s intellectual and class ‘inferiority’. 

The emasculation fuels Shearsmith’s revenge – revenge for things that Pemberton has taken from him and humiliated him by taking. He repossesses his masculinity in his revenge plans by beating Pemberton in acts of violence: Tyler cutting up and feeding Charlotte to Squires, Drew burying Robbie. Both are an imitation of Pemberton’s prior violence. Shearsmith attacks Pemberton’s identity as a father as Pemberton did to him. It is less about avenging Simon or Ellie as people, but revenge for what Shearsmith has lost and what Pemberton has put him through – children in the episodes are fragments of whole people used as pawns to aid each father in achieving his desire. Female suffering is at the heart of both episodes; Daughters are exploited and abandoned by their fathers. Sons are restricted to framed photos and die because of their father’s arrogance. Their own actions are only deplorable when they realise they have harmed their own biological children and thus have failed as fathers (men and predators): Tyler feels no guilt because he has no biological children; Drew and Squires commit suicide; Blake falls to his knees in horror, outcome left ambiguous. It is part of their humiliation. Though Tyler's motivations exist as entirely self-serving (avenging his marriage and time wasted), Drew is much more aligned to genuine compassion for his daughter. 

Blake = Drew = Ellie = Robbie, each character representing and mirroring each other. In Sphinx, Charlotte = Simon (avenging twin), Tyler = Squires (Tyler raising Squires’s children, Squires marrying Tyler’s wife). 

Fascinating is how much Shearsmith understands Pemberton, and how little Pemberton understands Shearsmith. Shearsmith studies Pemberton so well that his revenge is him effectively becoming Pemberton (the setter, the psychologist, the abuser). Pemberton underestimates Shearsmith because of his preconceived idea of his inferiority. 

Blake maintains more control than Squires because of Drew’s instability as a character. The portrait of Drew is a man so haunted and overwhelmed by his emotions that he quite literally bursts into flames at the end of the episode in response to them. He hatches a plan that is derailed by outbursts (“I think I might have killed somebody.”) and overpowered by Blake’s physical violence. Although in the end it all works in his favour, it speaks more to his ability to improvise more than his own stability. There is also a leniency Drew’s plan affords to Blake, which Tyler does not offer to Squires. Blake gets the chance to save Robbie, if he confesses (reinforced by script). If we can trust Drew’s promises to Robbie, there’s an alternate universe out there where Blake admits his fault and Robbie is dug up. Charlotte dies in every iteration of Tyler’s plan.

Class dynamics are undermined through the revelations that Charlotte is a Cambridge masters student and daughter of a Cambridge professor. (Drew undermines Blake’s authority and intelligence because of his degree). Drew is actually implied to be of a similar status to Blake. 

Recurring themes of poisoning (through scenes involving cups of tea) and suffocation (Simon, Robbie, Charlotte). Betrayal from the father figure the child is close to (Robbie and Blake, Charlotte and Tyler). Shadowy spaces and a degree of pathetic fallacy. Elements of abjection and the uncanny (mirroring, violence, poisoning). A degree of self awareness from Pemberton (shame surrounding hearing Ellie’s recording, “I don’t have a good side” / “I don’t care what people think of me”, Squires: “I was just showing off”). Revenge tragedy. Characters arriving under false pretences – characters playing roles (as a psychotherapist, vulnerable man, girlfriend attempting to impress, amicable colleague).  A vulnerable young woman is denied bodily autonomy (Ellie having no physical presence in the episode, Charlotte being paralysed) by the men who victimise her.

[englandsgirl18181234]

Hi! I read your answer from another ask and fell in love with the Hades' Lament AU! Athena is my all time favorite goddess and I think Morpheus might be my favorite god, I just love Hypnos and his family so very much, they are so fascinating. You see, I grew up with a book series for children based loosely on greek mythology where Athena and Morpheus were very close and I fell in love with their characters; However, they are so vastly different gods that finding fanfiction with the two of them interacting is pratically impossible (or even fanfiction with Morpheus and is family that is not from the Dream of the Endless fandom, good as it may be) you should have seen me jumping up and down from sheer giddiness when I read of this AU being a possibility! Could you tell me more about the relationship between Morpheus and Athena and Apollo? Are they close, given the situation? Are they friends? If so, why is Morpheus so cryptic in giving answers to the other gods, wouldn't he want for Athena and Apollo to wake up? Btw, I always thought that Morpheus' involvement in the war with Kronos may have been officially in favour of the titans, but, by putting the mortals to sleep, he effectivly kept them from most of the danger, thus helping the demigods: the titans wouldn't have cared about the panicking mortals putting themselves in danger, should them have been awake, but the demigods definetly would. This fits perfectly the picture you gave of Morpheus: I support the titans only because the alternative is Zeus and I hate him with a passion (because of the abuse towards Apollo and Athena), but I don't really agrre with the titans' agenda, so I help the demigods while pretending to help Kronos (I'm sure he witnessed lots of those poor kids tormented by nightmares too). I also read a beautiful fanfiction a while ago that elaborated the famous myth of Zeus trying to punish Hypnos for putting him to sleep, the one where he stops only because he's scared of Hypnos' mother, Nyx: In this fic, Zeus did reach Hypnos and hit him with his lightining as he did with Athena in God Games. He managed a single strike before Nyx put the fear of Tartarus in him. The result was that one of Hypnos's wing is missing (matching a real statue of him, wich is one winged because the other wing is believed missing) and Apollo was called to heal what he could of Hypnos injuries after. I loved it and I use it as part of my fanfiction-patchwork lore to justify Hypnos and Apollo knowing each other, even if briefly and I often have Athena go to Hypnos for advice on how to deal with the lighting burns (since I'm sure that Mr. Asshole wanted her to be immediatly up and about after he almost killed her) therefore laying the fundation for Athena and Apollo to build a relationship with Hypnos and family, usually a secret one because Zeus :(. Anyway, I can try to find the fic for you if you would like to read it and think it may be useful for this AU's worldbuilding. Let me know <3. Last thing I wanted to ask (not related to this AU specifically), is Apollo aware of his Chtnonic nature? Or does he discover it only after running with Athena to the underworld in your various AUs?

Hi yourself!!

If you want some good content with Hypnos and Nyx and the Chthonic Gods, I highly recommend the video game Hades by Supergiant Games if you haven't checked it out already! It's a rogue-like about the young God Zagreus and his attempts to escape the Underworld and reach the surface!

Morpheus sadly isn't part of it, but Hypnos, Nyx, Hades, Charon, and Thanatos all are, along with many other characters from Greek mythology, including Athena!

Can you tell this is an obvious plug for my favorite game of all time? Because it is. I have like 1000 hours in it across 3 different platforms and I've bought it like 4 times. And I bought the early access sequel even though I'm probably not going to play it again until it fully comes out.

But anyway, please do rec the fic!!! I'm always looking for new fic!! And the book series if you remember it!!! I wasn't super into mythology as a young kid, I was way more interested in the guardians of ga'hoole series and magic tree house, but I'm always down for more to read!!

And as far as this AU goes, that's pretty much exactly Morpheus's thought process about joining Kronos. Zeus is irredeemable as far as he's concerned, so he wasn't going to side with him no matter what.

But he also knows that the Titans will likely be even worse, especially to Apollo and Athena, the demi-gods, and the mortals, all of whom he's grown to care for.

So he basically ended up being a spy in Kronos's ranks, feeding small bits of information to Apollo and Athena and the demi-gods through their dreams. It's how Percy learned that Luke had bathed in the River Styx in this verse, finding out even earlier than he did in canon.

And you're exactly right on why he put the mortals to sleep too, including why he put them to sleep before the actual battle started. He knew the demi-gods would be distracted if there were mortals in danger, so he gave them a headstart on getting them safe enough that they wouldn't be.

And Morpheus's relationship with Apollo and Athena is slightly complicated. They can't often be seen together in public because of Zeus, so the vast majority of their communication takes place in their dreams. It's kind of like lucid dreaming when Morpheus visits them, from how I understand it. He'll link Apollo and Athena's dreams together, and from there, they'll know they're dreaming and they'll all share control of the dream.

Morpheus can't visit them as often as he would like, because Zeus would notice his power on them if he did. If he could he would take their nightmares away entirely. But he's actually able to work with Apollo in an official capacity sometimes because prophetic demi-god dreams are a part of both of their domains.

Morpheus is very close with them both in this specific AU, and I might Word Of God it so that he also knows about Athena's condition in my other ones as well.

He's the only one besides Apollo that knows Athena lived with Odysseus, Penelope, and Telemachus, though she didn't tell him personally. He figured it out because of how often they featured in her dreams.

I'm gonna put the next bit under a cut because it's technically spoilers and this is getting a bit long.

So the reason Morpheus doesn't want them to wake up? Is because they're technically asleep while they're in their comas. He can communicate with them at all times now, and he doesn't have to worry about Zeus finding out he's helping them with nightmares anymore! This is basically the best possible scenario for him and them as far as he's concerned. They're living in their shared dreams the way they want to, with no danger or pain or nightmares. It's not the real world, but it's better than anything they've ever had before.

If Hades heals them enough for it to be possible and they want to wake up? He'll absolutely let them. They're his friends after all, he cares for them and wants them to be happy. But if they don't?

Well that's just too little too late for the Olympians, now isn't it?

And as far as Apollo goes, no, he doesn't know he's Chthonic at all. No one does.

Why would they? There had never been twin gods besides Hypnos and Thanatos before, and they were both Chthonic like their parent Nyx. How would he have any way to know that he and Artemis would be different? The Fates didn't tell him, and no one else knows.

Apollo doesn't realize that Olympians can't sense things the way he can, he just assumes it's one of those things they don't talk about. Like Zeus swallowing Metis or Hades being banned from Olympus.

So yeah, he only finds out when Hades figures it out. It's definitely a surprise.

Thank you so much for this ask, I love it!!!

[headfullof-ideas]

Okay it took me all afternoon, but I finished the base doodles of my own version of @thedeepfanpage’s tangled AU, only because I’m obvious, I did it with Ant instead of Fontaine! And it’s a Tangled AU in that Tangled is sitting in the corner of the room. Its presence is there, but it’s not fully there, you know what I mean?

My idea was that, in this world, instead of the flower being from of drop from the sun, it was actually from a drop of Monumential blood, being blue rather than yellow. Almost the same powers, but a different color with a couple different extra things and rules. One, it’s not activated by singing, but by willpower. By need, by urgency. Adrenaline. Second, it can be placed into conduits, gems powered by the same magic from a dead Monumential thousands of years ago. Third, there’s more to it than healing. Surges of energy can be expelled, longevity can be bestowed upon something, light can be made. And fourth, there is a limited supply of it. Unless a source is fed externally from a sort of battery, its magic will die out. This magic is very fleeting and limited, and there isn’t much of it still around anymore. What there is, is stored away from a society dedicated to making sure this very power doesn’t end up in the wrong hands. However, that doesn’t mean people like Proteus still can’t make their way in and try to utilize it for bad.

Proteus learned along with Nereus that a person can actually have this power harnessed within themselves. Nereus tucked the information away as interesting to know, but Proteus immediately wanted to use it for himself. He wanted to live forever, so he could spend all the time he needed to learn to harness the full power of the dead Monumentials, and use it to gain control of the world. All attempts at giving himself powers with it failed, so he turned to a younger person, Alpheus, hoping to turn him into his very own conduit to leech off of. Alpheus was a little more susceptible to it than Proteus in his already old age had been, but it had only affected his physical appearance, changing the color of his eyes to a much brighter blue. No powers fell upon the unknowing Alpheus, and Proteus was at his wits end on how to make a person get powers.

With the Nektons, the King and Queen of present day Lemuria were expecting another child, but Kaiko was getting ill. Nereus had been keeping an eye on them at the request of Will’s late parents, and remembered the information about how the residual magic could be used to heal and rejuvenate. He helped the Nektons find just what they needed, telling them what he knew it could do, and Kaiko got better. When Ant was born, he had blue hair and blue eyes. Nereus said that with no outer conduit to latch on to him, and eventually using up what had been used to keep Kaiko alive, Ant’s hair and eyes would return to the color they were naturally supposed to be. Other than that, he was a healthy happy baby.

Proteus heard about the Nekton’s baby though, and found the answers to his dilemma. He hadn’t known that you needed to introduce the magic to a person while they were still developing in order for anything to stick. Proteus kidnapped Ant, having slipped amongst the Guardians who were now aware of his actual intentions. He made off with Ant, disappearing without a trace. The Nektons parents were devastated, and Nereus vowed to track down Proteus and find Ant and bring him home.

Twelve years later, Proteus had been keeping Ant in an underground Lemurian sanctuary, hidden away from the rest of the world and all the Guardians searching for Ant. Ant lived alone with just Proteus, away from any other person and unaware of what the outside world even looked like. Proteus had found a conduit, using it to feed magic to Ant, keeping the magic inside him alive, and also store magic from Ant, for Proteus to use.

Now, Proteus is not as sly as Mother Gothel, too impatient. The combined efforts of his own temper and Alpheus tracking him down to repeatedly fight and antagonize him and Ant over Proteus choosing Ant and abandoning Alpheus, led to Ant not being so fond of Proteus himself. He knows that Proteus isn’t a good person. However, with no knowledge of the outside world beyond Alpheus and Proteus, Ant is led to believe that even if Proteus isn’t a good person, Ant’s safer with him. Especially when Alpheus keeps making attempts at sucking the magic out of Ant to prove that he would have been better with it. Ant is also fed a fair number of lies in how his powers work. He knows what they’re capable of, but he thinks that they’re also the only thing keeping him alive. With no one to fact-check the lies Proteus feeds him, Ant is led to believe that his body naturally produces magic of its own. However, too much of it can kill him, meaning Ant has to put some of it into Proteus’s staff, powering it, to stay alive. But getting rid of all of it will kill him, meaning that Ant has to keep at least some of it. Ant stays with Proteus not just because he doesn’t know if or how he can leave, but he thinks that he’s safer with Proteus despite the fact he knows he’s not a good person, and that Proteus is the only person with the staff that can keep Ant ‘alive’. Ant doesn’t want to die, and doesn’t think he has anywhere or anyone else to go to, so he’s stuck with Proteus. Proteus is happy keeping Ant under his relative thumb, using the magic he leeches away from Ant with his stuff to prolong his lifespan and energy, with Ant none the wiser.

Every year, once a year, the dead Monumentials body releases a torrent of magic into the sea. It’s not magic that can really be harnessed, otherwise Proteus would have been stealing it years ago. It’s nothing more than lights, but they’re beautiful, lighting up the ocean and surrounding rivers and streams that it can reach. There’s an underground river that flows through the sanctuary that Ant is kept in, and he wants nothing more that to see the actual ocean that he reads about in the old books kept there, and he wants to see it lit up by the dead Monumential. Proteus won’t let him leave though, and Ant isn’t sure if he’d make it if he left the sanctuary and it’s natural magic and Proteus for too long.

Back with the Nektons, Fontaine is frustrated with her parents trying to keep an eye on her at all times. She knows that she had a baby brother who was stolen days after he was born, but she doesn’t know that he had blue hair and eyes because of Lemurian magic. Determined to prove that she won’t be in danger if she’s on her own, and that she can handle herself, she signs up to join the captains guard. On an excursion out into the woods for training, she comes across Alpheus, who was stealing something. What I don’t know, just that it was mildly important and maybe something that was Ant’s. I didn’t get that far, just that he stole something, and that Fontaine gave chase. Alpheus manages to lose her not far from where Ant is, Proteus out for a few days on his usual trips in search of Lemurian stuff, and Ant sees Fontaine lose Alpheus. She stumbles across him, and he hits her over the head with the mandatory frying pan in a panic.

Fontaine wakes up, and after a bit of bickering, Ant convinces her to take him to see the ocean in exchange for knowing where Alpheus is. Ant figures that if he has someone with him, he can be taken to and from the ocean in relative safety, back before Proteus knows what happened. Fontaine’s just wondering why there’s a weird kid with blue hair and weird blue eyes living underground. But, she’s willing to reluctantly play babysitter for this weird kid if it means she has a lead on that other weird, blue-haired guy.

Shenanigans are had for the next few days, with the Dark Orca pirates, Kaiko and Will, Nereus, Alpheus, eventually Proteus who figures out Ant left and immediately tries to re-kidnap him again, and an assortment of other incidents happening while Fontaine and Ant bicker, bond, freak out over the other freaking out over Ant’s powers, and eventually grow pretty close for knowing each other only a few days. Ant activates Fontaine’s sleeper big sister instincts, and Fontaine slowly gets Ant to realize that maybe Proteus was lying about a lot more than he initially thought. That the outside world wasn’t as dangerous as he made it out to be. That Proteus was worse than Ant believed. That maybe his parents didn’t abandon him because of his powers. Fontaine takes him to Lemuria where they do the whole Kingdom Dance scene, Fontaine avoiding her parents to the best of her ability because she is DEFINITELY grounded the moment they get their hands on her. After the scene on the ocean in the boat, Fontaine tries to pop the question of if Ant actually wants to go back to Proteus. Ant says he’d die if he stayed away too long, but Fontaine’s not sure that wasn’t just something else Proteus was lying about. Before they can finish talking about it though, Alpheus and Proteus find them. Both are trying to grab Ant for different yet very similar reasons. Proteus wants to take Ant back to the sanctuary so he can hide him even further away, never to see an ounce of light ever again. Alpheus wants to transfer Ant’s powers to himself for his own gains. Ant and Fontaine get separated, and while Fontaine gets back what Alpheus stole, Proteus gets away with Ant. The palace guards catch up. Alpheus is arrested and Fontaine is grounded for a very long time.

She’s determined to save Ant though, and breaks into the prison to get answers out of Alpheus. Alpheus tells her what exactly Proteus has been wanting with Ant, and what Ant’s powers can do. Fontaine steals a horse and rushes off to save Ant. Haven’t figured out the specifics of what happens next, but Proteus gets shoved off a cliff that leads into a deep chasm in the sanctuary, Fontaine get’s stabby-stabby’d, and the staff holding both what Proteus had been leeching off of Ant and the conduit feeding Ant’s magic gets shattered, leaving Ant with only whatever his own body had stored. Not in that order, but that’s the gist of what happens. At the end, Ant is panicking, because Fontaine is dying on the ground, and he doesn’t know what to do. He’s still not entirely sure that he won’t die if he uses up all the magic in his powers, but he decides to try and save Fontaine anyways. He ends up using every last ounce of it he had left in his body to bring her back, and his hair and eyes return to normal afterwards. Crying and happy tears and relief and did-we-just-kill-a-man happen, and Ant and Fontaine head back to her parents. Fontaine introduces him to them, and it’s only when it gets revealed that he used to have blue hair and eyes that anyone realizes who Ant actually is

This is a very janky explanation because A) I’m tired and B) I don’t have the most solid scene-by-scene description of my version of this AU. So it’s a little jankily worded and laid out. But I have drawings for it! And another one I’ll post after this because I didn’t have room here, and a few others I wanna do!

[hellsinvestigativereporter]

Let's take a moment to consider a few glimmers of hope in this time of repose between season 2 and 3 of helluva boss my dear readers.

1. We never actually saw Moxxie's mother die. The person his old man made him throw off the boat was based on evidence I've gathered was not his mother, just some poor schmuck who was probably Moxxie's initiation to "da family business." And it should also be noted that in shows like this there is a rule: "no body, no death." All we really saw was his mom's shoe surface out of the water. It suggests things sure but... she may have just ditched the shoes during a possible escape attempt.

2. Octavia is fully aware of the monster her mother is so any plans her uncle may have had for her are shot. And let's face it stella is very much Cersei Lannister. All cruelty and very little brains. And well, octavia took on her uncle as well so he's got no hold over her either. She is however alone and that does not rule out the possibility that someone else could come in and sink their claws into this lonely girl but for now... at least she is apprised of the situation and after thinking about it for a time she may realize she was being too harsh.

3. Loona seems to have finally healed and gone from a sourpuss tweenager to a social, happy, out going young woman who has accepted Blitz as her father. Need I say more?

4. Millie is going to be a mother. Now you all may know I have some DEEP concerns about the circumstances of the incoming young thing but even if things do go sideways Stolas has experience being a parent and Blitz would 100 percent be there for her regardless of what strain it would put on her and Moxxie's marriage so there is a support group... dare i say... family?

5. Stolas is not dead.

6. Stolas is now in a position where based on the strength of his character can now learn about the hardships of those born of lesser privilege than himself and become a wiser man for it.

7. Finally... Blitz is the talk of the town. Speaking strictly from a business standpoint he's getting free advertisement for his company now and may even get some new sponsors for the company and really start making some big bucks.

At any rate dear readers let us remember that while life is not always rainbows and lollipops it's not always gloom and doom either. You just have to follow Blitz's example of charging ahead no matter the challenges because in the struggle that is where we discover strengths we did not know we had. Food for thought.

[roystory4]

PLEASEEE do talk extensively about tua's relationship with mira i'm so curious... i ❤️ complicated relationships with parenthood

augh thank you for asking!!

firstly i think it's important to remember the context for fallout's setting... it's fifty years in the future, yet culturally locked in the 1960s, which means tua is grappling with a lot of expectations for someone who is middle-aged and perceived as female, like the idea that she needs to get married and leave their job to have kids.

tua meanwhile has no goals to get married or have a family. but it IS important to note that this is somewhat a response to a lifetime of feeling ostracized for how she presents. they don't have any family, and being of mixed background means she has been made to feel untethered/unwanted. growing up aware of these things, there never seemed to be room for someone like them in that picture of the american dream, so tua never really learned to want it.

(sidebar but... they supplement whatever loneliness comes of that with her job, which obviously leads to a really unhealthy relationship with her concept of worth. but i digress)

there's also another layer in the fact that tua's mother left her and her father at a very young age, taking infant miriam with her to the west coast. as a child tua came away with the belief that they had done something wrong, that they were too difficult/complicated and their mother couldn't handle her, when in reality their mom was a young mom and didn't know what to do while being so far away from her extended family in mexico. so tua's relationship with motherhood is that, well, they don't want to be a mom because they'd mess it up and be imperfect and couldn't handle it. etc.

(in fact the whole point of the penultimate chapter of act i is that tua learning to love herself is fully realized by coming back to mira and loving her. spoilers lol)

something i especially hope people keep in mind with tua being of mixed background is that she inherently has a different relationship w the concept of gender identity, with concepts of femininity and masculinity, and before the war there is definitely this concept of motherhood that tua absolutely cannot relate to and despises and as consequence despises the expectation that she have children. THEN because tua was so out of touch w their own body from decades of dysphoria they also just did not realize the signs until miriam made them go to the doctor. the fact tua's detachment from her own body means she didn't know she was pregnant until like 3-4 months in is kind of Part Of The Whole Thing!!!!!!

after the war, when tua is allowed to dress the way they want to, present the way she wants to, and there are no expectations for them to live a certain life, she ends up more willing to take on the responsibility of raising mira. a couple years in they do not feel that level of vitriol, BUT they're definitely not interested in having more kids to be clear.

(which ok other sidebar: i will also say doing the research into writing act i helped my dysphoria out a lot too, so it became important to me to present pregnancy/childbirth from a gender neutral perspective and to avoid using any of the weird motherhood = womanhood themes you see a lot. i think by the end of writing act i i had fixed a few of my own personal biases and i find that was invaluable!!)

all in all i really tried to make tua's relationship w/ being pregnant and raising a child as nuanced as possible without falling into the usual tropes around the topic... ultimately tua sees mira as her sister's baby, and sees themself as mira's guardian and not necessarily her parent. because of this, while tua does make an effort to provide for/support mira as she grows up, tua is also just very emotionally distant and standoffish by nature. i wanted tua to feel more like an awkward uncle who is making an attempt to be parental but does not have any natural instincts for it. in the end, mira grows up far closer to nick than to tua - while at the same time ending up exactly like her... always distant, always moving, and always self-isolating.

there might be more to it than that.... but basically it IS complicated and i put a lot of work into avoiding making it seem like everything "clicks" for tua once they have mira when in reality she was so manic they walked across the glowing sea and fought a horde of feral ghouls barehanded. normal new mom things lol

[clownakai]

Today’s a pleasant Saturday, and after having a good laugh at the "The reviews are in" post, I thought I’d dive into an intersting theory about the possible connection between Gin and Mary :)

Shared Phrases (?) Both Gin and Mary are the only characters to say, “It’s like encountering a demon in the darkness.” Similarly, Tsutomu and Shuichi are the only ones who’ve said, “The fault is 50/50.” I mean.. it's pretty obivious from just here already.

Appearance In terms of appearance, Mary, Sera, Akai, and Gin share two notable features: green eyes and distinct lines under their lower eyelids. Mary also has platinum hair, much like Gin’s.

Mary’s shrinking instead of being killed Mary’s shrinking, rather than being executed by BO, is particularly strange. After all, BO is notorious for ruthless efficiency—why use APTX 4869 instead of simply shooting her? The idea of sparing an enemy with a “golden medicine” that took years of research feels uncharacteristically merciful for BO. Their usual motto of “leave no trace” makes this decision seem odd and deliberate.

The boss’s decision to let Mary live seems to be a carefully calculated trap. It’s confirmed that Sherry’s mother and Mary are biological sisters (as the author has stated that Akai and Sherry are cousins). This means Mary and Sherry share familial genes as aunt and niece, making their bodies react similarly to the drug. I believe Gin may have known early on that Sherry was alive and was aware of Kudo's survival as well. Therefore, Gin and the boss know that Mary will survive this drug as well. Gin likely hinted this to the boss and orchestrated events to leave Mary alive. Why? They will use Mary as a bait to retrieve the antidote.

If BO were to capture Sherry, she’d likely refuse to cooperate. If they killed her, they’d lose their only chance at the antidote. Raising Sherry, funding her studies abroad, and investing years in her research suggests how vital she is to the boss’s plans. Killing Kudo would also be out of the question—Sherry’s guilt over Kudo’s predicament is what drives her to work on the antidote. If Kudo were killed, Sherry might even commit suicide, leaving BO without their much needed antiodote.

Mary’s shrinking seems to be a part of the boss’s larger scheme to manipulate Sherry. By targeting Mary, someone closely tied to Sherry and the silver bullet Akai, the boss ensures that all roads lead back to Sherry. This clever and cost-effective strategy leverages Mary’s condition to force Sherry’s hand, ensuring she stays within BO’s reach. In the process, it draws in powerful agencies like the FBI, CIA, and MI6, all of whom may unwittingly aid the boss’s agenda. In the end, the trap wasn’t just for Mary—it was a strategic move to draw out Sherry and secure BO’s ultimate goal: the antidote. This theory further supports the idea that Mary and Gin might be related, potentially as mother and son. Otherwise she wouldn't have been alive until now.

Hello anon! Just so you know this was a delightful surprise to find in my inbox today :3 I think I reread the whole thing like four times before even thinking of doing anything else djsjfsk I love theories so much💥💥💥

(Everything else is under the cut because I ended up yapping too much. I'm so sorry)

I really like this theory, especially since it indirectly covers for the fact that Masumi (partly due to Mary's orders as she's getting more and more impatient) hasn't exactly been subtle in her attempts to get the temporary antidote and has generally been very liberal with the information she has about Conan and Haibara's identities, talking about it in public and even getting overheard (granted, Subaru isn't the issue here, and it's not a guarantee that she's being tailed 24/7 as that would be a bit of a hassle to keep up, but still). One would think that they'd have been found out by now, given that the BO is now fully certain of Masumi's existence and relations (Vermouth on the Mystery Train my beloved & beloathed... Girl why r u so evil) and, as minimal as it is, she does represent a threat, but nothing has happened to either of them yet.

I do think that the point about the BO's decision to use the poison is a little shaky, seeing as it's been explicitly stated to leave no trace on the body— which actually fits pretty well with their motto, and we do glimpse a pretty long list of people it's been used on a few times throughout the manga (we only see a few names, but it's speculated to be much longer than what is shown), so it would seem that the BO has been using it semi-regularly when they wanted more down-low executions.

There was also no guarantee that Mary would react the same way to the APTX even with a possible genetic advantage observed in Shiho (and without knowing exactly what they were looking for, I'm fairly sure trying to compare the two's DNA in order to confirm their theory would be really difficult if not outright impossible in such a short timespan, and that's if you don't consider the absence of the person who knows the most about the APTX in the first place and could have sped things up if she was there). <- sidenote: I feel like I may have misread this point of the theory, so my interpretation and objection could be completely off bc it's not what you were talking about djsnfns

That said, I find the point about ensuring a direct line to Sherry through familial relations very interesting, in the sense that it made me stop and ask myself how she would react upon finding out that she has more living family still, but over half of them are people who she may see as having caused her grief/major discomfort at best. Would her wish to connect to her family be stronger than her self-preservation (along with the fact that she doesn't really know these people and therefore has no emotional attachment to them, not even as abstract idealized family)? I'm genuinely not sure, but the BO banking on this, possibly because having essentially groomed her they know her weaknesses best, is very juicy.

Honestly, thanks to that post (and a few delightful conversations about it), I do think that making Mary and Gin related in some way would be like. Really really funny. It'd also probably piss off a lot of people, but it'd be so funny.

And, given Gosho's magic retconning powers, I have come to the conclusion that Gin being Elena and Mary's brother that nobody ever talks about for some reason would be peak comedy. It even gives the whole "Elena and her husband received an offer they couldn't say no to because it'd let them continue their research" thing a new layer of context if you consider that Gin may have been the one who brought them to the Boss's attention.

This is also brought to you by my superficial genetics liker ass who says "Tsutomu's hair is brown and Mary's is blond. Brown is a dominant gene while blond is recessive, so unless Tsutomu's genotype was heterozygous (which we unfortunately can't know without the rest of his family tree. Also Gosho only seems to care about genetics from time to time) Gin should also have brown hair".

Also it's infinitely funnier if this is all a very complicated example of what Cain's Instinct looks like. Imagine playing the long game for literal decades because you want your siblings dead but it should also wipe out the rest of the family. Insane

[cultkinkcoven]

I am not Mesopotamian, Cannanite, Greek, Phoenician, Egyptian, Roman, or Persian, and yet there are many deities from these societies that I revere, worship, and/or work with.

As a black Caribbean Canadian who has had much of my ancestral spirituality ripped away from me through a history of slavery, forced assimilation and segregation, I do sometimes wish I could worship deities that I know originate within my own culture. I do wish I had these strong ancestral ties and comfort in my culture. I do wish I knew the stories of our tribes and had relationships with elders. The reality is that I don’t, the reality is that my people were collected and dispersed among the Americas to be oppressed, and the destruction of our homes, our culture, was the destruction of our legacy. I am the result of this destruction, a lost immigrant to a land that I never chose to be in, estranged from all that I would have been. and my descendants will not know the stories my ancestors told. I mourn that, especially on days like today.

But seeking out deities simply because they originate in my culture doesn’t feel sincere to me and my practice. I don’t believe I should be forced to only worship names with black faces. Every deity I have approached and loved I did so because they called to me. I had an immense appreciation for the peoples who documented and encountered them, and I was mesmerized by how these deities reflected the society and attitudes of the time. But I know I am not Cannanite, Egyptian, or Iranian, I know I can never fully assimilate into these religions or cultures and that isn’t my goal. And to be honest, I don’t really even know what I am. I know where my mother came from, the Caribbean islands, that’s about it. I have little to no understanding of my lineage beyond that. I do not know what things I have the right to, so I assume I don’t have a right to any of it. Nothing in the world belongs to me but my love.

I know that I belong to Venus, whatever name she takes. I don’t know what that name would have been to my people. I have hope that I have found her in the tales of others. I have hope that I would have been hers regardless of where I ended up.

When I say I am devoted to Inanna, Ishtar, or even Aphrodite, I hope that it is clear that I know that I could never understand what Inanna was to the Sumerians of the time, I could never speak to the personal name of Venus that they discovered and how she manifested in their society, I simply can’t. They are long gone and their stories are now legend. I can study them as much as I want, but the reality is that I will never know what it meant to worship Inanna in Sumer all those years ago. I know that when I say her name I can feel her presence and love. I know that I have found a home in her, and she has embraced me. But I can never claim to be an authority on Mesopotamian mythology or the worship of Inanna.

Even though I know the Cannanite, Sumerian, or Egyptian pantheons are not closed, I am constantly aware that I will always be approaching these things as an outsider. That doesn’t mean I can’t participate in worship or reverence, but I also understand that I cannot truly replicate the Egyptian rituals, the Sumerian prayers, the Greek holidays, and that’s also okay. I don’t need to. The Gods never commanded me to. I approach all of my deities and my craft in a personalized way that still recognizes the origin of these things, but does not attempt to embody them, because I know I simply can’t. I wasn’t there, and I’m quite sure my ancestors weren’t even there.

I use these names because they are the only things I have to make sense of who she is, not because I believe that I am Mesopotamian or Roman, but because I recognize that she was known to these people, and I take their accounts as evidence.

This is something I think about very often, especially when I’m diving into learning more about the deities I worship. Many of these names, Attar, Astarte, Ishtar, Inanna, they are always on the cusp of being lost to time. Am I justified in saying these names even if only to keep them alive? I don’t know, I really don’t. Am I justified in being a devotee of Inanna because I truly love her? I don’t know. If not for people like me, would she still have devotees? I don’t know.

These things are nuanced and complex and I will not claim to have the answer. But if you’re someone like me, especially a black person, struggling with the reality of worshipping deities from other cultures, please know that you are not alone and it is okay, actually it’s better than okay, it’s very good that you are questioning yourself. It’s very good to be aware of our human limitations when it comes to understanding things that we are so in love with. There is no rule that says your worship must stay within the confines of your own culture. But it is also infinitely important to be aware of how your perspective informs your ideas about these ancient cultures, both negatively and positively. As much as I love how trans people may have been regarded in the cult of Inanna, it’s important that I also don’t idolize, fetishize or romanticize a Sumerian society that I have never witnessed. As much as I may study and practice I cannot pretend to know everything about an ancient Goddess from a culture that I am not from. I simply can’t. and that’s okay.

anyways, Happy Emancipation Day.

[umbran6]

A Different Champion

Ok, hear me out on this - Leo should've been the champion of Hera rather than Jason. At the very least, they should've had a relatively more positive relationship in comparison to the one time they interacted in The Lost Hero.

For those who've seen my prior posts, you know I've analyzed Leo's importance in the plot. I would also further cement this in that Leo has more importance to Hera than Jason. Even from an initial viewpoint, Hera would have more motivation to help Leo considering his background. Esperanza Valdez was willing to raise her son and still love him despite her family blacklisting her for having a child as a single mother and willing to work 9-5 just so they could live. Jason was the second child of Jupiter and Beryl Grace, who this time was fully aware of her lover's divine nature, willingly having a child despite the fact that not only did it defile Hera's marriage, but it was the second child that was testament to Zeus' disregard for his Pact made among his brothers. Overall, Hera seems more likely to sympathize with Leo and Esperanza.

This sympathy and favor is visible when you examine how Hera interacts with them, even when they were young. I always found it pretty hard to believe that Hera would pressure Beryl Grace to sacrifice Jason to sate her wrath, because Jason and Thalia were already destined for persecution - Zeus had broken the Pact of the Big Three twice. Thalia was never specifically targeted by Hera ( and the statue incident is... questionable, considering Olympus was freaking collapsing and Hera was also busy fighting Typhon), and as far as we're informed by Riordan, Hera was never particularly active in Jason's life while he was in the 5th cohort of the legion.

On a side note, Beryl Grace was an utter idiot for naming her son after the OG Jason. The OG Jason may have initially been favored by Hera for being one of the few mortal heroes without any divine parentage. However, he also severely screwed the pooch because he willingly broke his wedding vows towards Medea by attempting to marry Glauce despite all that Medea did and risked for him, to the point that its noted in most analyses of Euripides' Medea that the titular protagonist got approval from the gods for all of her actions. So yeah, Beryl painted a very big target on her son with that name. And the less said about Thalia's name, the better.

Hera spends nearly most of Leo's youth acting as his nanny while Esperanza Valdez works in the warehouse so they can stay afloat. Though most of the time Leo discussed this in the Lost Hero, he focused on the bizarre and unusual — having him use knives to cut jalapeños, prodding him to poke a snake, the whole 'burning your fingerprints into the park bench' incident, there is more to it than that. Hera doesn't just encourage the traits of a stereotypical hero, but also Leo's creativity such as him drawing the Argo II in crayons and though he wasn't aware of it, gives Leo hints as to how his future may look like. We also kind of forget that Hera still willingly helped raise Leo for Esperanza, which must've been an immense boon because she was a single mother.

Hera even performs what is quite likely the same ritual Demeter applied to Demophon so long ago — roasting him in a fireplace so Hera can burn away his mortality. Of course, it could be argued that she was doing this to strengthen Leo so she could have a stronger demigod to fight against Gaea, but either way such a possibility would benefit him more than it would for Hera. Needless to say, she must've favored Leo to the extreme if she was willing to make him, a demigod son of Hephaestus, immortal.

Furthermore - and please hear me out - let's expand on this connection. Esperanza seemed to be aware of Hephaestus's true nature as an Olympian because she knew that Leo's powers came from him, so it wouldn't be too far to say she was aware of Hera's true nature. She didn't know, however, that Hera was planning to train Leo to become a being that would defeat Gaea when she rose. She made the Queen of the Gods to promise not to intervene in their lives until Leo became aware of his true nature when Esperanza saw the fireplace scene, because Leo noted that ever that day, Tia Callida never showed up in Leo's life afterwards. So when Leo knows he is a demigod, all bets are off and Hera can finally start playing a more active role in his life.

So, now hopefully I've established that Leo should've been Hera's champion considering how she seems a lot more sympathetic to Leo. Now let's imagine how this plays out in the story. For now I'm going to specifically focus on the Lost Hero, because that's the series Hera is more prominent. Jason's memories are still wiped, Piper still thinks Jason is her boyfriend, but Leo is remarkably spared from the memory-warping effect of the Mist and is aware that Jason just straight up appeared out of nowhere.

Leo doesn't have that same edge of trust towards Jason, but that gives him a better perspective on what exactly Jason was sent out for. So he notices that Jason has a coin engraved with Latin, he uses latin terminology to describe the monsters that hunted Leo since he was young, and sees that Jason has combat skills far more advanced than an amnesiac should really have, he starts putting the pieces a lot earlier than we expect and when he is introduced to Camp Half-Blood, Leo cooks up the theory that Jason may have come from a Roman camp, and reasonably cooks up the corresponding idea that Percy is now in said Roman Camp.

When Leo figures out Jason's true origins, two things happen: he immediately tells it to Annabeth (he's not that much of a dick to hide what actually happened to her bf), and Hera conjures a specter to confirm this theory and explain why she's doing what she's doing. The whole scheme against the Earth Witch that killed Leo's mom, and that oh yeah, there's a wrench in the scheme. This concentrated method turns the gist of the quest from how the original Lost Hero presented it:

'Oh, this nebulous evil villain is going to use me as a freaking battery for her son/dragon and that sucks, so you must rescue me.' Oh yeah, and Percy is gone too, and we don't know where the freaking Tartarus he is, so there's that.

To this:

The Witch that was involved in your mother's death has captured me so that she can use me to fuel the resurrection of her strongest fighter. So if you want to get some sweet, sweet revenge/atonement for your mom's death you have to rescue me. Also, I'm holding your friend's memories with me so if you want to help him recover who he his he will also want to join. Percy Jackson? The guy who's gone missing? I have him with me as well, so Annabeth Chase better actually help out, or he's going to die too. You're in? Okay, here's how to do it, and you better get your butt here before the Winter Solstice because that is the day the absorption process is going to finish and things will really go to hell in a hand basket.

With that single message, we actually have people that aren't just following a prophecy. Annabeth joins the party because, oh yeah, now she finally knows where her boyfriend is and is willing to stomach saving the goddess she hates the most in order to help him. Jason's in it because Hera wants his memories and wants to know why she got him involved in her gambit in the first place. Leo? We have the direct motive of him wanting to atone for his mother's death while also getting revenge against the other party that was also involved. Piper's the unexpected fourth party member/possible traitor because her dad's still being held hostage.

Now, I'm not going to delve into the full plot detail changes, but a good chunk of it remains the same with some other changes. Annabeth gets a stronger friendship with Leo on an intellectual level, because you know, the guy was able to offer her a bit of hope in finding her boyfriend. He's more cautious of Jason, but also more genuinely comforting. And finally... he's suspicious as heck of Piper, because he can feel there's something more behind her joining the quest.

But I want to focus on this scene: when Leo gets claimed by Hera as her champion. I, preferably, would imagine it takes place after she is rescued from becoming a power source for Porphyrion. Mainly because then she would have enough power to do a proper claiming and thus she can be as extra with it as possible.

I mean, imagine it. Everyone's gotten back from rescuing Hera, they're all patting themselves on the back and everyone's praising Jason, Piper, and Annabeth unwittingly ignoring Leo. Everyone's hearing about Jason fighting Porphyrion, Piper getting to free her dad from Enceladus, the surprise reveal of the search for Percy, when...

A light starts to glow above Leo's head. It's faint at first, but then it grows more vibrant and swells to cover the entire dining pavilion, swallowing him whole. Then it fades away to reveal Hera, putting a crown of laurel leaves on Leo's head, his clothing replaced with a chiton that was dyed ruby red that glimmered against the firelight from the braziers. A peacock is glowing above his head, the hundreds of eyes shining like the aurora of the north.

Leo's stunned as his mind does his best to process his new reality. Hera gives him a single, warm smile, and everyone else is staring in shock as she announces his status as her champion and gives him her divine blessing. Camp Half-Blood practically erupts in shock because this is the first time the camp has witnessed a male demigod being claimed as Hera's champion with the last guy being... the OG Jason.

I mean, the look of horror in Annabeth's eyes as she realizes one of her friends is now the champion of the goddess that she hates with a burning passion. Jason suddenly realizing that Leo was a lot more in the know of Hera's whole plot than he suspected, because why otherwise would Hera make him her champion? The members of Cabin Nine, suddenly looking at Leo with a sense of betrayal because yeah, Hera's the goddess that threw their dad off of Olympus. Leo isn't really sympathetic with them, Hephaestus had practically abandoned him for sixteen years of his life and forsaken him for eight. Piper can't exactly see him in the same light - how could she, when suddenly her friend had changed so suddenly?

All of this happens as Chiron steps forward, bowing in front of Leo and his patron before uttering these words: "Hera. Goddess of the Heavens, Protector of Men, Patron of Rulers. Hail, Leo Valdez, Champion of the Queen of Olympus."