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voltstone · 1 year ago

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ERICSON'S WALLFLOWER

or bpd as a twdg fandom essay, & violet's analysis

[Mar.26-29.2024 | 27,991]

Throughout my time spent within the TWDG fandom—since late 2019, early 2020—, Violet as not merely a love interest but a character exists as the fandom’s staunch polarization. And the funny thing?

I get it. A lot.

Much of what I’ve read into this character has been extrapolated from my own experiences, and those experiences speak to an inherent, polarizing chaos. It’s something that’s quite honestly a purgatory to try and articulate—I have tried—, and another bane to hope that people will get it. At least, enough to not just sweep my words under the rug. This essay is ultimately a trial to see if I’ve done enough work with myself, both emotionally and in writing, to be able to explain this to those none the wiser, or to the some who feel the same things, but have yet to hear it spoken with absolute clarity.

Through a fandom essay, no less. Specifically about a video game character who grows on people—Louis promises so.

Borderline Personality Disorder.

Nobody really likes to talk about it. Too many times in my life, I’ve had people sweep it under the rug because it is not a pretty thing, in times where I was pleading for help; often, in presence of the wrong crowd, it feels like a target nailed to my back.

It’s intrenched within stigma. And what’s difficult about that is…, yeah. I get why. There’s no mystery to it.

…yet there is so much people do not understand because not talking about it is so much easier, and the joke is, talk therapy is quite literally BPD’s primary treatment.

And so let’s talk about it. Allow me to pull away the confusion this disorder brings, and lay it out—as best I can—in a more digestible manner, through a deconstruction of Violet. I’ll have a little fun with it. However, if this essay reads in a more…straightforward tone compared to the couple others I’ve written now, it should. I’ve attempted to write this in a more lighthearted language before, but it didn’t really get the message across well, I would slip to this anyway, so. Yeah. I will still be conversational, just less so.

With that, however, this is another long essay. I hope you enjoy. :)

[Given the subject matter & the inclusion of my own experiences, take heed. This discussion is sensitive. W/ my experiences, I assure you I'm fine. I speak from a place where I’ve worked through my experiences.]

[Also, to stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale: I reference Louis and one of your essays about him, hence the @. But this thing's real long and about Violet, and stuff. Lol.]

[Briefly, but Exhaustively, to Clarify]

Before any discussion of BPD, then Violet’s deconstruction, a few things.

One. No, I’m not outright diagnosing Violet with BPD. She isn’t diagnosed in the game. I’ve not heard anything by Telltale or anyone associated remark BPD either. None of the schoolkids, for the matter, are diagnosed because it’s not that kind of story. The most we’re given is a narrative that explores their patterns in behavior, and then one…“diagnosis” with Willy. That being the, uh, chronic masturbation. (No, I did not think masturbation would be included in this discussion, but here we are. Thanks, you bug-eyed child.) Even then, however, that was likely a symptom of a larger issue with Willy.

Instead, I like this character. I see a lot of myself in this character, recognize the patterns she exhibits, and I’m hardly the first to associate Violet with BPD—since though she’s not diagnosed…, she is a little bit textbook. I’ve also seen a lot of the fandom misinterpret, preemptively judge, Violet for the things she does.

And I don’t mean the confusion and betrayal players feel should they save Louis over Violet. That reaction is normal. Yes, feel confused and betrayed. Because that’s the intention. What I take issue with, and part of why I’ve wanted to write this for a long while, is the…undertones beneath what is generally said. The opinions, too, that go along with it. All of which, ultimately, feed into the stigma that BPD is so intrenched within. The ignorance, and the refusal to understand both why and how.

So I do this through Violet because I adore TWDG, I’m in a TWDG mood, and, she is actually a phenomenal example to use for discussions around BPD. No, she’s not canonically diagnosed, but, it is better to explain a character by using a researched concept, just as much as it’s easier to explain said concept through a fictional example.

…and myself.

This essay will have a lot of commentary based around my experiences. A lot of this disorder’s stigmatization makes it difficult to find good information to understand what it does—specifically from the perspective of the borderline personality, not observers—, because…it’s just not the same as ADHD or depression, which have been big talking points within the recent years. I also have ADHD—runs in the family. That said, conversations in mental health has its fair share of stigma regardless, it’s just that BPD…does not help itself, largely due to the concepts I’ll be going over.

Also, I am very similar to Violet, down to how we dress, but also in personality. We’re not the same, but there’s enough where I feel like I can explain a lot of this character in relation to BPD. Because it’s a personality disorder. In similar personalities, the disorder will—more often than not—present itself the same way.

This does lead me to a third: as much as I’d like to say that this discussion will be the absolute, universal truth, the reality is no, this discussion will likely have blind-spots. It won’t be universal. For a myriad of reasons.

BPD is, again, a personality disorder. Its expression is entirely dependent on the personality, and the experiences established. So anyone who is not an indifferent/apathetic person, who is more extroverted and not the marginal recluse that I am, there will be aspects of this that won’t align. The rudimentary concepts may apply, but the expressions and emotional processings behind these concepts may not.

This also bleeds into the fact that BPD overlaps with many conditions, and traits of the disorder can be found elsewhere. Which, quite frankly, is fairly standard for most disorders, because it’s about the expression and amalgamation of the traits, not the traits themselves. So, as I discuss BPD, you’ll likely find yourself relating to certain points.

Do not take this to mean that you yourself have borderline.

Well, okay. You might. There’s nothing wrong with doing research, and to evaluate all of your resources. Keep in mind, however, there is a difference between one condition relating to another, and one BPD relating to a likewise diagnosis.

BPD overlaps with many conditions (like ADHD); it shares many traits in others.

The reasons for it includes how BPD is developed, where the development will be alongside other conditions—like, say, PTSD—, or other conditions may predispose the condition—ADHD—, or, or, both.

And then, some of this relatability is due to language. There are limitations in the words I choose, especially when this essay is intended for a wider audience. When I say, I go from 0 to 100, you may know precisely what I’m putting down, or, your 0 to 100 is my 0 to 10. And there will be that barrier in understanding because…we’re different people, with different experiences, living alongside different conditions.

Some of you reading will just never understand what it means to get whiplashed by your emotions at the drop of a dime, where you’re perfectly fine one minute, and then you feel like you’re about to have a heart attack the next because someone said something, and you don’t understand why it hurt you the way it did, but it did, and you’ve already lost your shit, but you don’t want to do anything, but you can’t trust that you won’t… All…with the guilt that it is happening again, and you should have known better, and it’s all your fault…

Yeah. It’s okay if you don’t understand what that’s like. And to be quite blunt, if you don’t, be grateful. BPD isn’t fun for anyone. There are slight blessings, but those are gravely overshadowed.

Given that I do expect a lot of people reading this won’t understand, this essay will be exhaustive. I don’t really want to cut corners, even though certain aspects of my experiences will be kept to myself, and not everything about this disorder can be related to a video game character.

I do want to give it its due. The drafts before fell into the trap of not articulating precisely what I wanted, with the transparency I needed.

…hence why it’s long, but with that, let’s start with understanding BPD at its core.

[BPD, in Experience, as an Introduction]

So. Borderline Personality Disorder.

Boiled down, it is purely the complete lack of, or, the severe impairment of emotional regulation.

That’s it.

That is literally all it is. And in understanding that, it explains (in part) how and why many of you may relate to certain aspects throughout this essay—emotions, and the (dys)regulation thereof, are integral to each and every one of us.

However, BPD is distinct, and I will comb through the how and why in this section. It is quite simplistic when boiled down, but this synopsis implicates everything about a person.

It is also. Not. Bipolar Disorder.

(Yeah, let me just kick this out of the way.)

Bipolar Disorder is about the brain chemistry, and is defined by manic and depressive swings.

Borderline Personality Disorder is a disorder of the personality. It’s systemic to the person. Could someone with BPD also have bipolar? Well, yes, which doesn’t help in the confusion, but to be the least bit informative, those instances often imply a specific BPD type (comorbid).

[Further resources will be linked at the end, for the BPD types, relationship with bipolar, and additional elements to come. For the sake of the essay, I won’t delve into this in-depth.]

This nuance—comorbid-BPD and bipolar—illustrates how complicated of a conversation BPD is. Again, it’s why this essay will be exhaustive, but also selective in what it covers.

Including, but not limited to, this kind of nuance.

To embark what a severe impairment/lack of emotional regulation means, it’s important first to establish the working definition of what emotions are—the definition, at least, which this essay utilizes.

Emotions are the reactionary senses of the body. Where sight, smell, touch, taste and hearing are the immediate feedback from the environment to the body, the emotions are the immediate responses to the stimuli, to prompt our actions thereafter.

Our relationship to our emotions is a very complicated one, because…we physically feel our emotions, which can be conflated with the feedback from our environment. Comprehension is also required to understand what, exactly, these emotions are signaling to us, because an environment isn’t just physical. Social, cultural, and psychological environments are included.

If you ever wonder what, exactly, a dog with the intelligence of a 3-year-old actually means, it’s their comprehension level of their emotions. These dogs are feeling the same emotions as a 3-year-old, and a 30-year-old. But there’s a catch: dogs don’t do the whole language acquisition thing like we do. Language acquisition being the learning process we undergo in our youth, because we are wired to speak and derive meaning through vocal, then visual, patterns.

I say this because a lot of emotions are, physically, perceived the same way, but we use language to distinguish one from another because contexts do matter. And they matter a lot.

Like, what’s the difference between lust and common excitement? They both feel similar, don’t they? But, lust is specific to a defined context.

And in this way, language absolutely contributes to the complexity of emotions.

But ultimately, emotions are just there to tell you what comforts you, and what doesn’t. It establishes what kind of environment you feel safe within, or at risk; the gradient within that establishes what you prefer, what you can tolerate. So the places you go to. The people you surround yourself with. Your interests. Activities. How you want to present yourself. Your morals, and ambitions. Identity and sense of self.

All of it is prompted by emotion, and your comprehension of that—ultimately through language—establishes how you respond.

How we actually navigate this is through regulation. Or rather, the process of self-comprehension, where an individual has to evaluate a situation, their internal reaction to such stimuli (both in thought and feelings), and the appropriate behavioral response. Dysregulation, then, is where that process is faulty.

So as we mature into adulthood, and our learned behaviors are set in stone (more or less; old dog, new trick or something), we’ve ideally learned how to comprehend these emotions, how to use language to articulate them and relay them to others, and find what is comfortable and what isn’t.

People get in the way of themselves, however.

For some fucking reason, we think we’re so fucking smart because we can talk, and we got thumbs, and we, like, stand on two feet. Or if we don’t got two fucking feet, we can build a wheely chair to sit our asses down.

And? We like to convince ourselves that we know better than our emotions, to the point where they’re disregarded. Of course, social contexts, understanding how your actions may impact others—those are all nuances which, yes, our emotions may not respect, but we do.

In regards to when people refuse to acknowledge emotions for what they are…

Piece of advice, from someone with BPD, emotions run like rivers. You do not decide what that river’s water is, how much there will be, and when it will flood. What you can decide is what canals to dig to retroactively contain that river, when to do that, and to establish how to treat the different flooding waters. You will drown if you think you can just ignore them.

Because the funny thing about water? If you fall high enough, land the wrong way, you might as well have hit stone.

In this way, emotions are devastating, and the mind and body has many mechanisms to deploy should an individual be constantly bombarded, and there is a need to prioritize our primary senses—touch, smell, sight… To prioritize a survival.

Take DID, for instance, where often it’s the mind “divorcing” itself into several identities in order to protect and shield the host from further trauma. There are many, many disorders like this where the brain deploys its failsafe, but that failsafe comes at a price.

BPD is, effectively, what happens when one of these mechanisms deploy, but the cost cripples an integral function to the human experience. It cripples the capability to dig those canals, redirect those rivers, and it can even imply a blindness to what kind of water is flooding.

…in many respects, this implies that BPD is, inherently, a disorder rooted in other conditions, just set to the absolute extreme. But when I say “absolute extreme” to someone who has never experienced emotional turmoil, the wrong impression may be impressed. Again, much of what I say may relate to your own experiences, and it’s why I have to take great care in articulating precisely what I mean because…it can be easily misinterpreted. Everybody has had moments where they are not in control of what they feel, and they do things. However, while the instances may look the same, the mechanisms, patterns and history behind them…are not.

Hence why BPD and bipolar are so often confused, because at the height of those disorders, it can very well look the same. I have had manic episodes that look identical to someone in a bipolar episode within one moment. But the differences are the mechanisms, patterns, and history. For these two disorders, it’s what’s actually going on in the brain, what stimuli we’re actually reacting to, and then timeframe. Mania in bipolar can last months; in me, I plummet into mania for minutes, or hours, or days—a week at most. And I can rocket right back out of it, back to an indifference, or into some other extreme.

And those mechanisms, and patterns, and histories are what make BPD, well, BPD.

We now get to how BPD happens. And though there is some debate, BPD is a developmental disorder. It’s created.

Through a number of factors. Genetics (like a family history), accompanying conditions (such as ADHD, autism, due to the predisposition to emotional dysregulation), past experiences of trauma, and, the environment.

And that’s the footnote version. Because this disorder, while there are strong patterns observed across diagnosed individuals, again has its nuances. Going into what causes BPD will lead you down a steep rabbit hole—in part because it’s dependent on the person, history, and environment, and in part because…, well, there is stigma, and there’s a lot of unknowns. Borderline, as a name, is not telling of what the disorder is. There’s a long misogynistic history to the disorder’s criteria, despite the fact that there’s a lot of men out there that have stunted their emotions, will fly off the handle when their egos are slightly bruised, call themselves alphas, are vehemently loyal to that alpha identity…

Hm.

That’s a discussion for another day. Point being, I cannot indulge this essay into every kind of way a person can land themselves with the disorder. It’s never ending. I have other priorities to indulge. Such as:

What kind of abuse is commonly attributed to BPD?

The answer? For such a volatile personality?

Neglect.

Funny, isn’t it? How neglect—the absence of—is what often causes BPD, of all things. Most would likely scoff, because our world has groomed the idea that the other kinds are worse, and are what creates monsters. Because it doesn’t make good tv, does it? Like the times where I was sat in time-out for…some reason or another, on a bench beside a chalkboard. Upwards to 10 hours of the day—which is a long time at three years old. That doesn’t make for interesting scenes, does it?

No. And because it doesn’t, and stories like their spectacle, media relies on the other kinds. To the point now where it’s necessary for our idled attention spans.

To be clear, this isn’t to demote abuse types outside of neglect, nor is it to insinuate that they cannot coexist within one circumstance. The fact of the matter is, different traumas with different people in different environments will lead to different conditions. There is no worth in proving to each other which trauma is worse or better, because it’s entirely dependent on the people and environment(s) involved.

What I will demote is the common, ignorant insinuation that neglect doesn’t destroy a person.

It’s why it is ironic, how BPD—an explosive thing—is often born from neglect.

How it does such a thing is…complicated. Lucky for this essay, I’ve lived it.

Within the first handful of years in my life, there were many things like sitting on that stupid bench in my room, for hours upon hours. My parents, at the time, were young themselves and fresh from college. My dad was in the military, so he had been deployed, leaving my mom alone with me, and…her BPD. I suspect postpartum made things worse.

Before you assume, it isn’t that she didn’t love me. Quite the opposite, but it was only through the divorce a few years later was she diagnosed. So, she didn’t have the resources for such a disorder at the time. Which made things worse, because part of treating BPD is being aware you have it.

The thing about these kinds of abuse is that…they come from the people you least want to admit, and for me, it had been my own mother.

And, the thing about neglect, especially mine, is that it’s hard to explain how no…, she was home. It wasn’t like she’d leave me like that. But, even so, I couldn’t tell you what the fuck she was doing when she wasn’t in the same room.

I was left to my own devices. I told myself stories with my stuffed animals to pass the time. I was often hungry too, and there are two accounts from family where, upon visiting, they saw this little toddler know how to work the baby-gate to the kitchen, and start to prepare food—sandwiches for me, and I’d pour food for the dog.

I seldom spoke, was borderline mute. Didn’t really converse until four. But I knew what people were saying before that. I did also pick-up behaviors from my dog as well; I would pant whenever I was happy, and whimper instead of cry.

By the tail-end, as I was getting into kindergarten, my brother was born, the divorce was in motion, and my dad would thankfully win full custody, and my mom, visitation.

You see, through those initial years, those mechanisms deployed.

I had to swallow down the instinct that the parent would be the one to nurture, and I had to find ways to feed myself, then my best friend and true guardian—the dog. Had to learn how to work things like a baby-gate. I also had to be vigilant of her, and know what mood she was in.

It’s these two things, working together, which utterly fractured me emotionally. The feeling of being hungry, truly hungry, is not something I wish for anyone. The realization that it’s not because you’re out of food—not until the separation began, and the weekends with my mom were marked by this hunger—, but because you don’t know how to get that food, and the bigger person is not getting the food, so you try to learn but you are still a small child… It’s even worse. It does something to you. Then, having to sacrifice your own emotional nourishment in order to keep an eye on an adult’s volatility is that final nail.

That was the first stage of my neglect. And it was bad. It was a really, really bad situation. My brother only lived with my mom for a couple years before Dad’s full custody. In that time, from when our mother was the only one to take care of us with my dad helpless in a different country, then to switching every week, he developed OCD tendencies, which are still present.

Twenty years later now, it’s been remarked that I was…kinda the best candidate to survive this out of not just my brother and I, but our cousins as well. And I agree. I’m naturally reserved, and even as a kid, I would push back against my mom. It would ignite her, but the fact that I was confrontation said enough. Meanwhile…, I do not know how the fuck my brother would be mentally if he’d been the one stuck alone with her for those three, four years. I don’t know what my dad would’ve come back to whenever he was allowed to be with his family.

And I would not trade places if given the chance. Because even if I’m a black sheep, my mechanisms allowed me to get away as well-adjusted as I could be.

But… Still. Beneath those remarks…, there is a misunderstanding. When my family says I was the best candidate, it’s because they look at me and see a person who isn’t sick. When I say I was, I mean…my brother would have been worse off.

Granted, now that I’m out of school, it’s slowly dawned on them that…yeah no. There is something wrong.

…as I aged through childhood, I didn’t quite understand what the costs of the mechanisms deployed were, but I knew there was something very, very wrong even back then. And I would tell my family. Every now and again, throughout years, I’d raise alarm because I realized I reminded myself of my mom.

Only to be told that I wasn’t my mother, and that I was overreacting. Told me that, “People like her don’t know there’s something wrong—that’s the disorder.��

Come a mere few years ago, and I am told about times where my mother, as an adult not long before having me, would break down because she didn’t want to be like my grandmother.

There was a family history. My mother knew it. However, she was also diagnosed through the divorce, because she couldn’t take care of my brother and I. Highly doubt admitting her BPD was the reason was because “she didn’t know there was something wrong.”

I was told there was nothing wrong. Meanwhile, I would do things I didn’t understand, and experience the world in a way people around me didn’t, …as it turns out.

For one, which is still true now, I cannot cook for myself, in a kitchen, when it’s dark out. I also cannot cook when someone else is nearby, or already in the kitchen itself. I will wait, because should I cook in those times, there’s a feeling. And I can’t stand it. The feeling of—

Oh. No, the feeling isn’t being watched.

It’s the feeling where someone may be lurking, and I’m about to get caught. This is likely a remnant of times when I was very, very young, and I tried to feed myself, and I…was caught. And she blew up.

There are other behaviors like that, specific to me. Because the body remembers before you yourself.

In the years after my mom, I found myself in the second phase of neglect—the one, I argue, is what actually creates BPD.

And again. For another time. It came from the people I least want to admit.

The neglect, the denial, in every alarm I raised did something to me. Another thing, though given my experiences, it also did feel similar to the first phase. My family loves me, I understand, and I get why they denied. Because they knew about what was happening to me, then my brother, but circumstances had them trapped in watching from afar. A sort of…they didn’t get to me in time.

My mom was also a nightmare for my dad. So…, to see that resemblance is not something anybody wants to admit.

But still. I was in therapy (to socialize me), but that didn’t last forever, and people kinda just shrugged and thought it was good. The therapy did its job. Without noticing what was happening.

The mechanism that deployed was still there, never to be acknowledged. So it festered. It scarred my trauma over, and now, there’s a great blemish on my mental health.

And that blemish has a name, and it’s BPD—the disorder cultivated by the neglect of an aftermath. Where trauma struck, and there was no chance given to process it effectively, and to heal.

All of the nuances I’ve discussed before remain to be true. From what I understand, however, is that the primary reason why Borderline Personality Disorder can look so differently on so, so many people, through a range of traumas is…it’s consequence. BPD has its characteristics, the ones that distinguish, because ignoring the recovery after significant trauma presents itself the same.

Now, I’ll indulge in one of these characteristics.

It wasn’t until recent, as I embarked my adulthood, where I realized the core mechanism I had inadvertently deployed, the one that came with a price:

Alexithymia.

Or, emotional blindness.

This in itself is not considered a disorder, largely because (and for the sake of this essay) it is an associated symptom, a mechanism, of many, many conditions. Depression, PTSD, eating disorders, ADHD and autism (again), schizophrenia, and I can go on, and on, and on.

BPD is included, of course.

There are many ways to be blind. Take visual blindness, where it can be an absolute void, a severe impairment, some colors recognized but not all, or, there’s too much feedback at once, and the light becomes illegible. Being devoid of emotions, or apathetic, is the standard; some people may feel a perpetual onslaught that cannot be deciphered, and others could find themselves in between.

Whatever it may be, alexithymia is characterized as the impaired awareness, explicit identification, and/or articulation of one’s feelings. So, as long as the shoe fits, and the person can’t decipher, convey/express their emotions… That shoe’s not on the wrong foot.

In my case, I fall into the standard.

When I was young, I likely stifled my own emotions in exchange for vigilance. It never left, however. If anything, it got worse the more I neglected recovery. Now, I don’t feel much, day to day. I know I experience emotion, and react to my environment, and have thoughts… Yet, the environment is almost dreamlike. It doesn’t quite register, and the people in my life feel like figments unless I’m right there with them, in the same room. I’m indifferent to most. Memories are a lot like this too—not like I don’t remember anything at all, but in the moment, I kinda just exist. I can think and plan about the future too, but it’s that I’ve realized I have to, not that I feel any kind of urgency.

Because I don’t care. At all.

Or, I do, but there’s nothing in here to tell me that. Because my body, also, is quite null. It doesn’t tell me what I feel. I couldn’t tell you in the moment, so I’ll usually resort to, “I’m fine.” And inside this head of mine? Not much. Kinda like static—the tv is on, there’s a lot of channels going, but it’s just…not there. Beyond static.

So as I write this, and write any of my works, it's less of spilling all the crazy thoughts inside my head, organizing them, and more of me spilling an open wound I don't know how to close, figured I don't really want to close it, because I kinda just like watching it spill across the page and see what I'm thinking, and what I can create.

To be quite honest, being a writer in this way does legitimately feel like I'm a blind sculptor.

If all this sounds like a depressing experience, I'm fine. Genuinely. I am. This is actually quite comfortable for me, and it's also me at my most rational. Plus, it helps that I've developed a fairly strong coping means—this writing thing—that serves to be a therapy in emotional comprehension. Another mechanism, really, that is derivative of what I did as a toddler.

I'm also a hermit. I'm content with being reclusive, and to myself.

And again, I’ve already processed all of this. I wouldn’t be writing this essay otherwise.

So how does alexithymia relate to BPD? In what way is being apathetic mean I can fly off the handle?

What does alexithymia mean for an episode?

BPD episodes vary. Depends on the person, and a trigger, and the environment.

In the traditional a switch is flipped, and the person just loses it, it’s via said trigger. A legitimate trigger, not whatever TikTok is blabbering. Trigger as in to a gun, and it just takes one pull, and you’ve been set off.

When this happens—BPD or not—, it effectively shuts down the reasoning part of the individual’s brain, and sends them straight into fight-or-flight. They are in a very primal state, and will react on emotion alone.

In BPD, our brains are wired to do that in (potentially) a very, very short period of time. Can be literally a blink and you miss it. There’s a look in the eye. If you know, you know. It happens enough times to establish a history of this within the person. Forces people to walk on egg shells to avoid this. Because it’s scary. It can get scary.

Here’s the thing:

It’s scary for us too.

Not too long ago, a lot of changes happened in my life, and on my birthday, I was driving, and I wanted, so badly, to just swerve off the road and down into the woodland—the ditches would’ve been steep enough. Woke up that day wanting to. Didn’t understand why, but I also wasn’t asking because that reasoning part of my brain was switched off. That day, the episode wasn’t explosive, but had I brushed upon a trigger, or someone accidentally said/did something, it would likely have been the case.

I was in an agitated state—straying down the line between stability, and not, where at first glance I’m fine, but…the more you look, there’s something quite wrong.

I was also craving McDonald’s. So I went. I sat myself down on my own, and ate my food.

And suddenly… Literally nothing was wrong. Well, no. I was still mildly stressed from moving from college, but, nothing was wrong that day. I was just hungry, not suicidal. Yet…it felt like I was. Had me believe it for a hot minute.

Had I not had the burger, fries, and McFlurry… I don’t know. Had I had access to something swifter than a car. I really don’t know.

This is what the disorder does. This is why it’s scary for the people around, and terrifying for us.

And in those like me, where everything is null, until it isn’t, it’s terrifying in a specific way. Goes from 0 to 100. Can get to the point where I have pain shooting down my arms, like I’m about to have a heart attack, because everything comes down upon me at once. Or, in episodes like the one I just mentioned, it creeps up on you—that agitated state. To the point where I don’t realize I’m in it, just that I’m suddenly hyperaware of everything, and there is something wrong, but I am not asking why because I can’t. So I just do. Quite blindly. And eat because driving off a road is too much effort.

So it gets scary. In those like me, where emotions just aren’t registering, I can’t tell you what I’m feeling until after the fact, or after considerable thought. Which is also fucking difficult because I don’t rightly know what I’m thinking. But given the situation, that could be too fucking late. And if the situation has me alone, to myself?

With BPD, there are triggers we know to avoid because they are related to traumas. There are things that wouldn’t normally trigger, but somehow did because they were the straw that broke the camel’s back, and we didn’t even know we had a fucking camel. And then. Sometimes. We don’t even know what the fuck the trigger was, and will never know.

The last is very common when we’re unaware of our BPD, but…it also just happens sometimes as well. The world’s big. The shit life yeets is limitless. I dunno.

There’s also a humiliation to an episode. I don't know what's going on. I can't reason like I should, and I don't want you to look at me. I want you gone, especially if I have deemed you the trigger. I want to be left alone. Things will escalate, and escalate, and escalate until that is achieved.

And, there’s a guilt as well. Especially when you know you have BPD, because by then, you should know better, but apparently, you don’t.

This all sounds quite helpless, I realize. However, there’s a reason why talk therapy is the central form of treatment for BPD. Knowing how to communicate does wonders. For those with borderline, learning how to comprehend and articulate emotions, and knowing what triggers to avoid, is a long, arduous process, but it helps. In regulating emotions as best we can, and in explaining to people beforehand what to do—or after the fact, where it’s to explain it wasn’t their fault.

And for those without BPD? Being able to recognize the warning signs on a person is detrimental. Because, believe it or not, there are warning signs. Sometimes they could be the split-second before, however, if there is someone in an agitated state, knowing what that looks like means you know how to avoid an episode, and it gives room to be able to console the person beforehand.

As said. There’s a look in the eyes. I know, because that’s what I spent my first few years of life figuring out.

The arduous process also unveils the…ambiguous sides to BPD. The stuff that people don’t really talk as much, whenever BPD is brought to the table at all.

For this essay, I will spare a glance at identity. No, identity doesn’t have much to do with Violet. However, acknowledging this ambiguous side to BPD establishes just how far this disorder goes, and it tends to crop up when least expected. (It will do so in this essay.)

A disorder of emotional regulation implicates everything, and sense of self is guided by emotion.

So what happens to one’s identity if there’s no guide to that sense of self?

It’s bleak. Or there’s a turbulence. Either way, it’s hard to decipher what exactly you want out of life, and for yourself, because there’s just no good way to tell what makes you comfortable, and what doesn’t. But you still strive to find stability. So you mirror those around you. To blend in and be accepted. By chance, it can extend beyond humans; me mimicking my dog—panting when I’m happy, whimpering when I’m sad—, it was probably so that my dog would console me when my mom wasn’t around. Because my dog (a lovely boxer) was very attuned to me.

The conversation with identity is…just another complicated thing. And this one is harder to articulate, in part because it’s not really discussed by people who don’t have the disorder. As opposed to the mood swings.

All that to say, when it comes to this analysis, the truth is, there’s not a feasible way to explore the nuances such as Violet’s relationship with identity, or alexithymia, because they aren’t spoken aloud to give us enough insight, and by proxy, these aspects of BPD are not what Violet represents. But acknowledging such nuances provides a better understanding in what this disorder means.

Regardless, Violet is a representation BPD in relationships, and the dysfunction of those bonds. How it’s exacerbated within an apocalypse, and then the self-treatment of.

Or, or, Violet has…a tendency to be a wallflower. More or less.

[Ericson's Resident Wallflower]

The Final Season (TFS) is particular when it comes to Violet. It will be evident throughout this essay, the care that the game and the team behind it devoted for her. From the dialogue to her actions, Telltale did well in illustrating this character. I will argue, however, that the quiet intensity in nuance laid throughout is what evoked the need to write this essay.

Because Violet represents something quite thoughtful in regards to mental health—the reality of what a disorder is, and what it can do.

So TFS is particular, and it begins with her introduction, where there’s this need to recontextualize her. Not once, but twice.

Clementine is first introduced to her silently. She follows Marlon out into the courtyard, and Tenn whistles at the wall.

Because on the school’s wall is a girl, and she rises from her lounging at its height. There’s a glance shared between Clementine and Violet, before Clementine speaks more with Marlon. After that, another glance, where Violet turns away—not before the player can spy a bit of intrigue in her face.

Clementine reunites with A.J, meets Louis, before a recontextualization, where Violet (she does talk) snarks about the crashed car, and the walkers that the accident brought to their door.

And it takes Louis to pry a proper greeting from her:

“Ahem. ‘Hello, Clementine. I’m Violet. Nice to meet you.’” “What he said.” [. . .] “Don’t mind Violet. She, uh…, grows on you. I promise.” [Ep.1 | Done Running | School Gate]

Good job, Violet. Way to be sociable.

Sarcasm aside, yeah, it’s a little rough. Violet is overall dismissive of Clementine, save for the comments. To the point where she has Louis introduce her ass.

Now Louis…is a quiet presence throughout this essay, though he is all the more integral to her character. There will be fewer words compared to other relationships, but those words signify a unique dichotomy between him and Violet, one that the other schoolkids—Minnie and Brody included—do not have with her.

And it starts immediately. That dichotomy. Louis is the one who tells Clementine Violet’s name. He is the one who formally introduces the two. Because he knows how Violet is. Ensures to lingers so that he tell Clementine—promise her—how Violet is worth sticking around for.

It’s just that the girl is troubled. So.

Thereafter, his banter is teasing, and Violet is still sardonic. But, she ultimately does play along. In her own way. When in the woods, and the schoolkids are focused on clearing walkers to have Aasim, Brody and Mitch make a safe return, Louis strikes the conversation, Violet scoffs, but can relent depending on the player’s dialogue choice(s). It is important to note that Violet scoffing doesn’t necessarily equate to her being mean; it’s clear through the card game later that…this is her way of banter, with Louis especially. She takes jabs at him. He retorts. Does the same. It’s on equal footing.

The next true recontextualization presents a taste of what Louis means. After clearing the walkers, and A.J socks Marlon, Clementine is left to acquaint herself with the other schoolkids. Mitch and Willy, Omar and Louis, Aasim, Ruby (where A.J apologizes for biting), and Tenn, right alongside Violet.

And those two are tending to the school’s makeshift cemetery. It brief, but Violet explains they lost the twins, and for the hour, they’re paying their respects.

From the wall, then the gate, then here, at their burial ground, it’s as though TFS wanted to scatter Violet’s introduction across her nuances. First it’s a silent couple glances, with her overlooking the courtyard at a perch, then it’s her being a little prick at the gate, a lightheartedness when mowing down walkers, and then it’s…this, a staunch vulnerability to and for her people. In context to the graves, her people being the twins.

All the moments that night thereafter feed into this. The card game goes back to an apathetic, yet also teasing, demeanor. Her shared conversation with Clementine, as A.J becomes an artist draws, it’s again a vulnerability, this time rattled by the fact that the dorm was once the twins’.

Throughout this first episode, Violet’s standing with the rest is shown to be quite reflective of this almost inconsistent preamble.

Marlon is the most succinct when he remarks, in the rain, after Clementine chooses to ask for Violet’s support:

“Violet being difficult. Why am I not surprised?” [Ep.1 | Done Running | Courtyard]

It’s such a blunt statement, intended to dig at her.

Though, there is truth to it. Violet’s introduction overall says as much. She admits it herself when in the dorm, and she finds that Clementine is housed where the twins were.

“Honestly, I just miss having someone around to talk to. [. . .] And I’m not, exactly, like…a people person. You know? I know I sometimes have a habit… Have a habit of being a little bit too harsh.” [Ep.1 | Done Running | Dorm]

Violet is not sociable, so naturally, she struggles to find someone to talk to. But, she is also sardonic—that much we got from the gate, even if it was followed by Louis’ banter which she reciprocates.

But ultimately, it’s Brody who gives the best context to Violet, and really voices what Louis is getting at.

When Clementine goes fishing, Brody begins a conversation, and within that, she can reveal based off the prompts:

[She’s…intense.] “She’s always been a little bit like that. But after the twins died, she really closed up.” [It wasn’t your fault.] “Still, I was the one that had to break the news to her. And ever since I did, she’s become distant.” [Ep.1 | Done Running | Fishing Cabin]

There’s two key things here, starting with the unsociability that Violet’s demeanor and Marlon’s slight reference.

Then, the revelation that Violet has closed herself off. She’s become distant within the past year.

…it implies that the Violet first introduced to us is not truly Violet, in a sense. It presents to the player thatmuch of her arc with Clementine will be about uncovering her, and really bringing Violet from this depressive spiral. Romantically or platonically so. And these lines are intended to both explain the character, and to incite enough intrigue for the player to follow Violet down her route.

But it’s rather unfortunate that so much of this character is hidden away from the start, because there's the chance that people glance over her, take this initial Violet as Violet, and decide to spend more time with Louis and follow down his route. Because, for the sake of this essay, it's damn near impossible to really appreciate this character when you don't go with her route.

Same can be said for Louis, of course. But, respectfully...

It ain't about him. So. Moving on.

Playing leader.

When Marlon is shot, Violet immediately jumps into action to protect Clementine and A.J from getting jumped by the rest, and she assumes the leadership role. Regardless of player choice. There is an curious point with her being a leader, though that will be set aside to explore later.

Instead, I’ll side-step, and bring about a piece of conversation upon Clementine and A.J’s return. In this, we gather a very telling side of Violet, one that speaks volumes to her character.

[Clementine] “You’re sitting in Marlon’s chair, aren’t you? You’re their leader now. They’ll listen to you.” [Violet] “They don’t, though. They only listen when they want to.” [Ep.2 | Suffer the Children | Office]

Again, we’re side-stepping from the playing leader thing. Violet says that they don’t listen to her—says it like it wasn’t a really a surprise, just a point of frustration. Because, of course, Violet’s difficult. The last leader said so. But also, none of them have stepped up to fill that role. They take issue with her, but none of the schoolkids have really challenged her to take the mantel for themselves.

The silent nuance here is…why is it that she’s the leader? Violet made it seem like she really didn’t want to be at the boarding school—what with the contention between most, then the fact that she’s still in mourning. Tenn appeared like he was the only one keeping her there, but by stepping up in this way, not necessarily.

His presence and her need to protect him is a huge factor. Absolutely. Just not the only one.

We return again to Louis, the one schoolkid with the shared dichotomy. He is the other love interest. Him and Violet are often on opposite sides—especially in regards to everything Marlon.

And yet…, the way they speak about each other when one is taken away says everything about such a dichotomy.

To start, we’ll look at Louis:

“I know I’m always teasing her. Trying to get her to do that one eye roll she does—you know the one. Where it’s like, ‘you’re such a dumbass,’ she has to do a full-body eye roll. I do it because, when I actually do manage to make her laugh, it’s worth it. If I needed her, she’d be there. Meat cleaver in hand, ready to chop someone in half if it meant protecting me.” [Ep.3 | Broken Toys | Dorm]

He brings context as to why their banter is so dogged to tease. Louis does it because it’s reciprocated once he gets under his skin, and she retorts back with the signature full-body eye roll, but also, because he’s striving to reach another side of her, one where she laughs.

Because Louis is a big entertainer. He craves to draw that out from people, so when he has someone like Violet where it’s not easy to do that, it means that much more when she does, because it tells Louis how despite everything, she is there, listening.

Then there’s Violet, and her words for him:

“You know, when I first got here, I hated him. He was so…much. You know? He walks into a room, and it’s like, ‘Look at me! Watch me perform!’ It’s so stupid. But then I realized, under all that, he… He really cares about people, and he doesn’t just feel it, he says it. He’ll tell you every goddamn day how much you mean to him. Shit, he’ll probably sing about it. [. . .] We’ve got to get him back.” [Ep.3 | Broken Toys | Dorm]

She nods to Louis being this big entertainer. Says that she hated it, and that it’s stupid. And yet, Violet thinks fondly of how genuine of a guy he is.

And between these two quotes, there’s a mastery in storytelling, because there’s an active dialogue between Louis and Violet. Doesn’t matter if one is on the boat, and they’re not. Their words parallel. Had they been in the room together, this would’ve been a back-and-forth.

Louis says that he teases her. Tries to get underneath her skin. Violet says that hated it, and hated him, for his antics. Yet, she then admits that…there’s a genuine nature there, because Louis does care, and he will say and sing it so. That genuine nature is the fact that he just really wants Violet to laugh, and to find that side of her.

Because Violet’s his friend. He values Violet as his protector, because Louis knows that she will be there whenever he desperately needed her.

And Louis is Violet’s friend. Which is why, without a word from Clementine, she states, firmly, that they need to get Louis back. Because in that hour, he was in peril, and he desperately needed Violet’s cleaver at hand.

It’s a tragedy, really, for both. When the other is taken, the one thing that each praise of the other is what’s stolen. For Louis, his knight is blinded; he has to be the one to protect her. For Violet, a comfort goes mute; she can sing in his place.

After spending a few moments with Clementine in the dorm, there’s Ruby’s hootenanny, and through that hootenanny, Violet can tell Clementine what brought her to Ericson’s:

“I spent a lot of time at my grandma’s house growing up, what with my dad being a drunk and my mom working three jobs. But after my grandpa died, Grandma just kinda…shut down. Spent all day and night rocking in her little chair in the den. I’d sit there at her feet as we both watched tv, mostly cartoons, since she never seemed to care. Sometimes I could hear her crying, but I didn’t look back. I’d just feel really weird and turn up the volume, you know? “Anyway, one day she left the den and came back with another chair, and a .22 rifle. Set the rifle butt on top of that chair, holding the barrel back to her chest. So, you know…, she had trouble reaching the trigger this way, but she must have known it would happen… Because she took out this really tacky wooden backscratcher—the real long kind with the one end shaped like a hand—and used that to push the trigger in. So…yeah. Bang, right? Her body folded up and just…kept rocking. “My mom came to get me five hours later. I hadn’t moved. She asked why I didn’t call the police or an ambulance or anything. I just shrugged and told her it wasn’t like Grandma was going anywhere…, and besides, I just wanted to finish my cartoons. She shipped me off to Ericson the next day. I was eleven.” [Ep.3 | Broken Toys | Piano Room]

Through all of what Violet tells Clementine, there is still that flare to make the story more interesting for, you know, a video game. It’s a violent kind of neglect she shares.

But it is neglect all the same.

Violet was born to an alcoholic and a mom who stretched herself thin to compensate, yet even so, she later can admit that their home was a trailer—so the income of three jobs, all her time spent away from her mom, wasn’t enough. Perhaps there were financial troubles. The money might’ve been all drained away by cans of beer, or bottles. Violet did have an escape through her grandparents, though that didn’t last, and she was trapped to the same neglect. This time, with a better house. Probably.

Until her grandmother went and shot herself.

…with Violet in the room. Right behind the child.

And? There was no consolation; she was sent straight to Ericson’s, where the apocalypse then struck, the adults left, and Violet…was the difficult one, designated as this wallflower, or buzzkill. There were the twins, Minnie especially. Yet, even then… That relationship likely wasn’t reciprocated.

The flare that TFS adds to why Violet found her place in troubled youth—the violence, which could’ve dashed the screen she watched for those five hours—, it hides much of what went wrong with her, but simultaneously, it defines the gravity of her childhood.

It describes a mechanism of hers. One undoubtedly developed from her times alone with a drunk, whenever her grandparents and mother weren’t there. A sense of apathy, and with it, a broken moral compass. To not mind yourself, and not get in the way. To let it happen, and just get it over with, in whatever way that could imply.

And, with the sheer gravity, it begs the question…, how far did that neglect go? All of the abuse, if it wasn’t the only kind. Children aren’t born to sit in one place for hours, with fresh gore rocking in a chair behind.

The question wasn’t answered, of course. She was sent away instead. Then there were the adults. And then, other schoolkids. Violet isn’t…a people person, you know, so it’s only natural for her to be the difficult one as Marlon says.

Still, however, with Clementine as they watch the stars together, Violet denotes for the bird constellation,

“A bird is free. It could go anywhere it wanted to. Up and up and up, and never come back. Go south, east, west, doesn’t matter. You could fly straight into a sunset. And see where it ends.” [Ep.2 | Suffer the Children | Belltower]

And to that,

[Clementine] “You wish it was you, don’t you?” [Violet] “Sometimes, when it all feels so heavy down here, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to be weightless.” [Ep.2 | Suffer the Children | Belltower]

Violet has struggled to belong, and yet, she remains. Yes, there’s the apocalypse. However, in all the years at the school, she could have left just as well. There’s a version of her, lost in development, where Violet does leave had she not been saved.

So why didn’t she?

The answer to that, quite simply, is one Louis may admit to Clementine, should that version keep his tongue, and the silent nuance behind her playing leader:

Violet is too loyal to her people to leave.

It’s why Louis teases her, to try and find that laugh, and why he knows that if he needs her, she will be there to protect him. Violently, with a meat cleaver.

It’s why she takes charge, because Violet knows none of the others wanted to, but they needed someone to lead. Whether or not they appreciated that it was her.

And, it’s why she acts without thought to stand her ground against Marlon. If she’s asked, the camera doesn’t leave her because it is no surprise that she will stand beside Clementine, as opposed to Louis, where he decides with uncertainty, and the camera has him shuffle to frame; for Violet, the change in her face is immediate. The camera doesn’t have the time to idle in tension. What Louis says is dead-on:

“If I needed her, she’d be there. Meat cleaver in hand, ready to chop someone in half if it meant protecting me.” [Ep.3 | Broken Toys | Dorm]

Even if she isn’t asked, Violet will then stand her ground once Marlon is shot. She vouches for the outsiders, in the name of reason, and for the twins and Brody.

She doesn’t think when Clementine is in danger—didn’t matter that her and A.J are just exiled. Violet will do as told, trust Clementine—to shoot, or to run.

Takes the helm after Marlon. Backs Clementine every step of the way.

Cannot let Minnie go until she has to, and Violet has seen that the person she clung after is gone.

Violet is too loyal to her people to leave, for her loyalty unbridled.

It’s her strongest quality. It is, also, what marks Violet with borderline.

[Emotional Anchorage]

We slip back to describe BPD at large, beyond this essay and character. However, everything of this section has its place with Violet.

And it begins with emotional anchorage.

Emotional anchors are not inherent to BPD. It’s not unique to the disorder because, instead, I’d argue it is a universal experience. These anchors are anything which triggers an emotional response. These can be specific objects—like an old stuffed bear, a photograph, a house—, or stimuli—like a scent, a song. Tangible things like these are indicative of our nature. Humans like things. We like to collect, and tinker, and destroy. It helps if it’s shiny. It really helps when there’s fire or light involved.

Here's another thing about anchors:

They can be people.

They commonly are. It’s how we distinguish strangers from significant relationships—friends, family, partners. Anchorage is present despite the nuances between friends (just a friend vs BFF), and family (siblings vs parents vs offspring). And, partners—emotional anchorage explains how queerplatonic relationships come to be, because the fundamental element of a partner (being an emotional anchor) is present, it’s just the romantic and/or sexual implications are ambiguous.

Emotional anchoring is the process in establishing the anchor, leaving anchorage as this essay’s way to articulate the concept itself.

Borderline Personality Disorder will naturally encourage these attachments.

Within the community, BPD has a term: favorite person (or FP). It is as it reads. There is a designated favorite for us, and this favorite person can be a friend, a family member, or a partner—anybody, really. With FP, we begin to fall down the well in emotional anchoring as it pertains to the disorder.

Because, ultimately, a FP is either the strongest, or the only, emotional anchor an individual with BPD has. (For the sake of this essay, I will replace FP with primary/prime emotional anchor going forth, to be more consistent in word choice.) And the anchoring of this person is generally not intended. It just happens, where there’s a strike of intrigue, and everything follows thereafter.

The moment I anchor a person, it is a stark change from the indifference/apathy I display to I want to spend all my time with you, and I will literally die for you without a second thought. I will remember everything you value better than I remember my own, and I will present those nice things to you, at every opportunity. Tell me your favorite color once, and I will remember it for decades to come. Tell me to break my nose, and I may very well do it on the spot.

Which. Yes. Is intense.

Understanding the disorder behind it, however, allows me to take the precautions to…warn people beforehand. And to tell them upfront, if ever I am encroaching on boundaries, just say knock it the fuck off, Volt. In exchange…, I don’t take it personally. Because, uh, yeah. I can get intense. I understand. I may feel a type of way in the moment where boundaries are made, but that’s the BPD talking in my ear.

But also, I know I value someone being upfront with me more than a passive rejection. Frustration is what sets me off—the not knowing why—, not the rejection in itself. Because if I don’t know why, that’s how I interpret things as abandonment.

I have been rejected many times in life by people I’ve deemed emotional anchors. And it stung. A lot. Far beyond what I could ever articulate, but if I had to try, they are wounds carved to the bone, or with one, where my heart was quite utterly eviscerated.

There’s a deeper conversation there, with an anchor changing before my eyes. And, yes, it’s ultimately this which the essay will discuss in great detail. Through Violet.

Yet, before that, emotional anchorage is one of the few things that borderline has the chance to gift a person, because it’s not all bad. If you’re like me—where everything is null, and blurry, and static—, having a person suddenly there to awaken my body to speak, sharpen the world, and bring chaos inside my head… It’s a lot. It’s demonstrably a devastating thing, but in a very raw and beautiful way.

Demiromanticism, no doubt, is a reflection of how I express BPD. So to realize my demi ass has feelings, whenever it happens, is nice. …it also means I then have to determine whether it’s that, or a crush. And there is a difference between genuine feelings and a crush, and yeah, I prefer one over the other.

But. (And this can be platonic or romantic.) Having someone be that anchor grounds me, and while the relationship will have turbulence—because the boat I sail is on a river I can’t build canals for—, there brings such a confusing clarity to the world. I have a purpose where I didn’t think I did before.

It’s a high. A borderline addiction.

To not a thing, not a habit, but a person.

When it’s healthy, it’s everything, and I can brave all storms. When it’s not, it’s obsession and mania, it’s my boat trapped in a whirlpool with the anchor at the center of it all; I may break away, violently, or I will sink, and it will be the death of me.

…and when there’s no anchor there at all, I and my boat are to the whim of the river—because there are no canals, I have to rely on my boat to guide me and find an anchor. This can be where people turn to destructive behaviors. Substance abuse. Eating disorders. Everything alike.

Why though?

Why is it this way? Why do people like me sink their teeth and set anchorage like this?

This is where identity creeps its way back.

Because though anybody can develop emotional attachments, to the point of anchorage, BPD again does this to an absolute extreme. My personal anecdote may speak to it without debate. Understanding how identity gets itself involved further speaks to that extreme. BPD isn’t necessarily about the traits themselves, right? So rather, it’s how they manifest, and fester, and the mechanisms behind it all.

With identity, it hinges on what you find comfortable, and what you don’t. It’s guided by your feelings on things, and your comprehensive response thereafter. Passions turn into aspirations. Self-perception feeds into expression. And on and on.

So, if someone does not have a stable sense of self, there is a disturbance in identity. There’s no coherence to the person. Few consistencies, if any at all.

The identity is as stable as your regulation of emotions allow, and if it’s dysregulated, so will your identity.

A broken sense of self fractures a person. So we scour for stability. We do so in people. But with that broken sense, it’s easier to just swap out characteristics and emulate the environment, should there be a promise of stability. When this happens, it can be recognized as masking—because, debatably, it is—, but it can also go so far that people confuse this borderline trait with something like DID.

To those none the wiser, yeah, it might as well be DID. Because, like…, they just change so quickly. And if it’s a matter of mirroring different people, it can also imply that the BPD encourages the person to alter their personality depending on who they’re with at the time. Which. Yes. Has the capacity to resemble switching between split personalities from an observer’s perspective.

However. I have outlined (in quite the broad stroke) what DID is: a split in identities, in order to protect and shield the individual from further trauma. It’s dissociative in nature, where the distinct, established personalities will operate the individual at different times—given the nuances which come with DID.

BPD does come with dissociation as well—my personal experience with how I live day to day is indicative of, for simplicity, derealization and depersonalization. However, it’s not a split. What’s happening is this one identity does not have a stable, set personality. With the incapability to regulate emotions, it indicates a level of alexithymia. So how are we supposed to understand what we want, and don’t want, in everything from interests to moral standing? Things that a personality is grown from?

This copycat behavior is in itself a mechanism that BPD deploys. It’s kinda masking, not to purely to hide from and integrate into social norms, but also to find a sense of self through a very, very desperate act of scavenging.

In BPD, the best candidates to copy are the people who make us feel good—get a high from—, and that we want to be around, and whom we fixate upon—to a manic point:

Those emotional anchors.

As we go back to Violet, keep this in mind. Again, no, there’s no feasible way to remark for certain what her relationship with identity is like, so the implications that emotional anchoring has on identity can’t really be applied. But the intensity—the level of fixation—can.

Because Violet struggles in her bonds with other people. There’s an idealization present to those bonds, and a devaluation. Both this good and bad, the highs and lows, are via anchorages.

So we’ll start with Minnie.

[Emotional Anchorage: An Obsessive Good Memory]

“Sophie was a good friend. And Minnie… Uh… We were close, me and her.” [Ep.1 | Done Running | Dorm]

When we meet Violet, amongst her introductions, Clementine learns about the twins from the two who still tend to their graves—Violet, and Tennessee. Not long after, there’s a card game, and not long after that, Violet finds Clementine and A.J in their dorm.

The one which was home to the twins.

“Huh. I see you’re, um…, settling in.” “Yeah. Is that okay?” “Sure. I guess. I always liked this room. Sophie had, like, paintings and shit on the walls. Lots of color. And Minerva…, she was really musical. [. . .] She had the most amazing voice. Real bluesy. [. . .] That was a long time ago. After they… Afterwards, Brody and Tenn took down all the paintings. And that was the end of it. I shouldn’t have even brought it up. It’s not a good memory. Guess I just lost my train of thought.” [Ep.1 | Done Running | Dorm]

The way she speaks of Minnie, there’s an adoration, and a nostalgia made bitter by the perceived tragedy.

Of course, those twins (…okay, well—) aren’t dead, they were traded. So even though Violet has yet to see Minnie, she is now a presence to her mind that isn’t nearly as bitter. She focuses on getting the school prepared for a fight, alongside Clementine, but through it all, yeah, Minnie is still there.

And when looking at the stars with Clementine, if Clementine remains quiet for the fish constellation, Violet comments,

“Bright, pretty, good with other people. Always moving, tons of energy. Sounds like anyone we know? The energy one is easy. Good with people, not so much. [. . .] Y’know, it… Well, maybe this is weird to bring up, but it reminds me of Minnie.” [Ep.2 | Suffer the Children | Belltower]

Minnie is a big part of her, despite their time and distance from each other. They grew up together. They got closer.

Another thing:

Violet never says girlfriend.

The only time where it’s “proclaimed” by the season that Minnie and Violet were girlfriends is through Clementine, where whenever A.J sees the carving in the fishing cabin’s wall, she can say,

“It means they were a couple. [. . .] Violet was Minnie’s girlfriend.” [Ep.1 | Done Running | Fishing Cabin]

Is it fair to assume that? Yeah. That’s…what carving a heart or potato with initials is supposed to symbolize.

But like.

Let’s be for real. What the ✨fuck✨ does Clementine know? Sure, she’s somehow not concussed after hauling ass in the sky, with a car. But she doesn’t know these people. Point blank.

We don’t know when this heart was carved. Just that it’s V + M (suggesting Violet did it, given the order), it’s out of the way from the school and in the fishing cabin, and it’s just shy from a bed (and alcohol).

Again, Violet herself never says girlfriend.

The heart could’ve been carved with Minnie there with her. Or, Violet was deep in mourning, and decided to brand the cabin—likely because it holds a significant memory.

…and Imma be honest, the cabin has a bed, and it is covered in bottles. Everywhere on the table. Some scattered around. So I will give the benefit of the doubt. Considering the…subtext around the fishing cabin, doing some quick math with my gamer instincts, yeah, if you leave youth (troubled or otherwise) alone, you might get Lord of the Flies, or…exploration. I guess.

It is clear that there was something. There is validity to “[w]e were close, me and her.”

The question then becomes why the ambiguity? Had TFS been made in a different time, and James didn’t have a boyfriend, and Violet and Clementine couldn’t be a couple, yes, it would’ve been Telltale beating around the bush.

Except even in this moment, Clementine outright says girlfriend in reference to a sapphic dynamic.

Because TFS was not made in a different time, James did have a boyfriend, and Violet and Clementine can kiss and hold hands.

The ambiguity indicates something else. That ambiguity is heightened the more Violet talks about Minnie pre-Broken Toys (saved Violet route). Because she speaks so fondly of her, with almost this conviction.

Yet…she still does not say girlfriend.

This is textbook. Given the essay, and what I’ve already exhausted over, it shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it is quite plain:

What Clementine stumbles upon isn’t a mourning over a lover; it’s instead, at its core, a lasting idealization.

With BPD, idealization is as follows:

“[A] way of coping with anxiety in which an object or person of ambivalence is viewed as perfect, or as having exaggerated positive qualities.” [Verywell Mind | Idealization and Devaluation in BPD]

This tracks.

Violet speaks so fondly of Minerva, with almost this conviction, yet she does not say girlfriend. Ever. Because the conviction is the intimacy, but Violet is a pragmatic individual. Though there’s idealization present, referring to Minnie as her girlfriend (for whatever reason) is too far for even her mental state.

Like she mourned Minnie for a year. She gushed about her to Clementine every chance she got. So…why not say it?

With this all established, TFS then allows us to witness how idealization in borderline often corrodes into devaluation—the inverse of idealization, its absolute antithesis.

“Used when a person characterizes themselves, an object, or another person as completely flawed, worthless, or as having exaggerated negative qualities [. . .] because there is often no middle ground for a person with BPD. Feeling challenged, threatened, or disappointed can quickly cause them to devalue the people they formally idealized. Rather than cope with the stress of ambivalence, devaluing functions to minimize the anxiety caused by ambiguity.” [Verywell Mind | Idealization and Devaluation in BPD]

This corrosion has a name. It is splitting.

Like with the previous definitions, I will allow my resource to explain this concept, because of everything this essay has to offer, it is this that the everything hinges on.

“Splitting involves an inability to hold two opposing thoughts, beliefs, or feelings. People who have BPD tend to view others in all-or-nothing [. . .] terms. “This self-protective defense mechanism aims to help people with BPD protect themselves from getting hurt in relationships. By labeling people as ‘good,’ they are able to engage in relationships despite the emotional risks. If they feel threatened, they can then quickly discard the individual or the relationship by labeling them as ‘bad.’ “Like most defense mechanisms, someone with BPD may not be aware that they are engaging devaluation and idealization. Splitting is a subconscious way to protect themselves from perceived stress[, and] reflects the challenges associated with maintain an integrated view of the good and bad in a person under stress. Some researchers suggest that some of the difficulty is rooted in the way the brain, particularly the amygdala and prefrontal lobe, activates in these experiences for people with BPD.” [Verywell Mind | Idealization and Devaluation in BPD]

…again, this essay has to break away from Violet and TFS to provide an insight, a discussion, of what this means for BPD.

I will start by clarifying that splitting from one end to the other is a bitch to deal with. The catch is not every person with BPD is incapable of reading the world beyond black-and-white. I’m one who can, …when I’m not in the midst of an episode. Day to day, I’m apathetic/indifferent—take your pick—, and because of that, I don’t give enough of a shit to really fixate on what is “good” and what is “bad” to me. I take everything as they go.

Because I really, really do not give a flying fuck.

The moment there is any seed of emotional attachment, or anchorage, it changes things. For me, it’s generally that I really adore this person, but they did something that hurt, and it confused me, so I shut down and close myself off. Namely so that I can have the time and space to breathe and process. Because I feel a lot for these people. I’ve gone over how intense that feeling is. And the last thing I want to do is hurt them.

So the moment I get confused, it boils into frustration, but frustration means ire with me. And that’s terrifying, because I don’t know what I can and will do if I’m backed into a corner. Because I know my brain shuts itself off.

The other thing to this as well is…it’s not always such a violent shift between idealization and devaluation. It really depends on how confused I am, the person, and then the time and distance laid between me and them. If there’s minimal distance between me and them, and minimal time between then and now, then yes, it will be explosive. If, say, a year has passed, and I have not seen this person within that time, then the splitting will look very different—largely because I don’t perceive it as an immediate danger, so my brain never shuts off, and I can process in the moment with reason. There’s still significant emotions there, of course, and given it’s still splitting, I do have that shift between the extremes. Difference is,I am able to regulate myself better.

Take note of this nuance, because it is absolutely present in Violet.

And we resume her relationship with Minnie, where we witness the corrosion from idealization, inching towards its antithesis. The process is best explored if Violet is saved, where it doesn’t taken an age, nor a day. It takes mere morning hours.

When spying upon the boat to get their bearings, and formulate a plan, they find Minnie chopping wood. Or, Clementine does, pulls a knife on her, before Violet intervenes. They embrace. Clementine has opinions off to the side.

Then.

They talk. And Minnie… Um. Well. If Delta was inspired by the New Frontier, Minnie would’ve had a fat branding right on her forehead.

Immediately, it becomes evident that Minerva has no interest in going back to the school. Her loyalty lies with the Delta. And given the prompt, she will have this to say:

[Violet’s in charge.] “Really? The Violet I knew could barely stand to talk to people, let alone play class president. You’re the one who convinced the school to fight back. From where I’m standing, that puts you in charge. Your ‘leadership’ is going to get my little brother killed.” [Ep.3 | Broken Toys | Forest]

Huh.

Not only does what she say about Violet directly contradict what Clementine sees from her, Minnie is also blatant in steamrolling right through the testament, and tells Clementine that no, you’re the leader, and you’re bad at it because you are a threat to my brother.

It’s a little jarring. Because, one, ouch. That’s mean. Mitch died because he ran into a knife, and it was not Clementine’s.

But two, what?! Violet, whose first line to Clementine is snark about her driving, could barely stand to talk to people? Violet. Who stood up to Marlon, cleaver at hand? The one who Louis says (given the other route) will do just that to any threat?

Our Violet, who Clementine gets to know. The one who immediately took the role after Marlon because nobody else did? Despite the fact that, yes, she realizes there’s no promise that the schoolkids will actually listen?

Violet…is openly sardonic, is she not? Does she not confront people with a weapon?

It’s a little jarring, then it’s…dissonant the more you pick it apart. Because what is Minnie talking about?

I will say, for sure, Violet changed within that year apart. But not to the degree that Minnie implies to us. We have Louis’ words for Violet, and then Violet herself—constantly brings up protecting the twins. And she’s shown she will. Violet will shoot Lilly if told. And Violet, after Marlon’s death, brandishes her cleaver to shield Clementine and A.J from the other schoolkids.

Maybe part of the change was that she vowed to herself that she’d do better after losing the twins. Wouldn’t be surprised.

…but Minnie didn’t like killing walkers, though. Which implies that, yes, Violet probably filled a protector role for her, in regards to the dead.

It’s baffling. I can go on and on and on.

Just as Violet did, between seeing Minnie after so long, and finding Clementine in her dorm.

“The thing is, seeing Minnie… I feel like it should’ve scared me. But it didn’t. The person we ran into in the woods, that wasn’t Minnie. Not really. The way she sounded, and acted… The way she talked about Sophie, and Lilly… I’m…confused, I guess.” [Ep.3 | Broken Toys | Dorm]

She voices the same sentiment.

But upon various dialogue prompts, the corrosion inches its way to Violet:

[She’s one of them now.] “It sucks, but…I don’t know what else I expected.” [It’s not Minnie’s fault.] “I never said it was. But it doesn’t change anything.” [We can save Minnie.] “You saw how she reacted when Lilly showed up. Those are her people now. And we are not.” [Ep.3 | Broken Toys | Dorm]

I do think it’s interesting that, even if Clementine says to Violet that Minnie could be saved, she says otherwise. Because Violet is pragmatic. Minerva coming back from the Delta is just not realistic.

So through time and distance, and the wake-up call in the woods, Violet expresses an acceptance of this. The fact that Minnie won’t come back. It’s not quite splitting, because…this isn’t a true devaluation here; it’s the idealization ebbing away.

“Minnie…, the real Minnie…, she’s gone. She’s been gone this whole time, and I…have to stop mourning her. I won’t let her take you or A.J. Or anyone else I care about.” [Ep.3 | Broken Toys | Dorm]

And she admits it to Clementine aloud. Promises her that she, and A.J, along with everyone else, will be protected from the Delta—from Minnie, if need be.

Not only that, if Violet is romanced, she makes a request:

“There’s something I’ve always wanted to try with someone I cared about. And I never have. [. . .] Have you ever danced with anyone before?” [Ep.3 | Broken Toys | Dorm]

I’ve always taken this line to signal how nervous, and how new Violet is to this kind of relationship. Because it is new to her. This is the first time where her feelings were reciprocated. She always wanted to try dancing with someone, but for whatever reason, never had with Minnie. And she’s nervous because…she wants it to be reciprocated, and Violet here is gaging a reaction, testing the waters.

In writing this essay, another thought occurred:

This is Violet moving on.

She’s nervous because there is a lot of weight to this request. She’s gaging what Clementine says, because Violet is invested now. All-in. 100%.

It’s not about Minerva—doesn’t even outright say that she never had a dance with Minnie.

Because by this point, through this dance, Violet’s realized just how unreciprocated her feelings were, because now, she has the chance to dance with someone who does reciprocate. And not just in the dance. Clementine’s loyalty extends further than that.

Another detail that I noticed is perpetuated throughout every interaction with Minnie is who she always prioritizes, and how it contrasts Clementine. With Clementine, of course A.J is first priority, and Violet understands that. And she goes out of her way to help with him. Conversely, Clementine helps with Tenn, and the school, and the other Ericson kids. All of which are who Violet also prioritizes.

Meanwhile, the same can’t be said for the other side of that contrast. Because it’s always what about Sophie and Minnie? from Violet, and never what about Tenn and Violet? from Minerva. It’s only ever Tennessee for her.

With the initial encounter, yes. She wouldn’t be asking about Violet because… Violet’s right there. She’s talking to her. However, we overhear Minnie talking to Dorian, asking to have Tenn join her. Not Violet. Then, further into the night, where suddenly she’s singing her own boss music and a red bar just takes up the whole screen, Minnie goes out of her way to claim Tenn.

And then, for good measure, axe Clementine.

But not because of Violet. Clementine gets axed regardless of who she saves, because Minnie…is far, far more pissed that Clementine put Tennessee in danger than anyone else. Including Violet.

The Delta changed Minerva. Yes.

Yet, Lilly never was able to remove her loyalty to her people. Her people being Tenn.

It’s telling, how (in)significant Violet was to her because all I read is…, it is nowhere close to the significance Minnie had on Violet. Because Minnie had other priorities.

She just happened to be Violet’s primary emotional anchor. And with that comes everything Violet could feasibly offer a person.

Here’s the thing to understand with this essay, and what I’m getting at with Minnie and Violet’s past relationship:

Violet anchoring Minnie is not Minnie’s fault. It’s not Violet’s either; a kid isn’t going to understand why they’re feeling a certain type of way, but when it feels nice, they will follow. Especially when the adults responsible for troubled youth are just…gone.

But what this does bring to light is a nesting place for borderline’s stigma.

Emotional anchors, splitting between idealization and devaluation—these concepts are the source for much of the fear against people with BPD. When gathering articles to reference at the end, some articles I pull from r/BPD on Reddit because having resources that are from people with experience asking and answering questions is incredibly valuable. Many discussions in r/BPD related to this (exchange primary emotional anchor with FP) are frustrating. For myself to read, because several are people not with BPD venting, but, I imagine it was frustrating to type out because…they’re venting for a reason.

Depending on the discussion, however, what is said is ignorant to all of what I know of my disorder. I know where it comes from. I know that the emotions behind all of what I do with anchorage are genuine. But then there’s people who vent, or there’s others who prompt a question because they are nervous that their friend (with BPD) is not genuine.

Of course, I can’t promise how other people with BPD are like. BPD is dependent on the personality, and if you have a shit personality. Um. Yeah. You’re not a fun person to be around. Sorry?

Not really, but, you know.

Stigma aside, it is true. I understand the insecurities, and the need to vent. Being someone’s anchor because of borderline is a lot of fucking pressure, and truth be told, it’s like that because…what if you just can’t reciprocate the intensity? After that honeymoon phase, people without the underlying disorder tend to get exhausted emotionally, meanwhile…, there is no cease from the other.

So people tend to draw away. They either do so quietly, in attempt to not hurt feelings, or, they’ll be direct and antagonize because of they stress they’re under. Either way, if the condition has gone untreated, the confusion this brings will then ignite the individual’s borderline. This is where you get insecurities born within the relationship, which the person can then go further and self-sabotage because there is no regulating themselves. You get constant bombardment whenever they feel neglected. They’re overbearing. You feel that their claws are dug deep, and it’s far deeper than you could’ve ever imagined.

Because there’s an anchorage.

If this is what happened, and Minnie entertained Violet, but never reciprocated the magnitude of devotion Violet brings with her… I can’t blame the girl. And given that Minnie was a troubled youth just as much as Violet was, she had her fair share of issues.

Because frankly, I don’t care if she was brainwashed or what, Minnie still killed her twin sister. You know, the one that has been in the same situations, the same environments, throughout Minnie’s life, yet when she saw the Delta, Sophie did not fold. Sophie actively fought against the Delta, whereas Minnie…complied.

Even before they were caught on the raft that Sophie planned to steal.

“One of the girls saw that this was a place worth fighting for, and her tears dried. But the other twin, she could never forget her old home. She rejected every gift, every opportunity. Stirred up trouble every chance she got. She convinced her sister to help her steal a raft and leave on the river. Of course, they didn't get far. What happened then, Minerva?” [Ep.3 | Broken Toys | Brig]

This Parable of Twins is, of course, by Lilly’s word, and yes, she did brainwash Minnie. So naturally, there will be an element here where the details are lost. I buy that Minnie did accept her place in the Delta where Sophie never did, but I don’t really believe that it was just because she saw it was a place worth fighting for.

The reality of Minerva is she’s a very conflicted person, and she’s passive by nature. She’s a good head taller than Violet, yet, when Violet talks about her (and Sophie), it’s always about protecting her. Because Minnie didn’t like killing walkers.

I also wonder if the reason why she’s so passive is because Sophie…might’ve been the one that got her and Tenn into trouble right with her, if she was more combative. As for the confliction, Minerva may have been caught in between—because there’s a combative twin, and then there’s a younger brother to protect, one who’s passive to a fault.

It’s this confliction and passiveness that has Minnie primed for manipulation. She will seek stability through, well, passive means. With the Delta, do as they say.

…and with Violet, it’s let the girl have her infatuation, maybe entertain it, but don’t cross too far into romantic territory because the girl’s a little too intense.

(Of course, Minnie is also the one who was practically dead herself while leading a herd by voice alone, to kill her brother and maybe do a little slashing. So like, she is just as intense, just…in less of a loyal kind of way, and more in fucking unhinged way. Because she also might’ve been the one to instill Tenn’s beliefs.)

Once it’s revealed what happened to Sophie, Violet snaps. She yells at Minerva.

But even still, there’s a slip of that anchorage:

“Who are you?! Fuck survival! Look at what you’re doing! Minnie, please, I just want to talk to you for a second! I’m sorry we never searched for you, for Sophie… I’m sorry we trusted that fucker, Marlon. If I ever thought there was a chance—” [Ep.3 | Broken Toys | Dorm]

Following this, time ticks away with a bomb in a boiler, so Clementine lunges for an escape—to get A.J back to her side. And Minnie tries to stop her.

With a knife near-identical to Jane’s in S2. And it manages to gouge a near-identical scar in Clementine’s sternum. A stark parallel to S2’s ending. Except, Violet doesn’t hesitate. The moment she is out of the cell, she disappears into the backdrop, then an arrow finds its place in Minerva’s shoulder not long thereafter.

She does stay at her side, for when the schoolkids leave. Perhaps for closure, if the previous dialogue gives any indication.

Because even though Violet shot Minnie, moved on from her with a dance, and realized that she wasn’t going to return, that anchor is still there. Minnie was, after all, still a significant part of her, and that…doesn’t really ever just go away. The idealization may have drained, but the feelings themselves do remain.

We then look to another Violet, who was taken rather than saved.

“At least here I have Minnie… [. . .] Don’t act like you know her. She tried to escape. Her and Sophie. They said if I fight back, they’d kill Minnie. Or one of you. All you’ve done is get us hurt or killed. If you fuck this up worse, I’ll stop you myself. And don’t think I won’t. I’m not losing her again, or anyone else.” [Ep.3 | Broken Toys | Brig]

And another aspect of BPD, and anchorage, becomes clear:

Borderline primes people for manipulation, much in the same way that a passive and conflicted nature primed Minnie.

There’s a flipside to emotional anchoring in BPD, and it has everything to do with how the disorder forces people to become reliant on their anchors. People who cannot discern nor regulate their own emotions, and people with a bleak, instable sense of identity.

Which is a problem because there are people who’re able to take a person’s emotions, and weaponize them as a puppeteer. They manipulate through any means necessary.

Most, in an effort to avoid being manipulated themselves, try to hide their emotions and keep them out of reach. They suppress them, because suppressing your emotions is how you get the most control, and nobody else.

Right?

Coming from experience, do not do this. Suppressing your emotions is the last thing you want to do.

Especially if you want to avoid getting yourself manipulated.

I felt that I had to suppress not just as a child, but before that, because I was in a fucked situation. And it did this to me.I have no control. Life is a writhing storm at sea, and I just fucking hope I can find an anchor within the storm’s eye—but I know there’ll never be a calm to this storm.

And the wrong people know this. The ones who prey and manipulate to abuse the loyalty I am so desperate to offer, and can pull it from me with ease, should idealization blind me from the warning signs.

When Violet is saved, she sees through Minnie quickly. Because it’s in how Minnie talks. And it’s weird, because Violet also includes how she talked about Sophie, when the most Minnie said was “she died protecting the Delta. A hero” once prompted by Violet’s concern. That shouldn’t have raised alarm, yet…something about it did. To Violet.

So she’s able to let go. Violet still holds the memory of Minnie quite dear to her heart—the one in her head—, but after this, it was more about closure, not bringing her back. And all it took was that one interaction.

But here, back to a Violet taken away, it takes longer. She’s not told what actually happened to Sophie; instead, both Minerva and Lilly feed into a broken trust with Clementine, and condemns Violet back to the girl who sat with Grandma’s body rocking behind her.

Her loyalty blinds her to what Minnie has devolved into, so she goes and tries to stop the bomb, save the boat, and secure a future with her because Minnie is all she knows and trusts.

Yet.

It’s broken when Violet does. Because Violet has her face marred by the bomb. She’s left to defend herself—blindly—as she clambers out of the water with a walker snagged at the leg. She asks for Minnie at first, is led by Louis, and then…it becomes clear what happened when they hear gunshots, clearing away the walkers.

Minnie. Is left. Unscathed.

Well, okay. She does, like, panic and stuff, and then gets bit. So, that explosion had been her death sentence.

But Minnie is not burned. Not like Violet.

Which…implies something. However it happened, Violet was the one closest to the bomb, and Violet was further down the beach, towards the boat, whereas when Clementine, A.J and Louis reach her, Minnie is away, towards the woodland. Getting her ass bit. A bunch.

She either got off the boat at a different (earlier) time, or, she just…abandoned Violet. To defend the last of the boat and her crew. And, probably, to look for Tenn.

Leaving Violet to realize something, and as she struggles to see the world, she begins to try and apologize. To Clementine. Who didn’t lie to her about the fucking bomb on the boat, and given that, it also kinda explains why Clementine didn’t take her sweet time consoling Violet from her episode because. Um. The bomb.

Whatever it was that happened, it’s enough to rattle Violet to reason. And to snap her out of it.

Within one interaction. (…explosion.)

It’s…the little things like this—the ones that go unsaid—, which indicate Minnie’s sense of priorities, and how even when Violet actively worked to help save the boat, those priorities never were Violet. Before this, she manipulated and lied to her, and (via the alternative path) she never…danced with Violet, despite Minnie being the musical twin. Instead, Violet never danced, but she does sing now.

Which again has me wonder, was it Minnie entertaining Violet, and/or, if the subtext found in the fishing cabin does indicate this, was it never romantic like how Violet wanted? Just physical?

I’m kinda losing my mind over here?!

There was always an imbalance. Violet always prioritized Minnie, and her sister, and her brother. She prioritized the latter two because of Minnie, and then prioritized Tenn after the sisters were traded off. Prioritized Minnie’s interests—singing, and took it on herself—, and left her own—like the dancing—to…wane in self-doubt.

And then…, we have Minnie who killed her twin, and then went after Tenn to also kill him. The killing part is, well, the brainwashing and trauma, and stuff, but point being… Violet is still not in the equation. She’s an afterthought to Minnie.

This isn’t to say that Violet and Minnie’s relationship was downright toxic, or abusive, or anything along those lines. All we have is Violet’s word. But given Violet clearly glorified Minnie to herself, her word is unreliable.

What this is all to say is…, it was no mistake on Telltale’s part to have Violet physically blind, or then speak about how she had been blinded figuratively—before reality set in. Down one route, this was done by having the wool pulled from her eyes; down the other, it was the blinding in itself that brought her clarity.

It’s what I mean when I say that Violet’s unbridled loyalty is also her bane. She establishes strong and intense emotional anchors, to the point where should that anchor be lost, she will refuse to let go. And not because she wants to trap herself to that anchor, but because that’s…how BPD is. Attachments like this are really hard to shake off. But also, Violet didn’t know who else to turn to.

There’s Tenn, sure, but she’s his protector, not the other way around. There’s some of the others—Mitch, Willy, Ruby, Aasim—who we don’t get enough time to really see how Violet is with them. Marlon she tolerates, but there’s a clear strain between them.

Louis— God, there’s Louis, and he’s the one that she is vehement about getting back—indicating that he is yet another anchor for her. Thing is, he was also Marlon’s best friend, and they are…opposites. A lot of conflict comes from that.

…this essay really doesn’t have much to say with Louis and Violet. In part because, frankly, I didn’t really know where I could put him with the points I strive to make. There is absolutely space for him, yet, another thing:

Their words for each other, when the other is taken, are enough. Louis and Violet say everything themselves.

I did give commentary to the dialogue quotes, but it was sparse for this precise reason. I don’t need to get into how quietly powerful their friendship is. Louis is the one who introduces Violet by name. He’s the one that promises Clementine that it’s just her way, because he knows her. If blinded, he’s also the one that she relies on to guide her. And despite Marlon, and perhaps despite even Clementine given the different routes, there is never a malice between them.

Which I adore TFS for doing, because it would’ve been easy to have them be rivals and fight over each other. Especially for Clementine.

But that’s also juvenile, and while those storylines have their place, it is not here.

Never has. Never will.

So there’s Louis. He’s an anchor. Yet, because he is the one grounded anchor Violet has of the schoolkids, not fazed by idealization nor devaluation… That is their dichotomy. It is unique of all other relationships Violet has before Clementine—after Clementine as well, should he be the one saved.

We have Brody. Who does represent a point of devaluation for Violet. The lowest to a volatile relationship.

[Emotional Anchorage: Walking Triggers]

Truth be told, in this most recent endeavor to write Violet’s deconstruction, Brody was who reignited the compulsion. Because there is a deep-seated complexity to what happened between her and Violet, and why it happened. …only for me to find yet another post somewhere that was made by a glanced judgement.

Its criticism wasn’t in any way toxic, which was nice because this fandom…has a mean streak. But it did harken back to borderline’s stigma regardless.

Devaluation is a very ugly mark on someone with BPD. Worse than idealization, in the eyes of many. It in itself is toxic,and this coping mechanism is one of the reasons why BPD a disorder with the stigma it portrays. There’s a dysfunction in the order within our behavior.

That dysfunction, and the subsequent behavior, provokes a defensive ignorance.

Violet is wrong to do this. This is an antagonistic trait of hers, and Brody gets the brunt of it. She had to live with this for a year.

However, making blanket assumptions is reductive, especially in a discussion where it’s about understanding the how and why. There’s a reason why Violet devalues Brody. The path to how it happened in the first place is actually quite apparent. If you know how to read the signs, you can see this happen a mile away. So through understanding the how and why, it’s easier to 1) avoid it entirely, and 2) navigate devaluation if/when it does transpire.

Both Brody and Violet together make one mistake, and the fix is straightforward. Not easy, but straightforward.

Before that, though, we first shall establish a few things.

For one, Violet is…a lot. Don’t let her apathetic demeanor fool you. Just look to the previous section—that alone is enough to prove otherwise.

Along with the apathy, Violet is sardonic. She’s aloof to people when she doesn’t have strong attachments, but, she likewise shows to be pragmatic and reasonable. Which like, same. I wear belts and layer my jackets with vests too.

…and I also know what this kind of character implies: Violet is a little bully. She absolutely has the capacity to be cruel.This is also confirmed later, where at Ruby’s hootenanny, there’s mention of an Erin with braces that Violet would make fun of. (Probably because braces are hard to take off; they are a little goofy in an apocalypse, but also…really unfortunate the more it puts stress on the mouth and dental structure.) Violet then comments that she didn’t know why she did.

I wear belts and layer my jackets too; upon reflection, I did the same thing as a kid. So I have some insight to this which may explain the why here. Given how Violet speaks of this schoolkid, I’m willing to bet that Erin wasn’t someone who Violet had strong emotions for, one way or the other. She likely was pretty indifferent to Erin.

So, if that is true, Violet being a bully here comes from a place of 1) being apathetic, and not reading social cues like she should’ve, and/or 2) Erin was an outlet, but not a personal one.

Snide comments, and other slighted behaviors like this, they do not register.

Nothing clicks up here, behind my eyes. The comments are too brief to. So where this lashing out is coming from, it happens so swiftly that, by the time it leaves the mouth, I don’t know where it came from. There’s not much feeling to it. It was an impulse. So I just continue on my way, and never consider why.

In this way, there’s no malicious intent, it’s just cold. But outwardly, cruel.

A lot of times, to me, it was just play.

This is how a play with you. I make fun of you; you make fun of me. If you get hurt by it? Well. That sucks. Anyway—

Which, yes, is toxic, and I’ve realized, and I’m an adult now and I…don’t do that. Kind of. Social cues are a thing now, and I’ve gotten myself more aware of people. But I still do like poking fun, with the full expectation that it’s dished back.

Granted, I don’t know just how much of this applies to Violet. She has her insecurities, and is nervous when bringing herself to the table. And I am definitely not that—it’s not a confidence; I don’t care enough to be confident, I just do my thing.

But. This does establish a pattern with Violet, and with BPD, the disorder reflects the personality. There are common traits to BPD, but the expression of those traits varies depending on the person. For someone like Violet, who is already rather cold, this means any trait of BPD which stems from a cold demeanor will be present, and elevated. To borderline’s extreme.

Or, because Violet already can be cold to people, where devaluation is concerned, her personality makes it ten times worse. It doesn’t end. She makes comments—except, now, because there is significant emotion behind the comments (to Brody), it is to sting. It is cruel.

But…, it’s also complicated.

The bond between Brody and Violet is first made to be antagonistic, and Violet’s the one who perpetuates. Unlike the night before, where she with Clementine had a nice banter going in the dorm (if a tad guarded), Violet on the way to the cabin is hostile. Her words aren’t aggressive, but they’re instead dismissive at best, scathing at worst.

Brody does push back a little, and tries to brush it off, but it’s quite plain on her face that this does get to her.

In the cabin and away from Violet, Brody gives the context. It’s not just the words themselves hurt, it’s the fact that there’s a history there.

“Hey…, about Vi… I’m sorry she’s being a little mean. It’s my fault. [. . .] I was there when those walkers killed Sophie and Minnie. They were really close with Vi, and…I think she blames me for what happened to them. I mean, how do you even apologize for something that fucked up? I don’t know. Maybe I deserve it.” [Ep.1 | Done Running | Fishing Cabin]

Violet is hurt. Brody’s guilty.

Then, there’s a second, damning piece of history that explains why Brody, of all the schoolkids, gives the most insight to Violet’s mental health, and why this is happening.

“We all used to be friends. Guess I kinda just missed that.” [Ep.1 | Done Running | Fishing Cabin]

In the same way where it was textbook idealization for Minnie, this is textbook devaluation.

It’s made complicated because they were friends—good ones, considering they’ve been stuck in the same place since the outbreak—, but now there’s a negative connotation. That being the twins.

And remember, devaluation is an avoidant mechanism. Ambivalence is confusing, and that agitates a borderline personality.

Brody can then explain more, depending on the prompted dialogue:

Once again, Violet is distant where she wasn’t before.

But we also get a further confirmation that Brody is the one with the negative connotation, and it’s because she was the one who had to tell her. …which in itself is an interesting choice of words, but we can assume Marlon pressured her once the conspiracy is revealed.

Then another confirmation, to the fact that opening a conversation has not been feasible.

Turn to Violet, and she first says this:

“God. Sometimes she just gets on my last nerve, you know? [. . .] I mean, it’s— It’s not like I hate her… I just… ‘I wish we could all go on a road trip together.’ God, she’s so…ugh. You know? [. . .] I don’t know what the problem is between us. With Brody…, I don’t know why it’s like this. Why is it so weird? I can never relax around her. It just keeps getting worse.” [Ep.1 | Done Running | Fishing Cabin]

All of this is telling. Violet is very animated here, both in how she says it, her shifting tone, and what she’s saying. First it’s a comment. Second it’s admission. Then there’s that sardonic tongue, an ask to gage whether or not Clementine understands, before it all breaks and she goes back to admission.

The last couple lines say something crucial to know when understanding the dynamic here. And if a player is impatient with dialogue, they will miss these.

I can never relax around her. It just keeps getting worse.

So Brody is a walking trigger.

Within the bounds of splitting to devaluation, this happens when an emotional anchor develops a level of ambivalence, but because anchors do not just go, the anchorage is instead insecure, rather than the source of stability once relied upon.

Yes. Brody is another of Violet’s anchors—just not the primary one.

And what it means to be a walking trigger is…devastating. Not just for Brody, but for Violet as well. She doesn’t have the support Brody gives her anymore. Can’t trust it. Because every time Brody walks in the same room, Violet cannot relax. She is agitated.

Don’t take this to mean in a figurative way.

It is literal.

Triggers rise from people an emotional response. In BPD, this often means that the brain will shut its reasoning off, and prioritize this “survival” instinct. Fight-or-flight.

So when Violet says, I can never relax around her, this isn’t a oh I’m nervous, I don’t know what to do. This is I cannot function when she’s in the same room as me. Maybe she’s hypervigilant around Brody. To the point where Violet cannot stand Brody anywhere near her…

So she sabotages. She’s cruel to Brody in the comments she makes. She does not allow Brody to get close, because it is too much. Rather than a calm, reasonable state of mind, Violet feels things. A cold pit in her stomach. A dwelling ache in her chest, or a knot in her throat. Can’t focus on what she’s doing—Brody’s there.

And the easiest way to stop it is to push Brody away.

And, and, initially, blame the girl.

[Because you blame her.] “Well, that’s what I used to think. I just keep thinking that things might have ended differently if I was there. Maybe I could’ve protected Soph. And Minnie…” [Ep.1 | Done Running | Fishing Cabin]

There’s a confliction here. Violet did blame Brody, until she realized it wasn’t that. Instead, she blamed herself.

It’s the following prompt, however, that gives the best clarity to Brody and Violet. The prompt,

[Because she never said sorry.]

where Violet tells Clementine exactly what the trigger is—because by this point, a year later, she’s figured out how to articulate what it is:

[Violet] “She tell you that?” [Clementine] “More or less. She wants to talk about it, you know.” [Violet] “I just… I feel guilty about the whole thing.” [Clementine] “Why?” [Violet] “I was supposed to be out with the twins that day. I wanted to work in the greenhouse, so I asked Brody to cover for me. But then… I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I… I wanted to talk to Brody, to tell her I didn’t blame her for what happened. But every time I tried, I was reminded of who we lost. It was easier to just not talk about it.” [Ep.1 | Done Running | Fishing Cabin]

If BPD isn’t a lonely experience, or a humiliating one, it can be a guilty life to live.

Violet expresses why losing the twins hurt as much as it did: there was never closure, and she blamed herself. Hence why, earlier, I suspected that seeking closure was what kept Violet at Minnie’s side after shooting her.

She was finally saying that goodbye, regardless of how the interaction itself went.

But it’s what she says about Brody.

Violet wants to talk. She has wanted to. But Brody’s a walking trigger. Every. Single. Time that Violet tried to talk, the same turbulence arose. In BPD, without that regulation, it is unbelievably difficult to talk when…your body’s actively flipping the fuck out.

A cold pit in her stomach. A dwelling ache in her chest, or a knot in her throat. Can’t focus on what she’s doing.

Of course she found it easier to just not talk about it. That is an instinct ingrained by borderline.

BPD is a lonely experience every time you lose an anchor this way. The disorder is humiliating because you do not want people to see you like this, when you’re in the midst of an episode, and you have no fucking control over your body, so you yourself are flipping the fuck out.

And it’s guilty. Because when you’re in Violet’s position, where you know the reason why, you know what you want to do, but your body works against you at every turn…

It devastates a person.

Because it is your fault. You did this yourself. Reap what you sow. You’ve done it again, it’s humiliating, and you are very, very alone because you just cannot stop burning bridges.

…in the apocalypse, being chained to a boarding school does not help. There is no way to give the time and space someone like Violet needs to think, and to process, and to let those emotions relax. Brody kicks up those emotions whenever she’s around, and the dust just never settles.

Violet trapped herself in a cycle. By the hour, or by the day, for a year, it would’ve been a ceaseless agony.

One that did scar over. Violet probably got used to it, and found a routine to the snide comments. It wasn’t like Brody was leaving anytime soon.

Until she does, and she suffers a disorientating last few moments.

I’d like to think they made amends and had a full conversation. I don’t know, however. But, at least Violet does take the first step when walking from the cabin, and she entertains Brody’s fantasies about a road trip, and that she would’ve had her sights on the Grand Canyon.

Because the one mistake they made was they never talked. It wasn’t going to be an easy thing, but it is that straightforward. So when they did, or began to, the devaluation began to ebb away.

Then, a tragic irony.

Brody’s guilt was never just I’m not Minnie, so she hates me, and it’s my fault. Rather, Brody’s guilt was warranted, and quite honestly, yeah. She should’ve be guilty, because it’s I watched as my leader gave this girl’s world away, and did nothing, lied to her, to her face, for a year.

Violet didn’t know this at the time. So for her, Brody was a point of devaluation because it’s her mental health actively jeopardizing things, not the truth and circumstance. The deception, in the conversation of that mental health, instead plays itself like salt to a wound, and then a tragic irony once Brody was murdered for it.

Because Brody knew they had to tell people. If the path to mending their relationship was encouraged, then it could be read that it gave her the inch to confront Marlon. If otherwise, Brody wanted to tell everyone because she needed to, despite what turmoil the truth would’ve caused Violet.

By the time Violet does know, and there’s a funeral, she says this about Brody:

“Brody, she was… She was real sweet. She had big dreams. And we all knew they wouldn’t come true, but we didn’t care. And we didn’t care because when she was talking, whatever she said seemed possible. [. . .] I don’t know if she found the place she dreamed about, but I’m gonna miss her.” [Ep.2 | Suffer the Children | Courtyard]

There’s forgiveness. With Brody died that devaluation.

Not a moment thereafter, however,

“Marlon was… I can’t. Not for Marlon. After what he did to the twins and Brody, I—” [Ep.2 | Suffer the Children | Courtyard]

The cycle continues.

Now with Marlon.

If Violet devalued Brody, she absolutely vilified Marlon. Because not only was it about the twins, there’s also Brody.

So of course she didn’t give him any peace after the fact. Why would she? Marlon had his own complexities, yes, but those complexities hurt. They brought another ambivalence.

As the essay rattles from the schoolkids, we’ll discuss another relationship now. A new, fresh one. Clementine, through who we see all of it—the emotional anchorage, the idealization, and devaluation. The splitting between. How intense Violet can be, and how volatile.

We have Clementine, who is given the chance to witness what Louis means for this wallflower, and that she grows on you (he promises so).

[VIOLENTINE: The Ship, and its Anchorage]

Platonic or romanced—the difference doesn’t matter in this essay. The shift of context between friend and more than that is just that: a shift in context. Distinguishing the two will have its moment, but it is hardly integral to the fact of the matter:

Violet anchored Clementine, and she did it swiftly. (In record time, dare I say.)

In regards to the arguments against romancing Violet, there’s a lot of people who look to Minnie, then back to Violet, and point to Clementine’s “girlfriend” dialogue. “Violet’s not over Minnie,” is a common one, right alongside, “Clementine’s just a rebound.”

Now. I’ve spent 5.5k words tearing those arguments to shreds in one section, and I still have with me another few things to say about Minnie and Violet’s relationship up my sleeve. In light of Clementine and Violet’s relationship.

Because even though I do buy that they were closer than friends arguably would be, they weren’t girlfriends. It’s why Violet was insecure within their relationship, and why that insecurity devolved into a strong case of idealization. Violet genuinely did love Minnie. Her bond with the twin will honestly forever be there, but that bond wasn’t unconditional. The conditions were at the cost of Violet’s mental health.

Then there’s the rebounding, and I will use this as a jumping off point regardless of relational status.

Rebound relationships are defined by a partner still with a previous relationship’s baggage. They’re not done healing. They haven’t quite let go. It gets in the way for committed relationships where the expectation is that both are in it 100%, and that person just…can’t. Because they’re still fixated on the last partner.

…which yes, does sound like Violet. Cuz it kinda, sorta, frankly is.

However. For one thing, this dynamic doesn’t just apply to a Violet route opted for romance. The rebound applies to a platonic dynamic, in part because I don’t frankly believe Minnie was a true girlfriend, and in part because idealization is not specific to partners. Especially in what we see in TFS, Violet needed to let go of Minnie regardless.

Then there’s the fact that being a rebound isn’t always bad. To rebound, which is where the term “rebound relationship” derives from, means for something/someone to bounce back. Or, it can mean a kind of backfire. Both uses of the word can be applied to relationships like this, which, yes, is why they’re fickle, and why people do their best to avoid.

Here’s the thing: Violet needed a new relationship to pull her out of the old one. Because Clementine is a catalyst for Violet, and she was anchored so quickly because whether Violet herself realized, she did want to move on. She couldn’t, but through Clementine, she got the chance.

And I do confidently say that she did want to, because by one interaction in the woods, Violet is disillusioned from Minerva immediately. She’s snapped out of what image she had of her, and is the one that remains realistic where Clementine can offer supporting words—along the lines of we can get her back.

It’s why Brody, through the cabin’s conversation, observes the same.

“We all used to be friends. Guess I kinda just missed that. But when you showed up… I don’t know, I just haven’t seen her warm up to someone in a long time.” [Ep.1 | Done Running | Fishing Cabin]

I find it interesting that Brody picks up on Violet taking to Clementine so quickly, and is able to read enough into this to try and see if it’s enough of a push for Violet to start healing. She’s right, it is enough, and Violet does take a first step in mending their relationship, and breaking away from the devaluation that was arguably heightened by her idealization of Minnie.

…granted, it’s dependent on player choice. There are Violets running around out there having fished with Clementine, but never did reconcile with Brody.

In any case, I am going to argue against Minnie being Violet’s ex because 1) who the fuck cares, I’m not concerned over purity over here, and 2) it’s likely they weren’t exes at all.

However, I won’t fight against this being a rebound. It is. But, Violet’s arc is about learning how to let the fuck go, she has a problem with letting go, so of course the relationship would be a rebound by proxy. A healthy rebound, at that.

By the time she is forced to let go of Clementine, after two newcomers are voted out, her attachment is made quite plain the moment Clementine is in danger within— What, five minutes, and Clementine is at gunpoint?

Regardless, Violet is there, bow at hand, with Louis behind her. She is ready to shoot, and it is no bluff. Violet will if prompted. Or, she will run should Clementine prioritize getting the two out of it.

Because Clementine’s already anchored. Violet trusts her to make the call, and she will follow without hesitation. Later on, after a weary night with A.J shot, then a morning of crawling back for medicine, Violet calls for Clementine to talk in the office. And in there, the anchorage is confirmed further:

“What happened out in the woods… I saw they had you pinned, and I… Shit, I got so crazy. “I know you think I didn’t do enough for you and A.J, but when I saw you were in danger, I had to do something.” / “When I heard you call for help, I didn’t even think.” [Ep.2 | Suffer the Children | Office]

The second line is dependent on whether or not Clementine blamed Violet before, as her and Louis walked the exiled to…exile. And stuff.

But, her account as to why she ran right for Clementine, and pulled an arrow on Lilly says everything I got so crazy, I didn’t even think, I had to do something. Clementine roused a trigger.

This time, in a very good way. Well, as good as the circumstances. In any case, this does count as a trigger because it’s inciting an emotional response, and given Violet’s wording, a fight-or-flight. (I realize triggers are specific for negatives; for the sake of brevity, I don’t care. I still say it counts.) It’s the reason why, before, when I detailed how I personally get with my anchors, I do similar things. No, not literally pull an arrow on someone, but I act on impulse without care, because I just want to satisfy their needs to the absolute fullest. It’s genuine, but it’s also triggering—under a positive connotation.

After this, of course, we push into Violet leading the school as they prep for an attack, with Clementine right alongside her. Whatever happens during this time is unknown, just that the school built-up the walls, laid their defenses, and focused on instruments to help, such as traps and explosives. Shortly after the time-skip, of course, we get the belltower sequence.

Starting with an inquiry:

“I know you came back for medicine, for A.J, but after that, you could’ve just left. Avoided all the bullshit with the raiders. Why didn’t you? Sorry, I know that puts you on the spot. You don’t have to answer. We’ve all got our reasons.” [Ep.2 | Suffer the Children | Belltower]

Violet asks something that has likely been on her mind for a while, but then… Not backtracks, but she does relinquish the pressure for that answer.

As their time at the belltower continues, it’s clear where the question came from.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to just…talk so much. It’s just, I’ve watched people leave before. Family, friends. They never come back. But you did. And now I can’t imagine what it would be like if you weren’t here. Um. Shit, that sounds so much dumber when I say it out loud. You know what I mean.” [Ep.2 | Suffer the Children | Belltower]

Violet’s hesitancy to speak her mind, be vulnerable, is interesting, particularly because it’s about doing so too much. It’s a very specific one, with ambiguous implications. This could be an anxiety she put on herself, or, this was something that she took after a mention that she was talking too much, getting too personal, one way or another. Then there’s also another thing, where it sounds dumber than she intended. As though when speaking her mind, Violet has an idea of what to say, but she doesn’t know quite how to articulate it.

This is a really good line of dialogue, so that latter insecurity is just that: an insecurity.

Nevertheless, this speaks volumes because it’s the first verbal admittance to an issue with abandonment. All the adults left her life, and never returned. Those include her parents, who never tried to get back to the school. Her grandfather died, so not his fault, but her grandmother shot herself right behind Violet. Which is abandonment, and really fucked to do. The teachers of Ericson’s…

Then fellow students. Most probably died, including Brody. And the twins were taken away.

Abandonment is a huge thing.

So we turn to the route where Violet is taken. And it’s not good. Violet reacts as predictably as this essay has outlined.

[Clementine] “Vi? What happened? Are you okay? Violet, talk to me… We’re here to take you home.” [Violet] “I looked for you. When they grabbed me, I saw…you let them take me. I’m just supposed to forget that because you’re here now?” [Violet, if platonic] “Some fucking friend you are.” [Violet, if romanced] “Some fucking feelings you had for me.” [Ep.3 | Broken Toys | Brig]

Here we have now a fresh faultline within her and Clementine’s relationship. It brings ambivalence. Upon seeing Clementine, she’s plunged into an episode.

And Violet splits. Her image of Clementine is distorted, so she falls back to the same pattern she did with Brody, and she is hostile.

[Clementine] “What’s wrong with you, Vi? Come on, let’s get the hell out of here.” [Violet] “No, Clem. I’m done. This whole situation is so fucked! At least here I have Minnie…” [Clementine] “You mean the Minnie that betrayed us?” [Violet] “Don’t act like you know her. She tried to escape. Her and Sophie. They said if I fight back, they’d kill Minnie. Or one of you. All you’ve done is get us hurt or killed. If you fuck this up worse, I’ll stop you myself. And don’t think I won’t. I’m not losing her again, or anyone else.” [Ep.3 | Broken Toys | Brig]

We also have Violet manipulated on top of that, led instead by Lilly and Minnie’s word, not Clementine. Because BPD primes people to manipulation, especially in times when they’re at their most vulnerable. But, throughout these interactions, we do see Clementine attempt to console her, and talk.

Violet, however, is not open to. She is not in the right state of mind. This is a BPD episode, so Clementine is not able to get through to her here. Violet does not trust her—too much ambivalence. Mitch’s death is fresh on her mind, she’s been lied to by Minnie about what happened to Sophie, and with that lie, she was told that more people would die if they did not listen.

And of course, the more time is spent, Clementine starts to get frantic as everything escalates because there’s a fucking bomb ticking away in the deck down below. So there comes about an urgency, and she can’t spend that valuable time consoling Violet.

So she starts chipping away at the door.

“What the fuck are you doing?! You’re gonna get us all killed!” [Ep.3 | Broken Toys | Brig]

And Violet does precisely what she said she would do, and she attempts to stop Clementine herself. Because there’s Minnie again, but she also doesn’t want anyone else to die either.

Lucky for Clementine, she is stronger, and she is able to overpower Violet within a minute. However, in trying to get the cells unlatched, then to find her way to A.J, she herself is overpowered by Minerva. The urgency and stress associated backs Clementine to a corner. She still doesn’t want to see Violet hurt, so, she explains,

[Clementine] “We planted a bomb on the boat!” [Violet] “Fuck you, there’s a bomb! Mitch is dead! You just… Fucking go!” [Ep.3 | Broken Toys | Brig]

…and again, Violet does not trust her. Mitch’s death is still fresh on her mind. Everything that Lilly and Minnie fed to her is still present.

Then, the bomb goes, and it takes Violet’s sight with it. Even on the beach, she asks for Minnie, amidst confusion because, somewhere down the line, they got separated. Louis has to be the one to support her. By this point, and some beats after, it feels like this is another Brody. Like there’s no turning back, not until a long, long year where Clementine would be in the same shoes.

Minnie makes herself known, though. She’s off in the woodland, with her people.

And that is when this Violet has the wool pulled from her blinded eyes, because she realizes what happened.

The moment is brief. It’s very easy to miss. Yet, the attempts Clementine gave on that boat to console her, before the urgency really began to set in, was not fruitless.

Violet tries to apologize:

“Clementine? The stuff I said on the boat, in the cell, I, uh…” [Ep.4 | Take Us Back | Beach]

It’s not the right time for it. The schoolkids need to get off that beach, but this brief moment is huge.

The thing about episodes is, yes, in the moment, the individual is not consolable. There’s no reasoning with someone who is shut down. However, the attempts to try and console, and/or any verbal promises to leave the door open for when they’ve calmed down, the effort can be recognized and appreciated.

Once Violet snaps out of it, that’s precisely what it was. She understands that Clementine was never trying to hurt her, nor did she come to her disingenuous. Clementine was there to bring her back, because the situation was exactly as Violet herself said—fucked.

But still… Clementine was there to bring her back.

Either way, Clementine proved herself to Violet, because down this route, she left twice, and came back both times.

Of course, the night does not end there. Clementine loses a leg. Another schoolkid is gone.

So through the weeks thereafter, Violet gave herself the time, and then, she tries again with the apology:

[Violet] “I wanted to wait ‘til you were up and about, but how I behaved on the boat… It was really unfair. My head was so messed up—by Lilly, and… And Minnie. I was so wrapped up in my own shit…” [Clementine] “It’s okay. You went through hell in that boat, and I let that happen.” [Clementine, if platonic] “I’m just glad we got you out of there.” [Clementine, if romanced] “I’m just glad I got you back. I was so worried I’d lost you.” [Ep.4 | Take Us Back | School]

In this apology, Violet articulates the position she was in, and admits the kind of influence Minnie was to her—not a good one. And in turn, Clementine acknowledges her. She doesn’t demean Violet for what she did. On top of that, she expresses how she’s just happy that Violet is there in the moment.

This route is bittersweet. We have the beginning, where Violet is guarded, then she warms up to Clementine, finds an anchoring point, and acts upon a fierce loyalty. Which then is hurt when Clementine chooses to save Louis instead. The time on the boat is very bitter because…the truth about borderline is, yeah no, it does not care who the person is to the mentally ill. The disorder is a disorder for a reason. It will hurt, and it will put a strain and test a relationship.

Then you just have the big fuck you axe where Minnie…effectively was the one who managed to wound Clementine, have her get bit, and then lose the leg. Which isn’t really how an eye for an eye goes, but that’s what this route goes with.

But then…, it’s sweet. Because Clementine did the right things, with what stress she was under.

She tried to talk to Violet, and in doing so, she left a door open for Violet to crawl back through when the time was ready. It was sooner rather than later for her, since Minnie… Whatever. However, it’s an apocalypse; a boat was just blown the fuck up. So while it was the time for Violet, it was not the time for literally anyone else. Ergo, a second attempt, to which there was resolve.

Clementine and Violet did not make the same mistake that Brody and Violet did.

And that’s what saves the relationship.

Now, let’s waltz all the way back and save Violet, just to show what Clementine and her do right to build a healthy connection, whereas her and Minnie went wrong. To do this, taking a brief visit to the romantic will help in dissecting an evolution found as the episodes progress.

After the bits of dialogue in the beginning of this section, Clementine can choose to confess her feelings for Violet. It can be solidified by a kiss, or a question for a relationship, or…a meek silence, to which Violet is able to read and feel the same. Clementine can also express confusion, in that she needs the time, but express the interest all the same.

There’s a sweet moment here, and with the kiss, it can also be a touch awkward because…

Okay, they kind of flounder. Violet more so. Which is interesting to note, because Violet “supposedly” was in a relationship before. Sure, the moment on its own doesn’t mean an experienced person wouldn’t be any less awkward, but with the following steps in their relationship, it does support the suspicion this essay has in that she never had a reciprocated, romantic relationship with Minnie.

The moment where Violet asks Clementine to dance, and is nervous to do so, is one of those steps in the relationship:

“When you told me you have feelings for me, I was shocked. Then I started thinking. There’s something I’ve always wanted to try with someone I cared about. And I never have. [. . .] Have you ever danced with anyone before? [. . .] Do you…wanna? Just us. No one else around. I mean, I know it’s kind of weird, but it’s something I’ve always wanted to try.” [Ep.3 | Broken Toys | Dorm]

It’s a step in way of romance (Clementine even remarks after how they’re getting better), but it’s also a step in Violet’s confidence in being vulnerable with someone. She’s still clearly anxious here. Violet still has some of that self-deprecation, and it comes back if Clementine rejects the offer because the idea was stupid, or something along those lines.

But she still does ask. And it’s a big ask, because this is important to Violet. So if Clementine reciprocates the dance, it’s yet another sweet moment, and it builds the confidence within for this relationship further.

Before the night, Violet can tell Clementine how she got to Ericson’s. Then, through the night itself, she backs Clementine every step of the way. Shoots Minnie. Escapes with the schoolkids, only to come back and find her with Tenn and A.J, safe and sound.

During their walk, Violet opens up again. This time, there is none of that self-deprecation, and Violet even gets choked up—but she’s not really ashamed for it, she just continues and says her piece.

“While we were looking for you guys, and I… I thought you might be…gone for good…, um, shit. I was trying to figure out what I’d do if you were gone, and I realized how goddamn stupid I was. About Minnie. For a whole fucking year. I was so wrapped up in losing her and Sophie, I pushed away everyone who tried to care about me. Marlon, Brody, Louis. Even you and A.J. I tried my damnedest not to care about either of you. And I still couldn’t tell you why.” [Ep.4 | Take Us Back | Forest]

She admits everything. Is so very open to Clementine, and tells her what is on her mind. There’s Minnie. There’s what she regrets.

[You were afraid] “I was a goddamn coward. I’m not a coward anymore.” [I’ve done the same thing.] “And then you wonder why you fight so hard to stay alive. I don’t wonder anymore.” [You cared about me.] (Platonic) “I didn’t expect to find a friend like you, not ever again. But I’m really glad I did.” / (Romantic) “Yeah, I did. Way more than I meant to. I’m still kind of amazed we found each other, you know?” [Ep.4 | Take Us Back | Forest]

By this point in the story, Violet has undergone her arc.

She is a changed person because of Clementine’s influence, and she sees what she either didn’t see before, or did but had forgotten. Through a rebound, because Violet just needed a second chance to redeem herself.

Now…, she didn’t expect to find a friend like Clementine ever again? It’s interesting that Violet indicates Clementine was a second chance with the platonic route, not the romantic. Is this her quietly admitting that Minnie was never beyond a friend, actually? Or is this in reference to Brody and Sophie instead?

I dunno. Just found that interesting, since she could have said an equivalent for the romantic dialogue. In any case…

There is something so profound with how this relationship contrasts the ones which came before. As a friend or partner, Clementine never gets to the point of Minnie’s idealization, nor Brody’s devaluation. Both are antithetical to each other because they balance on the same scale—that being insecurity. Violet cared for Minnie and Brody deeply, and those emotions are genuine.

However.

Minnie was put on a pedestal because there were faultlines to that relationship which Violet did not want to face. Brody, instead, was degraded because rather than faults, it was easier to ignore the good sides to Brody. And the good sides were a really, really sweet girl who dreamed of a better life—something that Violet could never see for herself after the twins.

Then there’s Clementine.

Even at their worst moment, where Violet’s trust in Clementine waned, she still did trust her. Clementine told her there was a bomb. Violet snapped because Mitch was the one who knew explosives, and he was dead. And yet, she got herself blinded because she knew Clementine wasn’t lying to her. She trusted her enough to know…

Well yeah. There’s a bomb.

Beyond that, however, Violet decides to do some arts and crafts, even though she says they’re stupid. Or Violet’ll ask for a dance that she’s desperately yearned for. She’ll talk to Clementine, a lot, even if she didn’t mean to do it “so much.”

Clementine as an anchor never truly corrodes. It’s tested down one of the routes, yet by the end of it, the relationship is maintained.

…there’s a final note which taps into this.

We come back again to identity one last time. For a brief anecdote—nestled within the shadows of what exhaustion this essay has gone over with Minnie and Brody, and now Clementine—, but an important one. Violet’s sense of identity will remain to be untold because we don’t have that perspective. She never talks about herself like that, so there’s no true insight for Clementine to gather.

Yet there are scant traces of identity diffusion, or an incoherent identity, ceaselessly disturbed by external influences.

This calls back to a copycat nature where borderline personalities will imitate in order to find stability. Ambitions, beliefs, interests—these all go right along with it, because they very well can change, and do so radically. Impulsions in way of severe life choices are made on the foundation this nature provides.

And that foundation is not strong.

There is no way to truly understand and deconstruct Violet’s sense of identity, yet, her behavior and choices made throughout the season can give us something to chew on.

Between the two routes, Violet is…a hair shy from being an entirely different person. The Violet Clementine brings onto the boat is not the same as the Violet she meets there. By contrast, Louis remains consistent; bring him on the boat, and he acts as expected—same with when we find him…without a tongue.

One is Clementine’s Violet. The other is Minerva’s Violet.

In both routes, Violet’s impulsion changes her life’s trajectory. She either shoots Minnie, or, she goes after the bomb and blinds herself. In one route, she’s outspoken, combative to the Delta, and fiercely loyal to the school; in the other, she does behave like how Minnie described her—never could talk to people, never to be class president. The Violet in that second route is withdrawn and quiet…

But she does confront Clementine.

She mimics Minerva’s newfound bellicosity that she dawned from the Delta, and it’s pitted against Clementine by following both her and Lilly’s word.

Going back to the first episode, where Brody tells Clementine that Violet withdrew herself from everyone, a lot of that was depression. Violet also actively told herself to push everyone away (…except Tenn, a remnant of the twins). However, there is a read here that she withdrew herself because there was no one left for Violet to mirror. She reverted herself back to the girl who sat in front of the television, with her grandmother’s fresh corpse just behind her.

Not to say that Violet doesn’t have a personality on her own. No, she still does. Having a weak sense of identity doesn’t automatically mean that there’s no identity at all. It can just mean the self-perception of identity is weak, but given that it is a self-perception, what is Violet going to draw from if she doesn’t…know how to read herself?

So Clementine meets Violet in the midst of this. She’s sarcastic and grates for a minute about the car. She keeps up a wall between her and Clementine. But by the end of the episode, and the start of the second, here Violet is cleaver at hand, about to lead the school.

Marlon scathes when she stands toe-to-toe. Talks about her being difficult again—but that in itself is ambiguous, because does this mean she’s gone toe-to-toe before, or does this mean Violet has a tendency to be inconsistent? And was that night another inconsistency?

But then… Louis. He admires the fact that Violet is like his white knight. He relies on her to protect him, because he knows that there is no doubt—she will.

Then being a leader. That comes as a surprise to presumably everyone. There’s a few points of dialogue that suggest it, others that blatantly say it, and then more few beats where we see the contention between Violet’s leadership and the schoolkids.

There’s conflict here. Violet is inconsistent in who she wants to be.

And it’s just that, isn’t it?

The TWDG community has long since decided that Violet’s arc is about letting go of Minnie (for those who see past the “rebound” thing), and self-discovery. Which is still true, but through the lens of BPD, there’s another layer to this. It’s about learning to let go despite disorder. And then, it’s learning what she wants from people, and who she wants to emulate, again, despite disorder.

What kind of person does Violet want to be?

And this is distinct from Louis, because with Louis, it is also a self-discovery. He is care-free, live in the moment, to a detriment. To be quite frank, the only reason why he got that far into the apocalypse was because he relied on his community. Not because he couldn’t contribute, but because he has his fair share of self-depreciation.

But there is no question. He knows who he is, and he knows the kind of man he wants to be. It’s why Louis does talk about his sense of self as much as he does.

Whereas Violet really doesn’t, perhaps because she can’t. All of what she confines in Clementine is the fact that things get overwhelming, and she gets confused. Quite frequently. But also, her relationships. Everything external for her, because… Again, she struggles to articulate what’s going on internally, because of that confusion. It takes time for that articulation to be feasible.

Violet has a patchwork identity. She’s kept traits of others—such as the singing. Granted, everybody does this. However, there’s her own within patchwork, but those have gone largely unexplored in the past.

Then here’s Clementine, the catalyst to this arc.

Which begs the question, why? What about Clementine has this impact on Violet?

Something about her draws Violet in.

At first, yeah. Clementine’s new. There’s an air of mystery around a girl who totals a car at Ericson’s front lawn, with a kid in tow. But that mystery alone doesn’t equate to a cleaver pulled, guarding the new people from the rest—her own people.

The answer is rather simple: Violet is mirroring Clementine, so all there is to do is look at that reflection. And we find a leader. We find someone who is compassionate, and does everything to fight for their own. Actually fight. Tooth-and-nail. Someone who does whatever it takes to survive, even if that means rubbing the good ol’ walker jelly, or, taking risks to secure a bag of food.

Clementine’s compassion for people is evident once she wakes up, and she has A.J by her side. Her skills in leadership, her drive to fight, to survive—those are all made very clear at the train station, with both Louis and Violet following her lead.

So Violet mimicked. She found the same traits within herself, then elevated them. Brought them to the surface.

As the relationship continues to build—platonic or romantic—, Violet finds reciprocation. She’s not just emulating what Clementine would like to see. After all, she was sat in the headmaster’s chair while Clementine and A.J were still exiled. That indicates how Violet found, if not a comfort, a consolation in that part of herself.

The reciprocation continues whenever Clementine responds to her, and she validates Violet, she shows interest in what Violet says, and what Violet wants to do. Violet can ramble on and on as long as she wants, and Clementine would still listen. Violet (if romanced) can ask for a dance, and Clementine would oblige. Either way, Violet gives Clementine a pin. Clementine puts it on.

It's that compassion, and it cascades authenticity off Clementine to the people she surrounds herself with. She’s also someone who feels strongly. This character is a very empathetic person. Throughout S1, Clementine was perceptive of the people around her, and she cared. Deeply so. S2, the same thing, even if her morality began to grey. The start to closing herself off to protect herself was present. S3 as well, especially in her drive to find A.J once she learned he was still alive, out there somewhere.

Throughout the seasons, there are also plenty of moments where her empathy shows. Clementine does genuinely feel what the people around her express. Like with Louis, when his tongue is cut. You can hear in her voice how pained she is, regardless of the relationship itself. She’s pained because Louis is.

And given what she’s lived through on top of that? Clementine would absolutely put 100% in a relationship, enough to match someone like Violet.

There is another reason to this why, and the thought struck me when I was reminded of an easter egg during Violet and Clementine’s scene up on the belltower. A constellation, which Clementine can draw for herself, and he’ll wink right back at her:

Kenny.

This connection is an interesting one to make for a scene with Violet. It’s cheeky first and foremost.

Regardless, there’s a parallel drawn here. Violet and Kenny are very similar, in that…Kenny likely had BPD. TWDGhas two seasons, then a couple flashbacks, where we can read it so. That man was volatile himself. Fiercely loyal, but could absolutely flip on a dime if his perception of the people around did not align with what he desired—it’s why he’s so fickle with Lee, to the point the gameplay reflects it, and then Clementine as well, because this behavior was the ultimate antagonist. His spiral down mental health escalated, and escalated, and escalated.

And he’s guilty. Tells Clementine that to leave him, or to shoot him, is the right choice to make.

But should the two survive together, with dreams of driving down to Florida, we find that he…is okay. He’s stable. His anchorage with Clementine and A.J is strong, without ambivalence. In this storyline, she sees that with people like him, sticking around through the bullshit can be worth the trouble.

Of course, it’s also a testament whether or not it is worth it. Some people, including myself, left Kenny in S2. Because the turmoil through the season was just that significant.

He genuinely cares, but like my mom, Kenny still hurts. Especially in S2. Because despite himself, he just could never seem to get past what he felt, and his impulses.

Clementine’s relationship with Kenny varies across different choices made, and the interpretations thereof. My personal interpretation of Kenny will contrast wildly to another. And that’s okay.

But whatever the interpretation is, and the choices made, Clementine has experience with people like Violet. She’s lived through the type of behavior conditions BPD and alike bring. She knows how to navigate them, and find healthy grounds.

Clementine keeps an open line of communication with Violet. Expresses interest, and accepts what Violet herself has to offer. But she also has her boundaries. For one, A.J. He is her priority. Two, when Violet fights her, Clementine fights back because it’s not okay—do not lay a hand on me. Now, whether or not she would’ve fought like she did if there was no bomb, and A.J was still in the cell…

I don’t know. I assume it would’ve been one of those major choices of the game. Either talk her down, or fight.

…similar to what Lee has with Kenny, up in the attic after the house in Savannah is swarmed, or on the train before that.

Bringing Kenny into the conversation is…funny, in a way. At least to me. I write all this, because TWDG secured its place in my heart by being the very thing I needed through a really, really bad year where my mental health (BPD) reared its ugly head. TWDG as a whole, but S2 especially. I realize why so many people have issues with the season, and I get it. It’s only natural for that to happen when every season has its distinctive personality—not everyone will gel with its voice. That, and it does have its fair share of flaws.

But if it was not for S2, I would not be in the fandom. Because that season was 2019 boiled down to the pure chaos I inadvertently put myself through, and it did so by having me play a character who when she was taken seriously, she just could not do it right, then…, when she wasn’t, it was out of neglect, where the adults put themselves first. Every. Time. And…one of those adults was a blunt reflection of it all.

Up until the final moment. The breaking point.

It’s how I felt inside my head. And still do, sometimes. When I’m stuck inside a season rooted in instability—a winter—, things just keep happening, and there is no end, even though I try to maintain the fantasy of peace in those slow moments. But…there’s just no end. There’s only escalation.

It was something I needed to experience in isolation, where I understood that it’s just a game, and it’s within the scope of 7.5 hours.

Swiftly thereafter, I started writing. Because again, it’s what I’ve always done. So AYDF came to be, where Clementine’s an alcoholic, but not because she’s legitimately an alcoholic in the gameplay. I get she’s not; my Clementine is an alcoholic because…it’s an obscure remark of borderline, and an exploration wherein I thought to use an entirely different disorder to express such a thing. In part because I’d yet to really (re)consider BPD (it wasn’t until some time later that I understood), but also…I’m a storyteller. Having alcoholism represent BPD is interesting.

It’s all why I adore TWDG, and my Clementine, and ADYF. Together, they’re an anchor of mine.

Clementine and Violet’s relationship included, because I did not expect to find Violet. I knew about their relationship before playing—heard it whilst I did light research on which games to buy. But I didn’t expect to find a character who…also emulates what S2 did for me. Just, in a more matured light than who I was in 2019. Also didn’t expect the relationship to provide growth for my Clementine in regards to these personalities, because mine did absolutely struggle the first time—with Kenny, and the devastating choice she made.

Cuz like.

Oops. A.J’s still alive. Um. Whelp.

(…for context—because I know the assumption—, no, Jane was not there. I left S2 with both her and Kenny dead. Clementine just shot the last adult who could’ve helped A.J.)

To see the chances where Clementine is the person Violet needed—to treat her well—, and take those chances, I didn’t expect to find Violentine as this embodiment of a healthy relationship despite borderline. It’s not perfect—obviously it’s not—, but all things considered, it is healthy by the end, no matter the route.

It’s regardless of whether or not Violet actually has BPD. She’s not diagnosed, and I don’t intend to have her be diagnosed. But at the same time…, this essay kinda makes it clear that Violet is a textbook example anyway. A good one to me.

And a good one to A.J.

[A.J, & Serving an Example]

Throughout this essay, the priority has been clarifying BPD, and unveiling what it feels like. A mechanism that may lead to the disorder, then the mechanisms that the disorder itself deploys. How it effects the person, in their identity or, most notably with Violet, relationships.

And the way Violet articulates herself, through the several dialogue lines within this post, it is evident that she’s aware. There’s a self-deprecation to it, but, Violet knows her issues and what it does, whether or not she knows its name—BPD, or something else entirely. Given the ambiguity that the game allows, it is still left unsaid.

But that’s the first thing: she does talk about it. Violet knows herself well enough to.

Not only that, she demonstrates a responsibility in her disorder.

With this essay, there hasn’t been much in the way of responsibility. Because it isn’t until A.J enters the discussion do we truly see this come to light.

I will be the first to say that, while I can sympathize with other people of the diagnosis—even empathize—, I am rather critical when it comes to being responsible of our actions. From knowing a trigger but being around it anyway, to refusing to communicate when a hand reaches out—there’s issues I take. Because there are things that needs to be done with BPD, and those are not it.

The fact of the matter is, sorry, it fucking sucks. But also, it is your disorder, as it is mine. It isn’t your fault that it happened, but it did, and you’re kinda just stuck living with it. It’s not the responsibility of anyone else to fix and manage every aspect of BPD.

Finding people like Clementine, or a support system like the schoolkids, will do wonders because, yes, they can help. But Clementine, and the schoolkids, also have their fair share of shit. To expect them to drop everything is unfair, the same way that being expected to just drop your BPD for someone else’s sake is unfair.

It’s a give and take. There will be a ceaseless line of dialogue in the name of boundaries, and clarification, and everything in between.

So we return to Violet’s apology to Clementine.

“I wanted to wait ‘til you were up and about, but how I behaved on the boat… It was really unfair. My head was so messed up—by Lilly, and… And Minnie. I was so wrapped up in my own shit…” [Ep.4 | Take Us Back | School]

She doesn’t excuse it. Violet gives reason—and that reason is, more or less, she was not in a right mind—, and she articulates what position she was in, but there is no excuse.

Because the difference between an excuse, and an apology, is that one is done with the intention to be forgiven, the other is done with the intention to resolve—the forgiveness is a hope, not the reward.

Being able to do such a thing, unprompted, speaks volumes to Violet’s maturity, and her understanding of her own mental health. For people with BPD, more often than not, it’s easier to blame someone else because…looking inward, and realizing you royally fucked up again is not easy. Or, it’s easier to use apologies to seek a reward—like forgiveness—, and to indulge in a brief gratification that may ensure a person stays.

Well, okay. The same can really be said for everyone. BPD, however, does has its way in amplification.

Nevertheless, A.J is able to witness this moment, take it in. It’s a lesson in itself.

But given Violet is saved, and Louis is mute, there is another moment which not only speaks volumes, but it serves to A.J clarity.

After the last meal shared in the game series, and Violet with Clementine deliberates over a caravan, A.J can ask Violet one thing:

“Aren’t you still mad I killed Tenn?” [Ep.4 | Take Us Back | School]

It’s a fresh wound for her. The pain of it is laid clear across Violet’s face. However, in response,

“The thing you said on the bridge…, that he was messing up all the time. It wasn’t something new, you know. Tenn got himself or other people into trouble all the time, long before you guys got here. He was always so lost. He lived in a world that just…isn’t there, you know? And that’s why I tried to look after him. But when I was pulling him away from the walkers, and Minnie, I could also see…he just wasn’t there anymore.” [Ep.4 | Take Us Back | School]

Or, it’s complicated, but she understands why. Violet is able to acknowledge where A.J comes from. She does, and she sets aside her emotions. There is no corrosion here. Violet doesn’t devalue A.J for this, even though the gravity of his choice would’ve provided a validity. A warped and intense validity, but one all the same.

They trade more words, and amongst them, Violet asks a damning question, and A.J accepts:

[A.J] “So you’re mad, but sad.” [Violet] “Can I be that for a while?” [A.J] “Yeah, it’s okay.” [Ep.4 | Take Us Back | School]

A.J acknowledges her. She asks for further acknowledgement—the time to heal.

And he understands, and he allows her the room.

…the thing about Violet and A.J, in contrast to Louis and A.J, is that A.J looks up to these characters for very different reasons. Louis is a great guy. I want A.J to be like him, or better yet, a matured version of Louis. He’s charming, charismatic, good-natured, and through the game, we do see that he begins to donate an effort to do better.

Really, it’s not a mystery as to why A.J grew attached so quickly.

Violet, meanwhile, is confusing. She’s not that great with people, is instead a bit of a pill to swallow, and with her trauma comes a volatility.

Sure, she was the one who stood-up for Clementine and A.J when Louis didn’t, but in playing this season, I’ve always gotten the implication that A.J—at least initially—does have a preference for Louis. And I say implication because it’s never said outright, but there are some dialogues and reactions of his that had me wonder. I also don’t mean he doesn’t like Violet, no, but more that he doesn’t necessarily understand what Clementine sees in her.

At least, that isn’t until time passes, and more is spent with Violet, does she start to grow on him as well.

Louis models a more…digestible person. He has his problems, but they are easy to explain and understand. He was a spoiled brat. He sabotaged a marriage over something so very petty. And now, where his upbringing still rears its head through his immature work ethic, he struggles with deep insecurities.

There is a complexity here. One that does deserve its own essay, though I’m not really the right person for that. (Here’s an essay, by @stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale. Pretty good. And they gots a lot of essays like it. …but also, again, sorry for tagging; I know this is absurdly long. Lol.)

Violet, meanwhile, comes with a confusion because her issues are so steeped in stigma. Which is to be expected in conditions like BPD, where…yeah, there’s the chance she will lash out, do things she doesn’t mean, because a switch was flipped.

Where Louis is someone that A.J would like to aspire to, Violet seem to stand as a figure A.J can grow to appreciate. Having her as a model gives A.J the chance to understand that with people like Violet, you give them space and time. Work with them, and if they are genuine people, they will prove themselves worth the effort.

It does take effort, however, and the time spent with them.

And if there is no effort given, and no time spent…

Yeah. Violet will be that wallflower.

[Conclusion]

There’s nothing else this essay really has to say at its core. BPD is a very, very confusing disorder. Both internally, and externally. Stigma doesn’t help. It is, after all, a huge reason why I wrote this.

Because the stigma is quite honestly the worst thing about BPD. In many resources—whether they’re linked below, or you find them on your own—, you’ll find that a BPD diagnosis often comes with others right along with it. Addictions, eating disorders, depression…

To those who don’t know better (or maybe they do), that’s just…natural. It’s how it is.

But I remember going to my family, telling them that there is something wrong, only…to be assured otherwise. Not for my sake, but for theirs. Because BPD isn’t greatly understood, and when it is, realizing that none of them got to save me from my mother in time has its way in denial. What my mother did wasn’t right, however, I could’ve ended up like her.

Just not through those initial traumas.

Rather, I could’ve, had I made the same mistakes she did with the silent traumas thereafter—decades, now, where the people around me refuse to acknowledge my words, and listen to me, because I know the look in the eye, and I sometimes find it in the mirror. Those initial traumas may have been the first lashing, but it’s the time after which seals BPD within a person. Because the condition goes unchecked. It ferments. People tell you one thing, but you feel another, and as a child, you decide to trust their word, not your own body. Which breaks you. Gets to a point where there’s no real return, because people like me weren’t allowed to learn otherwise.

Understanding what happened to me was a very lonely experience, despite the sheer amount of people I had around me.

…and it hurts, somewhere deep in the recesses of my alexithymia, that my abuse never came from people who hated me. My mother didn’t, not in those initial years. None of my family did, in the decades into adulthood. But still, they hurt. The abuse came from the people I least want to admit, in ways that media would deem too boring for our idled attention spans.

I proclaimed that BPD is when a mechanism deploys, and the cost means a sacrifice of one integral function. It is still true—the mechanism, alongside the personality, and that specific initial trauma will influence how that BPD is expressed.

Yet, Borderline Personality Disorder happens when a mechanism deploys at a great cost, and that sacrifice is never restored. It is the neglect of the individual’s emotional turmoil after catastrophe that does it, where the same mechanism festers until it is there to stay as an ugly, depraved scar.

It is the disorder where a person was never allowed to heal, despite the mind and body screaming that they need to.

So when I hear BPD and the diagnoses alongside, I hear yet another time where someone likely knew there was something wrong, but they chose to find stability by other means, because it wasn’t found in the people around. Addictions bring those dopamine hits that BPD elevates. Eating disorders, where maybe…they can find something about themselves to control. Because there is none day to day, nor in relationships. And depression? Honestly, it speaks for itself; if a person manages to find themselves with a tumultuous anchor, or no anchor at all, it’s easy to slip into.

Or, if the diagnoses are born conditions, like ADHD or autism, or others, like schizophrenia, those speak to a concern where those conditions were left unchecked, and they festered as BPD, they were what predisposed it…

Yet, when I hear a story like Violet’s, it is a true reassurance.

Sure she’s not diagnosed. But still. The game doesn’t hide anything. It doesn’t “assure” the player that Violet isn’t this type of person, that she isn’t literally sick in the head.

TFS shows her issues quite plainly. And it’s because it does, and refuses to lie to make anyone feel better, does the game promise something that is so, so desperately yearned for in those with borderline.

It’s acknowledgement.

To tell someone that, yes, you’re not confused that you feel confused amid a chaos. You are. But there are ways to work with it, and around it. You can, actually, have strong relationships with people, and in those like Clementine, even if/when you fail, they will stay, because they understand.

To tell someone all of that is a first step towards understanding BPD, a disorder so shrouded because of stigma, and little else.

And so you have a character who still has her struggles with it, but she has a support system, and she’s taught herself enough to manage—did it well, considering the circumstances. She was left to her own devices. Sure, she had her grandparents to escape from home, but…, well. Yeah. After her grandma, Violet was then sent straight to the boarding school. The apocalypse struck. The adults left. And though her community still cherishes her, Violet…was designated as their wallflower.

So it’s funny, to have found this character this way, because Louis was right.

Violet does grow on you. If you let her, anyway. She can be suffocating.

Anyway. Hope you enjoyed.

Volt out.

Volt's Library (my writing) Clem Comic Essay #1 (canon stuff) Clem Comic Essay #2 (language)

Links: to start your own research

BPD (General) | 1 ; 2 ; 3 (4 types); 4 (quiet BPD)

BPD (Stigma) | 1 ; 2 ; 3 ; 4 ; 5 (r/BPD)

BPD (Anchors/FP) | 1 ; 2 ; 3 ; 4 (r/BPD)

BPD vs Bipolar | 1 ; 2 ; 3 (comorbid BPD & Bipolar)

BPD (Identity Disturbance) | 1 ; 2 ; 3 ; 4 (r/BPD)

BPD (in Relationships) | 1 ; 2 ; 3

#volt's library #twdg essay #fandom essay #essay #long essay #TW: this is intended to explore BPD; so with that comes the sensitive topics as mentioned in the introduction #twdg #twdg violet #twdg clementine #violentine #twdg louis #louis & violet 🥺🥺🥺#twdg minnie #twdg minerva #twdg aj #twdg brody #twdg 4 #the walking dead game #bpd #borderline personality disorder #the amount of times i looked something up and saw myself staring back at me is…too many times #like okAY GOOGLE i GET IT i have bpd #i know #LET ME WRITE ABOUT TWDG IN PEACE #thank you #and also thank the wiki transcripts my gOD #and and gotta love reminding myself that violet's dad was canonically an alcoholic #which is concerning for aydf since…well…gotta love alcoholic clementine #also also i do intend to edit/polish this later but what i wanted to say is here anyway so #im gonna nap now

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planecrashjesus · 4 months ago

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You know, I’m not criticizing s2 caitvi because it’s toxic. I love my ships toxic, in fact I prefer it. It’s just odd that the narrative seems to think it’s painting a healthy relationship when it’s uh. Not?

#koz.txt #caitvi #there’s already a power dynamic with cait as a rich cop and vi as a borderline homeless alcoholic lol #they also made it toxic in a somehow uninteresting way

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lunareclipsegirl · 10 months ago

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So I read that fic you just screenshot (the Taylor and Eddie one) and the weirdest part? Buck putting conditions on them remaining friends I mean like it was tames he goes to therapy and does a support group with Tommy but it was still weird?!

Yeah, I skimmed it, and this "I forgive you but there are CONDITIONS" is bonkers. It's so ridiculous and unbelievable in the context of their friendship. And real life. And this author wrote buddie before...

#also making eddie a borderline alcoholic is a choice #smh #eddie diaz #evan buck buckely

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klara-rosa · 1 year ago

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On wednesday I had my first therapy session in 3 weeks and it was such an emotional one that I really struggled to hold back tears (and I know it's normal to cry in therapy but in all my years of going I have only cried twice in therapy and one of those times was my LAST session with my previous therapist when I felt like the world's gonna end because AGAIN I lost someone important to me)

Anyway so I tried to be as honest and open as possible and it was so nice to just have someone acknowledge that you feel like shit, like my therapist said she thought about everything going on recently and she saw that I'm really struggling and that my level of mental/emotional pain is high

We talked about all kinds of things and she also said that she would like me to see a psychologist to have a diagnostic evaluation to see what's really going on diagnose wise because she thinks I might have PTSD and when I told her that I already did such an evaluation once fore BPD she became all ears and told me she thinks I might have BPD and she gave me a book to read up on it

So all of a sudden I might have 2 more mental illnesses 👍 but I'm actually pretty chill about it...like, okay. Just please help me get answers. Tell me what to do to become better. PLEASEEEE

#BPD is not new to me because i did think and was kinda diagnosed with it for a couple months once before #I read some of the book and there are a LOT of things that match up but some things don't match at all #like I don't have bouts of anger come up or take drugs alcohol whatever I also don't harm myself or have a reckless sex life or something #I am constantly feeling empty and like I don't know who I am and what I like #and sometimes that emptiness just crashes in on me all at once and I feel like I'm losing it #I also am deeply afraid of losing people and being abandonded #And other things #not everything matches but a lot of things do and I think there are a lot of things I do/feel/say that could be borderline-related #anyway I will go do that and we will see #I'll also think about medication again because I'm really really really not well atm #We also talked about me possibly ending therapy and she said she would have to let me go but that she doesn't really want to #and that she thinks part of why I want to leave is because we get to the 'greasy' stuff so the things that actually made me go to therapy #Anyway #My life is a mess and I don't have any sense of self anymore 👍#personal #mental health #therapy diaries #borderline personality disorder #bpd

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celiababy · 4 months ago

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Ain't Right

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: You have a major (borderline obsessive) crush on Joel, and you're on a mission to fuck him.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT MDNI, age gap (56/20), swearing, fingering (fem!receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, size kink, cum eating, name calling, kinda mean Joel, alcohol, vomiting, an extremely brief mention of suicide

Disclaimer: I lowkey don't know the logistics of the show so if some things are wrong please look over it I'm just trying to write smut about Joel Miller godbless.

Ain't Right part 2

Ever since that tortured old man showed up in Jackson, your life hasn't been the same.

Tommy's older brother, and your absolute undoing.

When Joel Miller rode into town, it was like everything suddenly made sense. The skies got clearer, the air smelled better, and the birds even chirped their love songs louder.

Everything about him drew you in; his cold demeanor, stoic face, tired eyes—but gentle around those he cared about, which was only a few select people.

And you certainly were not one of those select people.

Joel didn't know what to think about you.

To him, you were odd. Yes, you were undoubtedly the most beautiful girl in Jackson, but he felt distance between the two of you was essential.

He felt this way because he knew.

Joel wasn't oblivious to your stares; he might've been an old man, but he remembered the laws of attraction fairly well.

He didn't like the thought of you liking him.

You were young, attractive, and had plenty of age-appropriate prospects just begging for your attention. Every boy in Jackson wanted a piece of you—but you only had eyes for Joel.

He was getting old and tired, ain't no reason why you should be so fond over him.

He also didn't like that you made your attraction so obvious. It made people whisper, and Joel about had enough teasing from Tommy.

"You gonna let that young thing jump your bones or what, Joel?" Is an example of the few things his brother would chirp at him whenever you were around and had eyes on him like he was a target.

So, all things considered, it's no surprise when Joel is reluctant to make a supply run with you.

You had begged Tommy to let you go out and finally start pulling your weight, carefully adding that Joel would be a great teacher for a first timer like yourself.

You stand near the truck, squeezing the straps of your backpack while watching Joel and Tommy whisper to themselves a couple feet away.

"You can't find anyone else?" Joel growls lowly, narrowing his eyes at his insufferable brother who he’d really like to strangle right now.

"Are you seriously scared of a twenty year old girl, Joel?" Tommy asked exasperatedly, throwing his arm out in disbelief. "It'll take two hours tops, what the hell are you so scared of?" Joel is exhaling through his nose, dragging a hand down his jaw in complete disgruntlement.

"You know what the hell I'm scared of Tommy—goddammit," He gets in his brother’s face before realizing you’re still watching them.

He takes a moment to back up and calm down, breathing out through his nose.

"I do not need this town thinkin' I am encouraging this girls...feelin's." He murmurs lowly.

Tommy rolls his eyes before shoving Joel's backpack into his chest.

"Just don't fuck her, Joel. How hard could it be?"

Joel watches as Tommy turns his back and walks away, leaving just you and him.

Joel had spent a lot of time making sure he was never in a situation alone with you—now he was about to be your unsupervised mentor.

He feels a groan try and crawl its way out his throat, but he pushes it down.

He starts walking to the truck, not even looking at you as he passes and yanks the driver side door open with more force than necessary.

"Let's make this quick." He grunts out, climbing inside.

You do the same, only with a little bit more enthusiasm. ***

The trip is a complete bust.

Joel barely paid you any attention, no matter how many flirty gestures you made at him.

You'd say something remotely suggestive and he'd either glare at you, or just flat out ignore you.

But you were relentless. Giving up on him wasn't in the cards for you, no matter how many judgmental looks he casted your way.

You guys had been driving back to town for around five minutes; Joel has kept his eyes firmly on the road in fear of you sparking a conversation with him.

But you do anyways.

You turn your body to face him in the bench seat, your eyes cascading down his breath-taking side profile.

You zoned in on the gray patches of his beard, and how his face had the remnants of a long, unforgiving life weaved into his wrinkles and scars.

You're momentarily rendered speechless by his looks before he side-eyes you.

"What?" He huffs out, not being able to handle your intense stare any longer.

"Why not?"

A beat.

"What?" He asks again, his brows furrowing together, an annoyed and confused expression painting his features.

"Why won't you fuck me?"

Joel physically winces at your language, scoffing in what looks to be disgust as he starts shaking his head.

"We're not starting this." He snaps firmly, a tone in his voice that you haven't heard before.

Completely disregarding his words, you start.

"Is it because I'm not pretty enough?" Joel groans out, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Is it because there's someone else?" He's close to snapping. "Is it because you can't get it up? I heard thats a problem with guys your age-"

Joel slams on the brakes, sending you lurching forward. He shoves the truck into park before turning to face you, a scary look on his face.

"I am not going to fuck you--Christ almighty," Joel raises his voice at you.

You're staring at him, wide eyes and lips parted in surprise. You weren't really expecting this.

"you're bustin' my fuckin' balls, Look kid," He starts up again, this time with a softer tone. "M'about 40 years too old for you-"

You cut him off with a murmur. "36, I did the math."

"Same damn thing," he snaps, shaking his head. "Point is—you don't needa be wastin' your time with me; there are plenty boys your age that will satisfy your...you."

You scoff in his face but try to disguise it by clearing your throat.

"I'm not asking you to marry me, Joel," You start, a sad smile spreading across your lips. "S'just sex." You say with a shrug, blush coating your cheeks because now your mind is imagining sex with him.

He stays silent and looks away from you, closing his eyes like he couldn’t believe this was happening.

That urges you to say more.

"I won't tell anyone," You're practically whispering, looking down at your fidgeting hands in your lap. "I'd let you do anything you wanted to me."

Joel's heart cinches in his chest at your words, mostly because he can tell you're being so genuine.

Why the hell did you like him so much? He just couldn’t understand it.

But he can't entertain this any longer because he knows if he did, he'd give into you.

"I don't wanna hear another goddamn word outta your mouth." Joel says in a strikingly even and calm tone, putting the truck into drive and continuing back.

He's eerily silent, and so is the rest of the trip because you're too dejected to speak.

Eventually, you both arrive home and you're fast to get out of the truck.

You slam the door and keep your head down as you walk away, snow crunching beneath your boots.

Joel takes his time, watching you storm off with tired eyes.

He feels bad for being so rough on you, but he figured it was the only way to get you to stop liking him.

Tommy walks up, a concerned look on his face as he looks back between you and Joel.

"Guessin' you didn't fuck her."

***

Nobody had seen you in days.

The pain of rejection had you in a mental place that you had never experienced before.

No one has ever denied you—ever.

The situation was 100x worse considering you actually liked Joel, and he wasn't just another toy to play with.

Joel figured his life would get easier with you not around, and it kinda did in some aspects.

But he couldn't stop the gnawing feeling of guilt slowly eating at him like a parasite.

He'd been cruel to you in the way he went about things, and he felt bad.

Had he really broken your heart? He didn't know you liked him that much.

He sits in his living room, contemplating how to go about this entirely fucked up situation.

He debates making amends with you, apologizing and rejecting you again but in a gentler way.

He deliberates on his plan of action while nursing a glass of whiskey before he's interrupted by three bangs on his front door, followed by a screeching: "JOEL"

He mutters a 'what the fuck' under his breath, walking to the door and picking his 9mil up on the way.

His eyes widen when he sees you-standing there in all your glory.

It's the middle of winter and snowing like hell, yet you're wearing shorts and a tank top with a beer bottle in your hand.

"Jesus, kid-what the fuck," Joel ushers you inside quickly, taking his big jacket off the coatrack and draping it over you.

He also tosses his gun to the side, obviously you were no threat.

"You tryin' to get frostbit? Christ," he's swearing and muttering profanities as he guides you over to the couch, now basically swaddling you in blankets.

You've never been inside his house before, only ever walked passed it a few times. It smells like him.

You, however, smell like alcohol and bad decisions.

Joel picked up on how drunk you were the minute you stumbled through the door. He takes the bottle from your hand and sets it aside somewhere, glaring at you like how a mad parent would.

"The hell are you doin' out in the snow like that? Fuckin' death wish or somethin'?"

His words are kinda fuzzy in your ears, you're so drunk that you barely even register them.

An unprompted giggle spills from your lips as you shake your head at him.

"It's not snowing silly," You chide, making him out to be an idiot when, in actuality, it's a damn blizzard outside.

He knows from that statement alone that you are way off your rocker tonight.

"How much have ya had to drink, kid?" Joel asks, raking a hand through his graying hair.

"Don't call me kid," You snap, a quick flash of anger in your expression. "M'not a kid."

Joel rolls his eyes so hard that he probably caused a tsunami on the other side of the world.

“Yeah yeah, whatever. What are you doin’ here?” He asks exasperatedly, dragging a hand down his jaw while looking at your trembling figure.

There’s a long pause before you answer. You just got distracted by his big brown eyes.

“Jus’ wanted to say hi.” You murmur, unable to tear your gaze away from his face.

“Say hi?” He reiterates, looking at you like you’ve actually lost your mind.

You probably have.

After a moment, Joel can’t help but chuckle in disbelief, letting his body lean back against the couch.

The absurdity of it all turned humorous to him.

Here you are, sitting in his living room, practically nude with only his coat and blankets protecting your modesty, having just trekked through the snow all for what? To say hey?

You’re still sitting there, motionless and trying to remember how to breathe because his laughing face has your heart lighting off fireworks.

“Fuckin’ hell—hi.” Is all he says, turning his head to the side to look at you as he crosses his arms over his chest.

You smile like a dope at him, so extremely happy to be there in his company.

But the alcohol in your system is fighting you, and you’re finding it hard to keep your eyes open.

“S’it cool if I say the nigh?” You slur, falling vertically on the couch, your head crashing onto Joel’s thigh.

You nuzzle your cheek against the fabric of his jeans and Joel is just about to gently push you off, but he stops himself.

You look so comfortable and so at peace that Joel can’t do anything except stare at you.

Your cheek is slightly smushed, your lips are parted, your eyes are shut and don’t plan on opening—it’s insane to him how at home you looked.

Like you belonged here, head rested on his lap.

Fuck.

He was fucked this time.

He doesn’t move you. Instead, he fixes the blankets on top of you so you’re fully covered, and sits there with you the entire night.

He’s really gone soft.

***

When morning comes, you’re first to wake up, accompanied by a splitting headache.

You don’t even notice how Joel’s hand had fallen onto your waist some time during the night because you’re too busy making a b-line for the bathroom.

You chuck your guts up into the toliet, clutching the porcelain and groaning out in pain.

Joel wakes up to the sound of your hurling, momentarily disoriented before he remembers last nights events.

He’s quick to come to your aid in the bathroom, wasting no time gathering your hair in his fist to get it out of your face.

"S'right, get it all out," He murmurs out encouragingly, seemingly unfazed by the disheveled sight of you.

You’re too sick to be embarrassed, that’ll come later surely.

He sits on the wall of the tub as he continues holding your hair back, yawning every now and then like this was just a regular Tuesday morning.

Eventually, by the mercy of God, you get it all out of your system and slump up against the wall.

“M’sorry,” You immediately apologize, figuring that is the only right move in this situation.

“Don’t be. Been through plenty'a that in my day.”

His words are uncharacteristically reassuring and you find yourself taken back by them.

You soon realize this is probably just the hazy morning Joel, the Joel where he isn't worried about anything except coffee and breakfast—like everything wrong in his life is put on the back burner for this short minute in time.

“I’ll get you some water and Advil, sit tight.” He grunts before standing up on his feet, knees popping as he walks out.

You watch as he leaves, wiping the corners of your mouth with the back of your hand.

Aside from the vomit part, you could get used to this.

You've never seen him so...domestic. His hair was all messy, his voice was raspy, he had that morning haze over his features that you felt so honored to witness.

You suddenly felt compelled to look at your own appearance, hopping to your feet and looking in the dirty mirror.

You resist the urge to audibly gasp at your reflection, opting for a disgusted look instead.

Your hair is a rats nest, your clothes are a mess, and your mascara has rubbed off in black smudge all over the skin around your eyes.

In a desperate attempt to look at least semi-presentable, you wash your face with water and comb through your hair with your fingers.

The idea that Joel had seen you looking like that was making your stomach churn again.

Before you can grovel about it any longer, he rounds the corner with a glass of water and little brown pills in his hand.

“Here,” He says softly, handing you the water and tilting the pills into your open palm. “Take these ‘n drink all that water and ya should get to feelin’ better.”

You do as he says, swallowing the Advil in one go before taking a big sip to wash it down.

His eyes drift down to your shoulder, where your tank top strap has fallen. No doubt from all that vigorous throwing up you were doing moments ago.

Without thinking, his fingers graze your forearm before bringing the strap back up to its correct position, clearing his throat in the process.

A beat of silence falls over the both of you.

You’re gobsmacked by the complete nonchalance of his touch, staring at him with your mouth slightly open in shock.

“What?” He asks defensively, his tone pointed.

You look between him and your shoulder strap, then slowly move to set your water down.

“Are you sure we can’t fuck?”

“Goddammit—” Joels cursing before you can even finish saying the last word in your sentence.

He turns away from you, probably the fastest you’ve seen anyone turn in their life, and walks towards his room with an accelerating pace.

He shakes his head in disbelief all the way down the hall, pivoting on his heel to duck into his bedroom.

You follow him, not really fazed by how he completely refused to answer your question, though you didn’t think he would anyway.

Before you can step foot into the threshold of his room, Joel walks out, causing you to back up.

He shoves a stack of clothes in your direction, looking down at you with a frustrated face. “Put these clothes on and go home.”

You look down, realizing he was letting you borrow a sweater and jeans of his so you didn’t die walking back to your house from the cold.

Your heart warms at this thoughtfulness.

Without wasting any time, you take the clothes from his hands, smiling happily. “Can I keep them?”

“Why the hell would you wanna keep my clothes?” He’s got that confused/angry look on his face as he asks, and you have to suppress a giggle at the sight of it.

You bring the pieces of fabric up to your nose and inhale, humming as you breathe out again. “They smell like you.”

“Christ,” Joel beings his hands up to rub at his eyes. “Fine, do whatever. Just hurry up and change, jesus,"

Ever the tease, you set down his clothes and begin to lift your tank top like you planned to change right in front of him.

Joel's hands shoot out to stop you, a 'don't try me,' look on his face.

"Put them on over your clothes," Joel says sternly, watching the way you sigh because you weren't fast enough in lifting your tank top off.

However, you sieze the opportunity in front of you.

Joel's hands are holding yours down, so you work to intertwine your fingers, invading his space by stepping forward.

"Or, you could take my clothes off," You purr, your chest now flush with his torso.

Joel exhales through his nose, his jaw clenching as he tried deciding how he was going to get out of this situation.

But then he paused.

Looking down at you now, so eager and wide eyed, made him wonder.

If he fucked you, and made you realize it wasn't what you were probably imagining in your head, maybe then you'd finally leave him alone.

He would just...pretend to be awful at sex.

(Even though it had been so long and he wasn't sure if he'd actually need to 'pretend' anymore.)

There's a long silence that drags out between the both of you.

Your stomach is doing flips because it's looking like he's finally going to agree.

His resolve cracks and Joel can't do anything but sigh in defeat.

Slowly, Joel pulls you back into his room, closing the door behind you both.

Time is moving in slow motion.

You can't believe it's finally happening.

He guides you back until the back of your knees hit his bed, prompting you to sit down on it.

"I'm only going to do this once," Joel's voice is uncharacteristically low and calm, and it has your core tightening.

You nod in acknowledgement, waiting to see what he's going to do next.

With care, he pushes your shoulder down so you're laying on your back. "Are you sure you want this?" He asks, brown eyes searching yours.

"Have I not made it obvious?" You quip, a giggle following shortly after.

Joel only shakes his head before his fingers latch around the fabric of your shorts, pulling them down and off your legs.

"S'pose you have." He murmurs, scratching the back of his neck.

You're vibrating with excitement and you repeat what you tried earlier, only this time succeeding with taking your top off.

Of course, you're not wearing a bra.

Joel realizes in that moment that he bit off way more than he could chew.

He hasn't seen breast that weren't on a soggy piece of paper in at least a few years, and yours--well, his cock stood no chance.

You hear him swallow, watching as he can't seem to stop staring at your chest.

Realizing that he might need a little encouragement to start speeding things along, you smile up at him and whisper, "touch me Joel".

Yeah, screw this. His plan of pretending to be bad was now entirely forgotten—he was going to do what he wanted, so help him god.

He huffs out a curse before sliding a hand up your torso, stopping once he's fully cupped one of your breasts in one hand. He kneads it like dough while using his other hand to disappear under your panties.

A choked moan erupts from your lips once you feel his fingers brush along your clit, rubbing around and spreading your slick around all too slowly.

"haven't even done anythin' yet and you're already fuckin' soaked..." He murmurs really to just himself, his eyes casting down to watch as he rips your underwear off impatiently.

"M'always like this whenever you're around," you mewl to spur him on, spreading your legs wider.

"Oh you are, huh?" Joel repeats back, the tiniest bit of cruelty in his tone that makes you shiver.

You nod, bucking your hips into his hand desperately.

"don't get why you like an old man like me, s'gross." His tone is flat but it's clear he's teasing by the way he curls his fingers inside of you. He's not really expecting a response, but you feel compelled.

You lurch forward, gasping at the feeling. "I really like you," You rush out breathlessly. "I'd do anything you wanted me to." You say earnestly as you stare into his eyes, loving what you're seeing.

Joel remembers when you told him that the first time, his heart cinching the same way it did then.

Joel is at war with himself. One side of him is screaming that this whole situation is fucked up and he is better off without you.

Another part of him thinks that this is the most he’s ever felt in a long time. And he doesn't want to lose it.

You can see the gears turning in his head. His fingers have slipped from you and you wince at the loss.

Slowly, you sit up. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, your nipples pressing into his shirt.

He's confused and momentarily panicked when your faces get so close together, his hands seeking purchase on your hips.

In an unexpected move, you rake your hands through the side of his hair, looking lovingly at his face.

"I just wanna be someone for you," You murmur, your face breaking a little as Joel's resolve also cracks. "Doesn't matter what. I'm very versatile." You mumble the last part to try and lighten the mood.

Joel just stares at you—something swimming behind his eyes that you can't quite place.

Eventually, he crashes his forehead against yours, sighing out.

"You're makin' this fuckin' impossible." He rasps before kissing you with a passion you've never felt before.

You feel victorious.

He's finally given in to you.

Eagerly, you kiss back, wrapping your legs around his torso and grinding your bare cunt against the bulge in his jeans.

"Then stop trying so hard to get rid of me," You sigh out, chasing his lips even as you're trying to speak.

He groans and you catch it in your mouth, the pressure on his clothed cock making him dizzy.

“Fuck,” He’s quick to unbuckle his belt, sliding it out of the loops and tossing it somewhere on the floor. “Lay back.” He demands and you immediately follow suit.

He's never been that...assertive with you before. It makes you tingle all over.

He looks starved as he peers down at you, specifically your cunt.

He literally can’t tear his eyes off your sex—he only looks up to your gaze when you let out an impatient whine.

He rips down his pants, letting his cock spring free and slap against his stomach.

Now you can’t tear your eyes away from his sex.

You’ve only dreamt it so many times, but now that it’s finally in front of you—it all just feels surreal.

It’s better than you imagined, perfect.

“I don’t have a—”

You know what he’s about to say so you cut him off immediately. “S’okay, like it raw. Closer to you that way.” You murmur.

Joel looks physically pained that he’s not inside you right now. For some reason, you just know all the right things to say.

“Closer to me?” He huffs out, hooking his arms around your thighs and pulling you down to the edge of the bed where he stood.

Now your cunt is flush with the base of his member and the sensation drives you both insane. “You’re fuckin’ insane.”

Joel rasps, but the way he says it reveals just how far he’s fallen. He knows you’re crazy, and yet here he is, balancing you out.

He glides his member back and forth against your folds, gathering up your wetness with a clenched jaw and furrowed brows.

He looks so concentrated—meanwhile you’re writhing with pleasure and impatience. Your cunt is clenching around nothing, desperate for him.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he murmurs to himself, eyes tracing all over you.

You freeze.

Joel had complimented you for the first time, and it was genuine.

He notices you stiffen and takes a moment to pause.

Your entire body erupts with goosebumps, your heart beating at exceptionally fast speeds.

He's worried for a second that something is horribly wrong.

“What?” He asks, confused at what’s got you so wound up.

Your face is flushed red as you bashfully giggle. “You called me pretty.”

Ah fuck.

Joel finds you so charming it hurts.

After he remembers how to breathe again, he rolls his eyes and clears his throat.

“I have my cock to your cunt, of course I find you pretty.”

You smile and shrug. “Still. Nice to hear.” You’re all smiles until his tip prods at your entrance, causing a gasp to leave your throat.

He continues to apply pressure with his tip and it’s driving you crazy.

“Fuck Joel—are you trying to kill me?” You whine, hips wiggling to get him in.

He scoffs and shakes his head. “Relax, m’almost there.”

Slowly, he begins pushing his way inside. His mushroom head breaches you entirely and it feels like you can hear the angels singing.

He continues forward, the stretch being mainly around the middle of his thick cock.

But you’re taking it like a champ.

Joel braces himself with hands on both sides of your torso as he bottoms out, a groan crawling its way out of his throat.

The sensation is absolutely delicious.

A little bit of pain from the stretch, but so much pleasure from the fullness.

“Joel, ohmygod you feel so good inside me.” You moan, throwing your head back.

Your hips start moving on their own, but he immediately stops you with two large hands.

“D-Don’t move—fuck.” Joel grumbles out, his face pinched together in what looked like pain.

You’re confused for a moment, thinking maybe that he might just be really into cockwarming.

But then it hits you.

“Were you gonna come?” The tone in your voice makes it seem like you’d be elated if that was the case—like the most flattering thing in the world.

Joel looks pissed that you caught on so quick.

In truth, the moment he put his tip in, he was holding back his orgasm.

Can you blame him? He’s only fucked his hand for the last couple years.

“S’been a while.” Is all he can say, his chest heaving up and down in concentration. You know he’s embarrassed, but you can’t help but smile like a dope at him.

“If you come, please do it inside, please,” you beg, reaching out for his arms that caged you in.

Joel's rational mind feels like it just touched down in looney town after hearing your begging.

He feels crazy because he liked the thought of the idea you proposed. You even see him hesitate. But then he scoffs and shakes his head.

Joel drops down closer to your face, slowly starting to rock his hips into you. "Tryin' to baby trap me, girl?" He grunts in your ear, making you moan out.

Your walls are clenching down on him, and it’s making it that much harder to hold back. “No-no, promise, just wanna be full of you." You manage to blubber out...unconvincingly.

You probably didn't really want a baby with Joel, but your lust-driven brain was working on fumes and you just wanted to do what felt good.

Joel's grunting in your ear was not helping things. His fingers were gripping your hip so hard, you figured it would probably bruise tomorrow.

Good. You wanted whatever he would give you.

"Christ--m'not gonna last much longer," Joel groans, picking his head up a little to meet your gaze. He wanted to kick himself for not being able to last, but when he saw your face, all those feelings disappeared.

You looked so--perfect. Soaking up the moment in case it was the last, god you hoped it wasn't the last time. Now that you've finally had a tase of him, you weren't sure you could live without it.

Your legs tighten around his waist, keeping him firmly in your cunt. Joel notices this and also your pleading eyes, a growl leaving his throat.

"Please, please, please, please," you beg, never breaking eye contact with him as his thrusts pick up speed.

He ruins your long string with pleas with a needy kiss, shoving his tongue down your throat like a starving man.

You accept it happily, moaning out into the kiss while Joel manhandles your hips to take his cock.

The feeling is damn near euphoric for both you and him. It gets even better when Joel's hand comes down to rub at your clit again.

Your back arches off the bed as you gasp and moan out, wrapping your arms back around his shoulders. "F-Fuck!" You moan into his ear, probably drooling on his shoulder in the process. "thankyouthankyouthankyou-" you sputter out in choked sobs. He was really good at working on your clit, you couldn't do anything else but thank him for it.

Joel feels a surge of something when he hears you. He's never had a woman thank him in bed before.

It's enough to push him over the edge. And apparently you too.

"I'm gonna come Joel, please don't stop," There are pools of tears in your eyes that Joel is just now noticing. He's about to reply to you, but he finds himself speechless when he feels your cunt start constricting and fluttering around him like a vice.

"Fuck!" He groans out loudly, his hips starting to falter in their rhythm. But then he picks up speed again, and in no time he's like a madman jackhammering into you.

You're a mess of screams and cries and moans underneath him, happily taking everything he was giving you.

When Joel feels himself about to come, he notices how your legs are still tightly wrapped around him, keeping him inside, and he manages to scoff out.

"Gotta let me go baby," You've never heard that pet name from him before, and it makes you crumble. His hands move to grab at your thighs, kneading the flesh there.

You whine out but reluctantly release the grip your legs had on him. Joel doesn't waste time before hugging both your legs on his chest, keeping them firmly placed while your feet squirmed by his ear.

"Atta girl," he murmurs before picking up speed again, his cock head pressing into your cervix.

It's all too much for you. Joel looks so amazing pounding into you from above, his concentrated face, his sweat, the way his salt and pepper hair is all disheveled, you're losing your mind.

Your core is on fire and you can't stop yourself.

In a staggering turn of events, you come first.

Your walls come down like bricks on his dick, you cry out, throwing your head back in complete bliss and ecstasy.

Seeing and feeling this, Joel is quick to follow in your steps. He rips himself from that warm hole of yours and pumps himself dry onto your stomach.

You watch it all with wide eyes, you wouldn't have missed Joel's orgasm face for the world!

Of course, his eyes were squeezed shut, his mouth was open as he was breathing heavily, and his eyebrows turned down like he was mad.

God he was so beautiful.

His thick ropes of cum shoot all over your stomach and even your breasts as he jerks himself off to completion.

When he finishes, he takes a moment to catch his breath, finally opening his eyes to see you scoop up his cum from your breast with your finger and shove it in your mouth.

Your tongue swirls around his seed and you swallow eagerly, humming out in satisfaction at the taste of him.

Joel's watching in complete fascination, though his expression looks a little angry. When does it not?

"taste so good," you mumble with your finger still in your mouth, looking up at him with your big eyes.

He moves before he can think about it--ripping your hand away from your lips and caging you in a slow but deep kiss.

He soon falls down beside you and soon rolls over onto his back, his chest rising and falling from the excursion.

You curl into his side, watching his side profile so intently. You had just fucked Joel Miller.

And it was everything you had dreamed of. Extreme happiness doesn't even begin to describe your feelings right now.

There's a long stretch of silence that drapes over the both of you. Eventually, Joel breaks it with something extremely off topic.

"Last night...you didn't just come here to say 'hi', did you?"

You're momentarily speechless, not expecting that question from him at all. But you can't stop a giggle from coming through your lips.

"Actually, I came to confront you." Your voice is soft as you begin speaking, thinking back to last night's ordeal.

Joel doesn't expect this answer, his head turns to look at you while you speak. His arm comes down to drape over your shoulder.

"I was really upset cus you rejected me n'all. I just couldn't accept the whole, 'age gap' excuse. I wanted to know if you just really didn't like me or not." You're murmuring, drawing soft lines with your finger on the skin of Joel's chest.

He huffs out a breath at the explanation, shaking his head. "Guess you got your answer, huh." He grumbles out, somewhat ashamed of himself that he couldn't hold back.

You smile and lean up to kiss his cheek. "I did," you chirp happily, admiring his face again. "You know you're gonna have to fuck me, like, everyday now, right?"

You're kidding. But you're also not at all.

Joel scoffs and sits up, moving to pick up both his and your shirts. "Fat chance. Barely had enough stamina for one round." He grunts out, finding the neck hole in your tank top and putting it over your head for you.

You don't bother to pull it down over your breasts so Joel does it for you.

"It's okay, we can build up your tolerance over time." You quip with a teasing smile, loving the way Joel turned to glare at you.

He couldn't believe the youth these days.

#joel miller #joel tlou #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #the last of us hbo #smut #one shot #drabble #tlou fanfiction

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metalkingshit · 1 year ago

Text

everybody talking about almond moms... i've got an almond dad

#who's also a borderline alcoholic by birtue of being a dad #puttingmyurltouse

0 notes

crescenthistory · 5 months ago

Note

can u do a remus x reader where they are best friends and remus has been in love with reader forever, and reader is kind of a player because she also loves remus but didnt know that the feeling was reciprocated

i did a bit of a different take on this, hope you enjoy it babe

Words: 4.8k

Warnings: suggestive references and themes (talk of shagging, etc.), drinking and partying in hogwarts, fem!reader, use of y/n, sirius' pov for half then your pov (with all the mental tirades that includes), partier!reader more so than player, you have snogged james and mary (in the past), platonic!sirius but borderline fwb at one point, platonic!wolfstar, pining!remus, secretly pining!reader, no slutshaming, background jegulily, confessions, happy ending ofc

a blurb about everyone's reaction

Sirius was in a bit of a difficult situation.

On the one hand, he had a beautiful girl all but crawling into his lap in the middle of an admittedly good party and he knew she would be a hell of a great time.

On the other hand, he was absolutely certain that his best friend was in love with her, despite his many denials, and he was not sure if she herself knew yet.

She had to, right? You had to know that Remus was in love with you with how he had been making puppy eyes at you more or less since first year. The two of you were the best of friends and went everywhere together – it was simply impossible that you had not had a conversation or two about it. But then again, Sirius and Remus were also the best of friends and he had not heard so much as a squeak about any such conversation taking place, let alone him admitting his feelings.

Could you truly be so oblivious? You had to know, and are choosing to live your life as you wanted regardless, as is your right. Would Sirius be an arse if he rejected your current casual advances because of Remus? If he was, would he be an arse for telling you about Remus' feelings or for dictating how a woman conducts herself based on the feelings of a man?

Sirius was way too drunk to be thinking any of these thoughts.

Yet, immediate action was required in order to handle the situation at hand. You and Sirius had been sitting beside one another for a while now, your leg thrown over in between his thighs, his arm wrapped securely around your shoulders, your hand on his chest. The music was absolutely blaring, the alcohol was flowing freely through your bodies, making the places where you touch that much hotter, in all semblances of the word. Sirius knew that if he was to tilt his head down to look at you, your lips would surely smash together.

It was not uncommon for you to shag some lucky bastard at these parties. You were carefree and fun in that way that made you fit seamlessly into your group of friends when Remus introduced you. It was never serious or deep on either front, Sirius knew as much – you and Mary had an arrangement of mutual fun going on for a while and you had even snogged James once before he got with Regulus and Lily.

Sirius participated equally as enthusiastically and the two of you were good friends, so really, it made sense that you ended up in this situation at last.

Still, sirens were flaring in his head screaming "BAD FRIEND, BAD FRIEND" the longer he sat with you like this. Because whenever you did find someone to hook up with at a party, you always left Remus' side to do so, as you were otherwise attached at the hip. And Sirius was the one left to watch him struggle to keep his face from crumbling every time. He was also always the one to poke the bear – or the wolf, if you please – by confronting Remus about his feelings for you constantly, both in a playful and serious manner.

As the designated campaigner for "Remus get your shit together and kiss her yourself", he should not be making that more difficult for his best mate.

He also should not get involved in whatever delicate situation you two had going on, but when his eyes flicked across the room, terrified to make eye contact with Remus wherever he was, determination grew in his chest. Something had to be done.

"Are you good, Siri?" you asked from beside him, words slurred just enough for him to know you were tipsy but not so much that he was concerned.

He took a deep breath. "Actually. Can we talk? Alone?"

Your body grew a bit tense against his, enough that he knew you understood this was not some scheme to get you alone. "Sure," you said wearily, already detangling your body from his.

The two of you got up and hastily made for the portrait hole. Sirius hoped that the cool stone walls outside would help him sober up enough to be able to communicate effectively.

His heart sank just a little bit when he caught sight of familiar tawny hair leaning against the wall by the exit. He knew all too well how this looked. Remus' eyes lit up when they landed on you, his mouth opening to make some sort of greeting when the words died on his tongue at the sight of a guilty Sirius trailing behind you.

You seemed nonplussed. "Oh, hi Rem," you said brightly, almost giggling around your words from the alcohol. You stepped off your path for a second to press a kiss to his cheek, smiling softly at him. "You having fun?"

Remus' face seemed strained, but he kept his smile up, even if just for you. "Yes, dovey. Are you?"

You nodded and squeezed his hand before taking a few steps back and away from him. "Very much so. We're just heading out for a quick chat."

He looked quickly between you and Sirius, never quite meeting his eyes, and Sirius felt as if he was being incriminated just by standing there with his hair slightly tousled from you playing with it. The hurt he could see play across his best mate's face was exactly the type of thing he was hoping to avoid by the awkward conversation he was about to have.

Remus' smile grew more thin-lipped than before as his gaze settled somewhere on your cheek. "Great. Have fun."

You just nodded once more before turning on your heel and making a beeline for the door, seemingly unaware of what just transpired between the three of you. Sirius stalled for a moment, wondering if he should say something, but decided against it in case Remus tried to stop him once he realised what the chat actually will be about.

It didn't much matter, though, because Remus stalked off without ever meeting his eyes.

With a heavy sigh, Sirius hurried over to the door to the common room that you were holding open from the outside, smiling back at him. You truly were such a lovely girl, and he hoped to Merlin he was not fucking anything up for you right now.

Stepping through the portrait, he let the Fat Lady slam shut behind him, cringing at the sudden silence that enveloped the two of you. Though, the air was as much of a welcome reprieve as he had expected it to be, and he breathed in a huge chunk of it to steal his nerves.

"Listen, Sirius, if things got too touchy in there then I'm sor–" you tried to begin, but he all but threw his hands up between you in a display of innocence.

"No, no, dollface, don't you worry about that one bit," he laughed out nervously. "I was very much enjoying myself. I just realised– fuck how do I say this?"

He tried to think clearly and find a way to communicate what he knew in his heart to be true.

"No swearing in my halls!" The shrill voice he knew to belong to the portrait that had tortured him for seven years sounded behind him.

"Sorry, ma'am," he said rather petulantly and held out his hand for you to take so that he could lead you down the hall and away from her. He also hoped you read it as the display of well-meaning and friendship that it was.

You accepted his hand gracefully and his heart did calm down just the slightest from it.

The two of you hurried down the hallway, feeling every bit the teenagers that you were, settling down in a corner just far enough away for privacy. The cool stone did marvels for his overheating, and Sirius took full advantage of it by leaning his head back against them.

"What did you realise?" you asked then.

"Huh?" he answered, admittedly quite dumbly.

You had the decency to laugh at him instead of mock him. "Earlier. You said I didn't do anything wrong, but that you realised something."

Sirius heaved a deep breath. "Right, right," he murmured before clearing his throat. Was he overstepping? Possibly. Would he be ripping the bandaid off anyway? Absolutely. "See, I was having fun earlier and saw it as what it was – just two friends having fun, yeah? But I fear not everyone feels the same."

"I swear to Godrick, if you accuse me of having feelings for you, Black, I will chuck you off the Astronomy Tower," you said through a laugh.

"I'm thankfully not that conceited, babe. But it wasn't you I was referring to."

You looked at him as if to say who, then?

"I think– or no, I actually know for certain, even if the stupid sod won't admit it. Erm, okay, so. Wow, how do I explain that? He's my best mate, you know, and I–"

"Sirius, you are making no sense right now."

"Remus is in love with you."

You had opened your mouth to volley back, clearly expecting him to still be stumbling over his words, but now it was just left hanging open as you stared at him, baffled. The two of you sat in silence for much longer than Sirius could have expected, or perhaps that was just his nerves dragging out the moment. You seemed to be fighting for breath.

"Excuse me, what?!" you breathed out, voice increasing in crescendo throughout your sentence. The what ricocheted down the hall; Sirius grimaced.

"So, you didn't know," he surmises, having answered his mental tirade from earlier. "I honestly don't know how you haven't seen it, that boy has literally been mooning for you for years. I'm surprised we haven't had to keep the actual Moony from tracking you down and wagging his tail at you once a month."

Your face told him that this was not a time for jokes, yet somehow you still laughed at that. Sirius realised with horror that your laugh sounded rather wet and saw you aggressively wiping at your face, as if you were about to start crying. "I'm so confused," you whispered.

Sirius sat there rather dumbly, unsure how to make it any more clear. "I don't know what to tell you, babe. He has feelings for you, always has. I don't blame you if you don't return them and I'm sure neither will he – but, yeah no, I figured you should know. And while I totally respect you shagging whoever you want, I just don't think he could handle it if it were me. So I have to back out."

Miraculously you nodded in understanding, despite his ramblings. Your movements were slow, as if you were trying to let his words settle in your bones, processing years of misinterpreting in a matter of seconds.

Sirius wanted to help. "I've tried to get him to tell you himself, but he hasn't even admitted it out loud yet."

That seemed to snap your attention back to him, a fierce look growing rapidly in your eyes. "He hasn't told you? Then how do you know?!" You waved your hands between the two of you to emphasise his point.

Not quite what he expected, Sirius found himself scrambling for words. "Everyone knows! It's literally written all over his face whenever you're near!"

"I've been looking at that same face a lot and I haven't seen that?" you question then, wielding your argument as if you were about to disagree with him.

"Y/N. Baby." Sirius tried to articulate his words clearly. "Remus has feelings for you. I swear on my life. You don't have to do anything with that information, I just had to tell you."

You narrowed your eyes at him, seemingly scrutinising every inch of his face. "If this is a prank, you're dead, Black."

"It's not a prank. I swear on Effie and Monty Potter, the absolute angels they are." He held his hands over his heart for emphasis.

"You could be wrong."

"I'm not though."

You hummed in consideration, still not letting him out from the hold of your inspecting eyes. "I have to go find out." You said it as if it was plain and simple, and before Sirius knew it, you were standing above him.

"What?" he said, again dumbly. He should never drink again.

"Thank you, Siri, I'll see you later," you called as you were already moving down the hallway at an impressive speed, given you had been shocked still mere seconds ago.

Sirius remained sitting on the floor letting his head drop back against the stone and his eyes fall shut. He has either taken one for the team or massively fucked up – the best part is that he still had no idea which one it would be.

This was bound to be an eventful evening.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Your heart was resounding through your entire body and you could barely feel the tips of your fingers – not at all because of the alcohol, you were actually quite certain you had more or less sobered up by now.

No, it was because Remus loved you. Remus Lupin, the best friend you could ask for, the unrequited, unattainable love of your life, for some unidentified reason loved you.

According to Sirius, at least.

Merlin, how you would skin him alive, should he be wrong.

The party had picked up its pace in the few minutes you and Sirius spent outside in the hallway. Someone had conjured up a light fog to roll around on the floor, allegedly to help with the atmosphere but no doubt it was really because the floor was becoming too filthy to look at directly. Warm bodies pressed into each other everywhere and there was a smell of sweat and drinks that on another day might have been enticing. Right now, you only had one focus.

"Where's Remus?" Your words were rushed as you latched onto the nearest arm you could find, grinning brightly when the familiar face of James came into view.

"Hiya, love," he greeted merrily, his other arm wrapped protectively around Lily. "What's up?"

"Remus. Where is he?" you repeated, albeit a bit more abashedly as you saw Lily glance at James sideways.

"Oh," James said and furrowed his brows, as if he was thinking. Then, he turned his head down to look at Lily who was already regarding him. "Where do we think Moony is, darling?"

Lily shifted her gaze between the two of you while biting her lip. She seemed to be making a quick appraisal. "I believe he headed up to the dorm early. Something about feeling tired?"

Nothing got past Lily, and you could tell from her somewhat smug yet concerned expression that she knew something you did not. Or, perhaps you did.

You let out a quick breath. "Oh." You couldn't help the slight guilt that settled in your stomach – even though you still couldn't know for certain that it was because of you. "I'll go find him, then."

"Are you sure?" Lily asked. "He might want to just sleep it off."

Sleep it off?

You nodded, confidence in your choice growing with every second. "I'm sure, yeah, but thanks Lils."

There was not a speck of judgement in her eyes, though her smile remained apprehensive. "I mean, he always wants to be with you, so it should be fine." She winked at you and suddenly your stomach was dropping because did everyone but you know?

Well, perhaps not James because he looked between you and Lily, entertained confusion written all over his face. "Okay, then. Great? See ya later, yeah?"

You squeezed both of their forearms in thanks before stepping backwards away from them, almost knocking into two people on the way. God, this place was packed. You threw some general sound of agreement that hopefully sounded as warm as you intended it before all but running towards the stairs to the boys' dormitory. On the way, you swear you almost lost your life twice, tripping over feet that grew invisible in the fog.

By the time your steps landed on the stairs, you were able to squeeze into the stone wall and quickly run up while avoiding those hanging over the railing. Truly hazardous, these Gryffindors.

The trek down the hall to the dorm Remus had shared with his friends for all seven years of your friendship was as practiced as it was easy. Yet, as your mind was replaying your conversations with Sirius and Lily over and over at record speed, it felt like it stretched on for miles, your own road to Calvary.

Your fingers acted off of instinct as they reached up to quietly rap on the door with two knuckles.

"Sod off," you heard Remus' muffled voice call through the door. You couldn't help the small smile that spread across your face.

You cracked the door open just enough to poke your head through and catch sight of him sprawled out on his bed, face down. Your smile widened. "Me too?"

It was as if his body was a push poppet that suddenly had its strings drawn taut again – his spine straightened and his head whipped around to look at you wide-eyed. He clearly had not expected you. He made some sounds that could probably classify as guffawing before he snapped his mouth shut to sit up and collect himself. The whole process was barely a few seconds, but the syrupy effect on time from the hallway seemed to have joined you into his dorm. Relief washed through your body when he smiled at you, even if it seemed somewhat strained.

"Of course not dove, sorry."

You slipped the rest of your body in through the door and shut it quietly behind you. The silence in this dorm had never felt so complete before.

In your rush to get to him, you hadn't once thought to think of what to say to him. How could you ever possibly breach the topic? It seemed like he could sense your hesitation because he sat more comfortably on the edge of his bed, wool sock-clad feet planted firmly against the floor. He had an inquisitive yet somewhat nervous look on his face.

He beat you to it. "You alright? Shouldn't you be out there, having fun?"

You couldn't help reading some judgement in that, knowing what you now maybe know. "What's that supposed to mean?" you asked, not quite able to hide the potential hurt in your voice.

Remus could pick up on your every mood and his eyes widened comically and he raised his hand as if he was about to talk to a scared wild animal. "Nothing! No, not like that, I just meant – it's a party. You love parties. Did someone hurt you?" His voice grew small by the end of his sentence. You feared someone was referring to Sirius, the only reason he could imagine you leaving a gathering to go be alone with him. You hated the idea.

There were probably a hundred better ways to go about this, but your mind felt muddy with the overwhelming feelings, your earlier drinks and the damn fog that somehow had made its way into your lungs. And you just could not believe any of it.

You were not proud of what you said next.

"Remus, are you in love with me?"

If it had been quiet before, there were no words for the shift in atmosphere after that question. It was like you were alone in a black hole, just the two of you.

Remus' head actually reared back from shock, both from your suddenness and the question itself. His pretty mouth hung slightly open, bottom lip making a slight jerky movement you could only describe as quivering.

"I– what?" He let out, it was somewhere between a gasp and an exclamation.

You took a few steps closer, so that you were standing in front of him, feeling the sudden need to be near, to hear, to know. "Sirius told me."

Remus jerked up too, suddenly standing within arm reach. His eyes were fluttering and his mouth opening and closing in a way that almost confirmed it on its own. "Y/N, I–"

"Remus." You interrupted quietly, sensing his continued shock and oncoming fib. "Don't lie, please."

"I'm so sorry," he whispered then, eyes growing glossy as they flicked all over your face. "I– I'm sorry."

Your eyebrows furrowed as you took in his pained expression. "I don't understand?" you said weakly. Why was he apologising? "Remus, are you in love with me?"

He shut his eyes and turned his head to the side. Your fears were confirmed when he brought up a hand to wipe at the part of his face you couldn't see. "Please," he begged. "Don't."

Don't make me say it.

You have to.

"Remus." Your tone matched his despairing one – his name was your plea.

He turned his head back to you and met your eyes head on with his own red-rimmed ones. A slow sigh was let out through his nose, the sound of defeat, giving in to you as he always did.

Gods, he always did.

"I'm in love with you," he whispered then. Clearly, without any hint at insecurity or deceit.

You took one small step closer, bringing your trembling fingers up to lightly ghost over his cheeks – not quite holding his face, but almost, millimetres apart. You were sure you looked half-crazed as you stood there in silent shock, studying his face in a flurry.

There was no contempt in his face at your stupor. Just guilt and sorrow.

"Why?" you breathed out.

"I'm sorry," was all he offered, once more.

"No, no, don't say that," you insisted, voice suddenly growing stronger. More certain. Your hands made proper contact with his cheeks, and you could feel him deflate beneath your touch. "Please don't be sorry."

At last some confusion drifted into his eyes as he regarded you. "Don't tell me not to apologise; that just makes me want to apologise for apologising." There was light humour in his tone, a smidge of hope. Hope that you wouldn't believe him awful for falling in love with you.

He was in love with you.

You laughed then, not just at his poor attempt at a joke but at the situation, at the prospect.

"You love me?" There was no hiding the absolute awe in your voice.

The guilt was still there, but it made room for softness as he gave you the smallest, saddest smile. "Of course, dove."

You breathed a sigh of relief and leaned forward to kiss his smile into a happy one.

Remus’ body immediately stiffened beneath your touch, shock radiating through him. Then, beautifully, you felt him soften once more beneath you, felt his eyelashes brush your cheeks as his eyes fluttered shut, felt him blow the air from his lungs through his nose in a long sigh, breath warm and inviting against you. Slowly, you parted your lips and brought his between yours, deepening the kiss. Unlike your movements earlier, there was no urgency, there was just him in your hands, him against your lips, his tongue against yours.

You let one of your hands travel to the nape of his neck where you played with his shorter strands of hair, breaking the kiss to lean your forehead against his. Your eyes remained closed as you soaked up up the moment, but you could feel his own burn through your skin. Could hear him guffawing again. A smile settled permanently onto your lips.

“You love me?” you repeated, knowing the answer, but wanting to feel the words on your tongue once more, mixing with him.

He nodded fervently against you, jostling your head slightly to which you let out a soft giggle.

“You– I–” he began, cutting himself off. “Do you…?” he trailed off, unable to finish his sentence.

“I love you,” you whispered, in awe at getting to say the words aloud in this context. “I’m so in love with you, sweet boy.”

His body disconnected from yours briefly, forcing you to open your eyes and support your own weight, as he leaned back to stare at you incredulously, confused, shocked. His eyebrows were furrowed almost as if he were mad, but you knew in your heart that he was not.

“I– no, that makes no sense,” he whispered almost to himself, shaking his head as he tried to process your words. You fought not to laugh at that – because it would seem like you were laughing at him and that was not nice. You would have more than enough time to be not nice later, for now he needed your patience. “You? Love me?”

You nodded with a smile. His body was still close to yours and you took the opportunity to wrap your arms around his waist, interlocking your fingers at the small of his back.

There was so much emotion and vulnerability swimming in his eyes, you would almost feel bad if you weren’t so unbelievably happy.

“I never thought you could have feelings for me,” you confessed breathlessly, grinning wickedly despite the pain you were sharing. “Here I’ve been, running around thinking the greatest love I had ever felt was wholly unreciprocated.”

This only seemed to confuse him further, though he was relaxing beneath your touch. “You… This whole time?”

“I suppose so,” you mused. “I only realised two years ago, though.”

Remus let out a groan and a laugh at the same time and then – thanks to any and every god – he leaned his forehead on your shoulder, burying his face in you. “I cannot believe I’ve been torturing myself and you’ve been… in love with me too. This whole time.”

You dared to kiss the side of his head from where he was leaning against you and tightened your hold on him. Something you had done a thousand times over as his friend, yet this sent entirely new sparks through you.

As if he just thought of something, he lifted his head suddenly to furrow his brows at you. “Why would you ever think I couldn't love you?”

You tilted your head at him. “How many times have you not brushed Sirius off when he makes jokes about us? Or said you would never want to be in a relationship? I thought you might view me as a sister by now.” Despite your teasing, residue hurt still clung to your words.

The grimace was instant and Remus shook his head as if that is the worst thing he has ever heard. “Gods, no, I sure do hope not.”

You both laughed quietly, carefully. His hands were slow as they went up to hold your jaw, fingers brushing the side of your neck in reverence. “I’m sorry I made you think that, dovey.”

“Don’t be. Then I have to be sorry for snogging our friends in front of you.”

Remus flushed slightly at your words, but the awed affection plastered all over his every feature did not waver. “I don’t want you to be,” he murmured while still caressing you carefully. “I just… I just want you. Will you be mine, dovey?”

Your face inched closer and closer to his, your grins growing mirrored against each other. “I am yours,” you whispered against his lips before closing the distance once more.

The most heavenly kisses you ever shared would be those with your lovely Remus.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

“Oi! Pads!”

Sirius flinched with his whole body, looking over his shoulder with a sheepish smile to face his inevitable death in the form of one Remus Lupin. He had been waiting for it all night as he partied with James, and had managed to get halfway through his second game of butterbeer pong before it was time for his execution.

Reaching out for James’ hand, he shook it firmly and matter-of-factly. “Lovely knowing you mate, take good care of my brother, yeah?”

James seemed entirely nonchalant to the whole ordeal, shaking his hand in return. “Yeah, sure, safe travels Padfoot.”

Sirius then turned to Remus who was descending the stairs from the dormitory, holding his hands up in defence. “Okay, hear me out–” he begins but he was cut off.

He was cut off by a hug.

Remus borderline slams into him, locking his arms over his shoulders and dragging him close to his chest. Awkwardly, Sirius returns the favour, patting him on the back and making what the fuck eyes at Mary over Remus’ shoulder.

“You’re a meddling bloody bastard,” Remus said into his ear.

Here we go.

“But thank you.”

Oh. Oh.

He reared his head back so that he could see Remus and the shy yet pleased smile he wore, and Sirius’ whole face split into a painful, beaming smile. “It worked?” he asked giddily, jostling Remus where he was still trapped in the hug.

“Yeah, yeah,” Remus mumbled, though his grin grew.

The victorious, screeching holler Sirius let out was so loud it could be heard down to the dungeons.

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nightmare-niko · 7 months ago

Text

Routines In The Night [Nicholas Alexander Chavez x reader]

Warnings: alcohol consumption, vague-ish descriptions of clubbing, raw sex (don't do that), completely self-indulgent

A/n: i am just a girl and i cannot help the things my mind comes up with. also this is my first actual smut in years so lmk how I did hehehe

Word count: 2273

Copying or translating my writing is not allowed. If you see my work on another site it is stolen. Reblogs are appreciated and encouraged.

It's been quite a long time since you went out with your friends. Life gets in the way sometimes! But tonight, the stars have aligned, and all of your schedules lined up perfectly. You don’t remember being this excited to see your friends, but now you all were in your apartment getting ready for your night out.

"So I don’t know when the boys are gonna get here-“ your best friend; Violet sits on your bedroom floor, curling her hair. “But I think Evan said something about bringing a new friend?”

“Violet you can't just let strangers hang with us! What if he's a weirdo?!" You’re mostly joking. You knew your friends. Realistically you had nothing to worry about.

“What if he’s ugly?” your other Friend interjects.

“Oh my god! Hayley!” Violet chokes out a surprised laugh.

“What it’s a valid question!” She defends.

"I'm sure he will be completely normal." You try to expel the chaos beginning to build throughout your small apartment while the three of you continue to get ready.

•

An excessive amount of knocks on your door makes you jump.

You grumble obscenities on the way to open your door. "You know Evan- You don't have to—“ you stop in your tracks. Sure, there was Evan and your other friend Mike, but there was also a new guy—a beautiful guy. Was it suddenly getting hot in here??

"Oh okay drool much?" Evan jokes and you snap out of your man-induced trance.

“Hi, I'm Nick" he offers his hand for you to shake.

Your hand is quite small compared to his, but unlike most guys you’ve met, his hand is gentle. He certainly isn't trying to crush your hand (why do guys do that?). As the other guys walk into your apartment, Nicholas stays in your doorway with you as you introduce yourself,

“Come in! You have to meet the others!" You take his hand and lead him into your living room.

•

The music was loud, the air was hot, and the lights pulsed and changed erratically. You danced along to whatever generic set the DJ played, you honestly were too drunk to care. This is what you needed. While you and your girls danced carelessly with each other, the guys stayed back at your table.

All of them seemed pretty caught up in their drunken conversations. Not Nicholas though, no. His eyes had been on you the second you clambered onto the dance floor. You loved it.

You felt Violet's arm wrap around your waist, "are you gonna deal with that? " She borderline shouts in your ear to combat the loud music. "Who? Pretty boy over there?" You lock eyes with Nick across the room, he quickly looks away—taking a sip of his drink. "Maybe... you think you can get Hayley distracted so I can lure him ?"

She giggles and pulls away; you don't care how Violet was planning on making distance-- but you trusted her. With a sensual sway of your hips, you walk over to Nicholas. None of your other friends seem to notice your presence, not that you mind though.

"So, you gonna keep on staring or are you gonna dance with me?"

The man before you smirks, he takes you in quickly, "How about both?" He offers his hand to you. You take it gratuitously, even in your heels he had height over you. It was hot. Maybe it was the lights or the alcohol in your system-- or maybe both, but you had to have him.

To say the two of you were dancing was a stretch, to say the least… You wrap your arms around his neck, you were so not remembering this tomorrow at the rate you were going.

“How long were you going to sit there staring at me for?” Your question was light-hearted at best.

"Until I was blackout probably," He laughs shyly.

You laugh along with him, grinding along to the beat of the music, you could live this moment forever. "Usually everyone comes back to mine and sleeps over after clubbing. You down?”

He smiles, "Sure, why not.”

•

Somehow you managed to get all of your drunk friends back to your home safely. Now all you had to do was (try to) relax, you sneak away from all of your friends and into your bedroom.

It took you longer than usual to remove your makeup and change into your pajamas due to the drinks you had tonight, but you managed.

What time was it? You didn't know, your phone was dead!

Back in your living room, your friends lay sleeping (?) scattered around Violet and Hayley both still in their makeup and heels. You didn't dare wake them, they knew where your makeup wipes and extra clothes were. All you needed was your bed.

•

4 am. It was 4 am and you were wide awake. Wide awake with a raging headache, that is. You groan before tugging off your oh-so-comfortable blanket. The hardwood floors were cold against your bare feet-but you didn't care.

Stumbling to the kitchen through the darkness of your home was a situation you found yourself often, but now you had the added addition of staying quiet. The last thing you needed was more hungover zombies.

The moonlight from your open windows lit up your kitchen counter just enough for you to grab the nearest pain relief medicine and a drink in peace. Now here came the hard part-- walking back in the dark. Why didn't you bring your phone?!

The door of the bathroom swings open-- you gasp dramatically. "Jesus Nick! You fucking scared me,” you whisper yell at the taller man.

"Sorry! I had to— uh I didn't think anyone was awake." He flicks off the light and steps closer to you.

The moonlight paints across Nicholas’ face in a way that has you speechless. "Well, uhm-are you -" You stumble over your words. "Do you need anything? A blanket? Water? I can see if there are sweatpants you can wear."

For a moment you think he's going to decline your offer-- “Actually, a blanket and sweats would be awesome… If you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all-- Here follow me.” You continue your path to your bedroom, only this time with the hottest man you've ever seen trailing behind you.

Inviting him into your room! What if he gets the wrong idea? (Is it the wrong idea if you really do wanna fuck?) "Sorry for the mess... You can sit on my bed while I look." You awkwardly point at your bed as if its location wasn't obvious. "It's cute in here, very cozy." Nicholas takes in his surroundings— trying and failing to distract himself from your extremely short pajama shorts. "Thanks, here." You hand him some clothes leftover from friends, "Hope they fit." You hear him mutter a thanks before you go back to searching for a blanket. Why is he being so quiet? When you look over at him, he's staring: again. You bite back a laugh.

”You have quite the staring problem, you know?” You tease. He smiles something wicked, his dark brown eyes dark with want. Why stare when you can just shoot your shot?”

He throws his hands up in defense, "I mean hey, I made it this far!”

“Oh yeah- "You remark sarcastically, "Remind me what base ‘sitting on a hot girl's bed and staring at her ass’ is again?"

"Oh, so that's how we're playing it?" He stands up and takes one big step towards you

“That's how we're playing it.” You tease, standing up on your tippy toes to drape your arms over his shoulders.

His large hands wrap around your waist, pulling you into him. He hums in acknowledgment of your teasing. He was hard, you could feel him through his jeans.

How did you get into this situation? Were you complaining though?

No, not at alt. Nicholas' large hand cups your face sensually.

The Kiss was electric, not rough, but dominant. You didn't have the energy to fight for control, you just wanted him. Dazed, you pull back from the kiss. "I can't focus with you pressed against me like that." Your hands shoot from his neck to his belt buckle. “Bed, now." You demand, he quickly clambered onto your bed.

You pull his pants down to his ankles, and Nicholas kicks them the rest of the way down. Your heart racing as you follow him onto the bed, straddling his lap. His hands found their way to your hips, gripping them firmly as you leaned in for another heated kiss.

"Are you sure about this?" Nicholas whispered against your lips.

"Absolutely," you run your hands down his chest.

As things heated up between you two, a sudden noise from the living room made you both freeze. You remembered your friends sleeping just outside your bedroom door.

"We should keep it down," you giggled softly, pressing a finger to Nicholas' lips.

He nodded— a mischievous glint in his eyes. He presses a quick kiss into your lip and flips you onto your back. You find your eyes drifting down his torso, his cock tented in his boxers. You snap your eyes back up to his, the air thick with tension.

“Kiss me,” you beg, and he listens immediately. you tug on his bottom lip and he groans lowly. the position you were in made it impossible for you to not cross your ankles behind his back, pushing him against your throbbing core. You whimper, almost pathetic, but you couldn't care less about that right now.

You whine again, this time a desperate plea for more. “Mmm… Nick—please~” You beg against his lips.

“Tell me,” he commands. You whine again as his lip trail kisses along your neck, leaving marks at the base.

“More~” you manage to joke out.

“What do you want, beautiful? All you need to do is say it and I'll give it to you.” His voice is sultry against your ear, his breath leaving goosebumps in his wake.

“Clothes. off,” you demand.

You hear him chuckle sensually, as he leans back on his haunches. You swear all time freezes as you watch Nicholas take off his shirt. He was already the most attractive person on the planet with his pants off, and now here he was. Towering over you in his underwear, while you still had all of your clothes on. That had to change, sit up briefly as Nicholas helps you take off your sleep shirt.

Nicholas kisses you again, pushing you back down onto your plush pillows. In the heat of your kiss, Nicholas takes off your sleep shorts and leans back— he groans at the sight before him.

“look at you~” he tuts, “all fucked out and I haven't even touched you yet.”

“Nick, please-” you whine, bucking your hips in the air, desperate for any kind of friction. “Don't tease!”

finally, Nicholas stands up from your bed. Pulling his boxers down his boxers, revealing his throbbing cock. The tip is red and angry— leaking with precum. your mouth watered just at the sight.

he climbs back over you and back in between your thighs. his hungry eyes, fixed on your core as he runs his tip over your clothed clit. you whimper again— just as you're about to open your mouth to complain, he pulls your panties to the side and pushes into you in one motion.

You bite down on your lip to try to conceal your moan but the noise that you make is still extremely loud. the stretch burned, but god it felt heavenly. Nicholas clashes his mouth back onto yours at an attempt to hush your sounds— not that he wanted to. He wanted the whole city to hear you, but all of your friends were in the next room and that was not a conversation he wanted to have.

The steady rock of his hips has you barreling quickly towards your orgasm. The kiss is sloppy and rough— you couldn't think of a better thing to be doing at 5 am. He trails wet kisses to the sweet spot below your ear, then to your neck and collarbone.

With one hand tightly gripped on your hip, he was close. You knew because his thrusts were getting sloppier and rougher. With one final bite of the base of your neck, he sits up— free hand rubbing circles on your clit as the new angle had him hitting right you needed him.

Your back arches off of your bed in a dramatic display as your orgasm takes over you— you swear you blacked out for a moment. Nick pulls out of you in a hurry, white ropes of cum paint your torso and face and he groans gutturally.

the once cold air in your bedroom was now hot. the only sound was the combined sounds of you and Nicholas trying to catch your breath. sleep takes over you as you feel Nick wiping the cum off you with whatever was nearby.

"So," Nicholas whispered, running his fingers through your hair, "does this mean I get stay here tonight?" he brought a clean blanket over your naked bodies.

You laughed softly, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "If that's not what that means I have no idea what does."

Tag list (If you want to be added just comment!)

@Nallasstuff @chmpgneprblem @qoopeeya

@lilybellalana @sleepysongbirdsings

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capricornlevi · 1 year ago

Text

inevitability- nanami x f!reader

tags: friends to lovers, salaryman!nanami, breeding, unprotected sex, fingering, missionary, mating press, creampie, mild cumplay

cw: alcohol (all sex sober & consensual!), pregnancy mentions, rough but v v consensual sex, reader and nanami are both in their late 20s/early 30s

word count: 5.3k

a/n: in which your decide with your good friend of many years that it's time to get you pregnant <3 this has been festering in my brain and i know it's pretty different than what i usually write but ! here it is! ahh! sounds of me screaming!

"this is weird, y'know?" you blurt out, watching as nanami hangs up his jacket by your front door before settling down beside you on the couch. he keeps a respectful distance, resting his hands on his broad thighs and smoothing down the fabric of his slacks, clearly nervous. "this is very, very weird. like, weird at levels i don't think people have achieved before."

"i know," nanami replies diplomatically, as if he could be anything but excruciatingly aware of how unconventional this is. "are you having second thoughts? because i completely understand --"

you shake your head abruptly. "no, no, just ... thinking aloud, i guess. just getting used to this, because it's really ... um ..."

"weird?" nanami offers helpfully, and you turn to nod.

"weird."

because what else do you call agreeing to have a baby with your platonic friend of 10 years?

you first met nanami on the second day of college and knew right away he'd be a good dad, even back when having kids wasn't even a consideration for you. it was obvious; he was already a good dad back then, with how he looked out for his underclassmen even as he progressed through his degree. how he stayed sober when he knew people would be going overboard, not sleeping until you texted him to confirm you'd gotten home safe after a party.

he helped you study at the weekends and, in return, you provided him with a discount at the local cafe where you worked. through this time spent knocking back americanos and proofing each other's work, you grew close.

even with all his responsibility and good sense contrasting your exuberance and recklessness, you found yourself enjoying being with him. and he could be funny, too, delivering sharp and witty quips when you least expected it.

you became inseparable. insufferable, some would call it; the matching-halloween-costume type of insufferable, a borderline codependent but obliviously happy friendship that can only be fostered on a college campus.

then right after college, when you had dived straight into your quarter-life crisis and dyed your hair every colour under the sun, got piercings in too many places, slept with questionable people and dated some even worse, nanami had gotten himself a decent, impressive, well-paying job. it was a job that had him wearing tailored suits at 23, paired with fancy glasses that cost more than your rent, and you'd laughed at him, at how serious he looked. but you also worried at how the bags under his eyes grew deeper and darker, how the amused lilt to his voice started to dissipate as time went on.

his 9 to 5 turned to an 8 to 6, and then he was working weekends and skipping movie nights, missing out on meeting new boyfriends of yours, fading into the periphery of your life with you unable to do anything about it.

as with all relationships in your twenties, it was hard to stay in touch. the higher he climbed up the career ladder, the further you grew apart.

soon, it was only on holidays or birthdays when you both would reach out, cordial and civil but achingly unfamiliar.

then, on your twenty-ninth birthday, drunk at a bar and having taken a couple minutes away from your raucous friend group, you had stepped outside to grab some fresh air only to walk head-on into nanami's firm chest.

you had spluttered apologies, lifting your head to see who you had headbutted, only to find your old friend looking down at you with an amused look on his face.

and just like that, things picked up where they left off. you spent the night talking, catching up over drinks and laughter.

with a tone that was only half-teasing, you had asked him what brought him out tonight -- it was hard enough to get him to come out for drinks when you were both in college, much less now with his big fancy job.

but he had laughed in that gentle, airy way you'd heard a thousand times, explaining that he had been out socialising with clients who had just left minutes before. he was just on his way out before running into you.

perfect timing. painfully perfect.

you stayed talking until last call, making exhilarated promises to get in touch the next day.

and to your surprise, you both actually stuck to that.

in the ten months since then, you've met up every sunday for breakfast at your favourite cafe. over lattes and freshly baked croissants, you fill each other in on the details of the half-decade spent apart. he had a serious girlfriend, serious to the point of moving in together, but she'd gotten spooked and left him last summer to go travelling. he was hurt, obviously, but understood her perspective in that annoyingly calm, measured way that is just part of his nature.

and on your end -- despite the drunken circumstances in which you'd been reacquainted, which is all part of moderation, after all -- you've actually calmed down considerably since your early twenties.

you have your own apartment. you have a rescue cat you care for immensely, even when he tries wriggling out of your arms to go stare out the window at passing cyclists. you have a retirement fund, started yoga, learned to bake your own bread.

you're not boring, you still have fun and let off steam whenever you can, but you're having the sort of revelations about life that nanami seems to have had years ago.

fun is good. fun is important. but it can't be everything, because then it starts to come at a cost.

truthfully, the birth of your nephew is what prompted you to make some changes. you didn't want to show up to babysit hungover. you wanted to have funds to hand in order to treat him to little toys and sweets when your sister allowed it, and soon found yourself amazed at how his little face lit up every time he saw you.

it made you grow up, and fast.

in the course of your cafe hangouts, you had mentioned your nephew to nanami. showed pictures of the boy's pudgy little hands reaching for the camera, told stories of how he could tell the difference between new episodes of Bluey versus reruns, and how he's changed your entire life without even realising.

soon, talk about your nephew turned to general musings about your own future.

then one night, when you decided to switch your meetup location from the cafe to a cocktail bar, you shared something that you had barely admitted to yourself.

you wanted to have a kid.

this realisation wasn't borne from some crisis about entering a new decade, it wasn't something forced on you by others or general societal pressure. it was something that grew organically, inspired by the honour of watching your little nephew grow up.

to your surprise, nanami didn't scoff or dismiss you. you figured he'd have rolled his eyes, laughing off your confession since you weren't in a committed relationship.

instead, he expressed similar sentiments, but for slightly different reasons.

"i'm sick of work being my whole life," he had mused quickly, sipping an old fashioned with a funny look in his eye. "it was only when we started hanging out again that i realised how much of my life I've wasted at a place that wouldn't care if i lived or died."

"do i need to be worried about you having the type of rebellious streak the rest of us went through ten years ago?" you asked, smiling and fidgeting with one of your rings without thinking.

he waved off your suggestion with a fond roll of his eyes. "i'm not impulsively quitting or anything, don't worry. just want to take a step back, i suppose, or find something with shorter hours. i just think there's more to life than endless hours slaving behind a desk."

you toasted to that sentiment, knocking back the last of your cosmo.

nanami continued, watching you set your empty glass back down with a soft grin on his lips. "the whole family, kids thing ... i get it, you know? it makes sense."

"yeah?" you pried carefully, interested to see where this is going.

"i'd be lying if i said i didn't think about it, too. i have a nest egg saved up which means i'd be able to take time off to help with a kid, to actually be there to see them grow up. and it's not that i want to have one just because i think i need to -- i think i'd be decent at it, y'know? the whole parenting thing."

you obviously agreed. you'd thought the same for a while now, and getting reacquainted with the man has only spurred on those thoughts.

he really would be perfect.

the issue wasn't discussed further that night, but it was brought up again at coffee the following sunday, then at the bakery the week after that, and before long, it was your birthday again.

after a massive party with all your friends and family -- and a little too much wine -- nanami had stayed behind to help you clean up, because of course he would, and you got to talking again, got to revisiting that topic that had been at the back of both of your minds.

you can't remember the exact wording of the discussion or how many bottles of prosecco fuelled the conversation, but what you do know is that when you sobered up, you didn't regret agreeing to it.

you were gonna have a kid together.

you and nanami.

coparenting.

as outlandish an idea as it might seme on the surface, when looking at it a little deeper, it made sense to you. this wasn't decided on a whim. this was something that had momentum building behind it for months and months, perhaps even years, without you even realising.

when meeting up for coffee the following week, you both gave each other an out. said there'd be no big deal if things were called off. but neither one of you took it, despite laughing for what felt like hours about how bizarre it all felt.

still, no sign of backing out.

which brings you to tonight, the agreed-upon date of when you'd start trying.

nanami had suggested using artificial fertility methods if that made you more comfortable, but you politely turned him down, thinking it unnecessary. he wasn't a stranger -- plus, you'd be lying if you said he wasn't objectively attractive -- so if he had no objections to trying things the old-fashioned way, then you didn't either.

and he obviously didn't mind too much since he's now here on your couch, folding his arms and then unfolding them as he waited for you to make the first move.

he looks good, despite all the nerves. he's filled out over the years, though he was always strong, with every muscle in his body well-defined and perfectly proportional. his hair is still blond but with the faintest specks of grey, his skin brighter and more well-rested than that night you got reacquainted.

his deep brown eyes stay fixed on you and your skin heats as his gaze traces over you.

"do you want me to kiss you?" you break the silence, the words tumble messily from your mouth.

he looks taken aback, as if this was something he'd vaguely considered but never thought would actually happen.

"do ... do you want to?"

his earnestness has you smiling, cutting through the tension, and you meet his eyes properly for the first time since he arrived tonight. he always has this way of making you feel comfortable, his presence alone is like an embrace that calms the racing thoughts that constantly occupy your mind.

it's only now that you're close, so close, you realise that maybe you really do want to --

"i wouldn't suggest it otherwise," you murmur softly as if your heart isn't hammering against your ribcage, shifting nearer to him on the couch but keeping that last bridge of distance for him to close.

his tongue swipes over his lower lip, almost subconsciously demonstrating his wishes as his line of sight drifts down to your mouth. he nods then, dipping his head, only a couple inches of space between you now.

"yeah -- yeah, okay."

you can see how his pupils dilate as you reach out to slip his glasses off, setting them down on the coffee table, cupping his face in your hands.

he returns your smile at that gesture, just the slightest hint of nerves in his eyes that disappear when he finally decides to press your lips to yours.

his lips are softer than you imagined ... though until this very moment, you hadn't even realised that this was something you had imagined.

he lets you set the rhythm but doesn't shy away; he meets your movements, your energy at every kiss, letting you stop for a moment to adjust yourself as things progress.

this should feel weird, right? you should have some lingering feeling of awkwardness at making out with your best friend, at taking his hand in yours and setting it down on your thigh to show you want him to touch you?

this was supposed to be a relatively unromantic event, after all. it wasn't meant to be the start of anything. though it was never clinical or unemotional -- you're technically starting a family together, after all, if an entirely unconventional one -- you never foresaw it going down like this.

this feels like something that was meant to happen.

he pulls back ever-so-slightly, lips still grazing against yours as he asks softly, "this okay?"

you nod by way of answer, not wanting to waste another second not kissing him. nanami captures your lips with his again, and with renewed enthusiasm, slips his tongue into your mouth, probing gently and barely hiding the low rumble of a groan deep in his throat.

all thoughts of propriety start to fade into the ether. his hand on your thigh burns hot, shifting up and down the exposed skin. you'd worn a nice dress for the evening, unsure of the dress code for an event as strange as this, but you find yourself grateful for choosing something that fell so far above the knee.

his hands are rougher than his lips but not in an unpleasant way. you figure it's from his only out-of-work hobby that doesn't consist of hanging out with you; his renovation group. nanami is part of a volunteer organisation that helps build and renovate houses for those in need -- as if he couldn't get any more painfully perfect, obviously.

you stay like that for a few more minutes, exploring these new sensations and becoming increasingly more aware of the ball of anticipation burning in your lower stomach. everywhere he touches you feels warm, every soft nip against your lips feels electric.

then, against every instinct in your body, you force yourself to pause to take a few steadying breaths. nanami responds in the same way, pulling his hands back to his own thighs, adjusting his stance on the couch.

he's hard, you can see as much from the awkward way he shuffles in his seat. not to mention the bulge very obviously visible in the front of his slacks -- just seeing it fills you with want, with the need to touch and be touched.

this is moving more fluidly than you had expected, arriving at each decision without a second thought. in that vein, you decide to ask:

"want to head to the bedroom?", hoping you don't sound as desperate as you're feeling. "if you're ready -"

"yes," he responds before you've even finished your sentence. you feel grateful that the eagerness is not one-sided as you get to your feet, taking nanami by the hand to pull him up with you.

when you've reached your room and the door is shut behind you, revealing the modest set up of your freshly-made bed and a single scented candle -- any more than that felt a little too forced, too awkward -- you marvel at the feeling of nanami's hands on your hips, somehow gentle and firm at the same time, manoeuvring you onto the bed with a pre-rehearsed confidence that never verges on forceful.

your head hasn't even hit the pillow before he's kissing you again like he's starving for it. it's messy this time, the gentle exploration from before giving way to something more primal and urgent.

you have to remind yourself that this is your nanami you're kissing. the nanami who was there for you through the most painful college breakups. the nanami who knows your coffee order, who helped zip up the back of your graduation dress.

but now, with his tongue against yours and the stiffness pressing against your stomach, all you can think is why you didn't do this sooner?

just as you're about to combust underneath him, he pulls back, balancing himself on an elbow as his eyes flick down to see how your dress is bunched at the top of your thighs. he closes his eyes, his breaths ragged and unsteady.

"i don't know how--" he whispers, tongue gliding over his kiss-slick lips, "how ... technical you might want to go about this."

you let out a little laugh, craning your neck to kiss his jawline so he knows it's not at his expense.

"i never really thought about the technicalities, but it doesn't have to be too clinical, or anything. i know you, you know me. we can just ... have sex."

"have sex," he repeats slowly, eyes open again, the hint of a grin on his face.

"yeah, have sex!" you answer with a chuckle. "or is there another way you'd like me to phrase it?"

he laughs then too, looking at you again as he shakes his head softly.

"what?" you press him with a mock indignance. "it's rude to laugh at my suggestion, actually. i felt it was pretty accurate."

"i'm not laughing at you," he says gently, lips still curved upwards. "just ... i must have pictured you saying those words a thousand times, and i never thought it -- it's just funny to hear out loud, is all."

it takes you a second to fully comprehend the words as they wash over you.

you'd be ignorant to say that the realisation never dawned on you, but it was something you thought was a relic of your college years. he had blushed a few times too many whenever the topic of sex came up at parties, had a hint of jealousy in his voice when giving advice about one particular ex-boyfriend. at your apartment complex's winter party in senior year, you can tell he was thinking about kissing you.

but that was when you were young and naive, inexperienced with life, and the thought of this nanami desiring you, of picturing you in his life, of imagining what you'd look like spread out underneath him like this --

you lift your head and grab his shirt collar, yanking him in for another kiss. when he's settled back against you, your hands weave down to unbutton his shirt. you feel him smile against your lips as he starts to unzip your dress in return.

you're a mess of limbs as items of clothing get strewn across your bedroom carpet. before long, it's all skin-on-skin, the heat of his body pressed against yours before he grabs your waist and flips you over until you're straddling him.

you feel the length of him pressed against your stomach, hot and painfully hard, but from the way he cups his hand against your neck and starts to kiss your throat, you know he's not going to rush this.

just as you gasp out his name as his teeth nip against your pulse point, he brings his other hand to the apex of your thighs, fingertips resting just over your pubic bone, barely brushing against the sensitive skin.

"want me to touch you?" he mumbles quietly against your throat, the way his breath fans over you making you shiver.

you nod pitifully, hips canting towards him, but he doesn't budge.

"need you to say it," he says low, quiet, thumb shifting down by the millimetre, "need to know how much you want it."

"i want it," you gasp, the arch of your back deepening the closer he gets to your aching core, all concerns about appearing desperate evaporating with every press of his lips to your skin. "i want it, kento, p- please touch me."

nanami obliges, fingertips trailing down until his thumb is brushing over your clit. he slides his hand lower, fingers slipping through your damp lips, and then uses your own wetness to start rubbing you in earnest.

any form of articulate thought slips from your mind, replaced with only those that can get you more of this -- nanami's fingers playing with your clit, the other hand possessively resting at your nape, his cock pressed between you with precum beading at the tip.

you want it in your mouth. you want it inside you, and as you go to shift your hips, nanami shifts his back.

"want to see what you look like when you come first," he says, slipping his middle and ring finger inside you as if to prove he's going about it the right way.

and he really is, because after only a few strokes of his fingers, your vision is getting hazy. you've never been this turned on so quickly before, never felt this desperate, all-consuming urge -- but then again, you've never had a man look at you like this before now either.

you try to focus on the sensation of his fingers stretching you open, his thumb still stroking your clit in the perfect rhythm, but your mind wanders to the thick cock pressed up against you. you want to rub against him, let him fill you up, make him feel good too --

but looking at his face now, pupils blown and lower lip raw from biting down on it, you can tell this is as much for him as it is for you.

less than a minute later it hits you, the explosion of warmth radiates out to every cell in your body, rendering you a boneless mess in nanami's arms.

he holds you as the aftershock subsides, strong arms keeping you steady even when your legs feel as though they've turned to jelly. when you feel capable of supporting yourself, you slide ungracefully from where you were perched on his thighs and fall back against your pillows, head spinning blissfully.

nanami leans down next to you and kisses your forehead, whispering words of praise that fill you with a strange sensation you can't quite place.

"want to take a break?" he ask after a few moments have passed, "or if you're tired, we can try again later --"

"no," you cut him off, turning your head to look at him directly, face splitting into a smile through the post-orgasm haze. "i just need a second is all, i still -- if you want to --"

"i do."

and so to ease yourself back into it, you kiss him slowly, intimately, bodies gently intertwining as he shifts closer to you on the bed. you guide his hands to your chest, gasping as his thumb circles a nipple.

"you're just ... beautiful in a way i don't really have words for," he mumbles, watching you squirm pleasurably under him.

"nanami kento lost for words? a first time for everything," you manage to quip through it all, earning a pinch of the other nipple that turns your laugh into a moan.

"we've plenty more firsts to get through tonight."

at that, nanami shifts halfway down the mattress and gets to his knees, hands gripping your thighs as he spreads them open. he takes his cock in his hand and slowly drags the head through your folds, up and down but not yet penetrating you, appreciating how you're almost sucking him in, the eager way you pull back your legs to accommodate him.

he stays like that for a minute. every time you think he's about to sink in, he holds himself back as if transfixed by the obscene sounds that come from playing with your pussy, of using you to stroke himself off.

he looks to be on the verge of a choice, like his brain is fighting between two options: taking you slow and gentle like you deserve, or sinking in and fucked into you desperately, filling you up until he knows he's bred you, that you're his and only his.

you soon glean that he wants you to actually say it out loud, wants to hear those words he's fantasised about for so long.

"fuck me, kento."

now utterly unable to hold off any longer, he heeds your request, lining up and thrusting inside you in one fluid motion.

it's a pleasant stretch; he's still careful to let you adjust to his size but you're soon relishing the feeling of being so full, and the fucked-out grin on your face spurs him on.

his hips shift back inch by inch until he's almost fully pulled out, letting out a low groan as he sinks back in again, and at that, he knows he's a goner, completely lost to the feeling of his entire length buried inside you.

this is nanami at his most possessive, fucking into you as you're caged in by his strong arms, your knees now pulled back as far as they'll go. the skin on the back of your thighs is raw from your nails digging into them but you don't care, single-minded in your aim to keep the head of his cock brushing against that perfect spot inside you.

your shoulder blades press into your soft pillows as you try to keep from writhing too much, wanting with all of your might to avoid upsetting this perfect rhythm.

above you, nanami's perfect cheekbones are flushed, his brows knit tightly together, your silky walls wrapping tight around his cock in a way that's driving him to the brink sooner than he'd like. against all better judgment, he slows down just slightly, allowing himself to indulge in the sensation.

"you take my cock so well, y'know that?" he mumbles in between quiet grunts, "with that pretty look on your face when i fill you up... you're trying to kill me, i swear to god."

you both laugh breathlessly before yours breaks off in a moan, slurring his name as he speeds up subconsciously. he presses his lips to every inch of your neck, jaw, collarbone, thrusts unrelenting but never too much.

if you weren't already aware of how soaked you are, the slick sounds of his cock sliding in and out of you provide more than enough proof, melding with the soft squeak of your bedsprings to just about cut through the muffled sound of your moans.

your body now guided more by instinct than intention, you slip your hand down to where your hips are pressed together, two fingers circling the swollen bud of your clit. the angle of his ruts means his cock grazes your fingertips as he pulls out, the desperate rubbing of your hand between your legs spurring him on.

"still want me to come inside you?" he says then, strands of hair coming loose, sticking to his forehead, "want me to fill you up?"

you nod feebly -- the answer clearly not sufficient in itself, since he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours as he meets you for a wet, messy kiss. continuing his question with his lips still touching yours, he asks;

"want me to take care of you? want to be my pretty wife, hm, wanna -- fuck -- wanna be mine, yeah?"

you slur something unintelligible, focusing on the second orgasm gathering quick and hot in your core. you lose your grip on your thighs and fumble to pull your legs back up.

nanami helps to hike your legs back up -- but not in their original position. instead, he guides them until your ankles rest on his shoulders, and after taking just a second to press a kiss to your calf, he sinks back to the hilt. feeling him bottom out, your vision nearly goes white; this new angle allows him to slide in so deep it's practically splitting you open, so deep you can tell he's serious about breeding you.

somehow, the sensation remains just shy of too much -- it's not too much of a stretch or causing too much sensitivity -- it's more than you've ever taken but you honestly feel you could stay like this forever, taking nanami's cock like you were made for it, with him looking down at you with a mixture of reverence and pure lust.

you want him like this for the rest of your life.

"i'm gonna need you to answer, cos I'm pretty close," he half-pleads as if reading your mind, his voice deep and strained, firm chest heaving as the thrusts get messier and less coordinated.

though your mind is near-blank and your lungs feel they can't get enough air, you manage to mumble a "fuck, yes. want -- want you to come inside, kento ... please."

that last word tips him over with you following almost immediately after, clenching around his cock as you feel him pulsing inside you, feeling more full than you've ever felt in your life. his head tips back as he cums, moaning beautiful praise you can just about make out, strands of sentences about you being the only one he wants taking his come, about how he's going to keep fucking you full for as long as it takes.

sparks of electricity reverberate through your body, hips pushing against his as you ride out your orgasm, pretty little whimpers harmonising with nanami's continued praise.

you stay like that for what seems like forever, basking in the wave of pleasure that's just swept you away effortlessly.

everything is just ... warm. purely and blissfully warm. the warmth of his hands still gripping your legs, the warmth of your own breath fanning over your sweaty chest, the warmth between your legs that starts to dribble down the backs of your thighs when nanami pulls out.

for good measure, nanami uses two fingers to push some of his come back inside, grinning as aftershocks pulse around the digits.

you lower your tired legs to rest on the mattress, thighs aching from being bent practically in half, but it's easy to disregard any physical exhaustion when you feel this level of contentment.

nanami's arms are soon wrapped around you, pulling you to rest on top of his chest where you spend some moments of perfect silence.

you can hear his heart beating in his chest, skipping a beat when you angle your head up to meet his gaze again.

"well?" you ask, a smile imbued in your words. "still lost for words?"

"just thinking about how every second of this was worth waiting for," he replies without missing a beat, eyes crinkling at the corners as he watches how his answer flusters you.

with one hand behind his head as he rests of the pillow and the other wrapped around your shoulders, nanami looks more relaxed than you've maybe ever seen him.

this is a man who looked on the verge of a nervous breakdown when you reconnected less than a year ago; he's almost unrecognisable now, the dark circles under his eyes have faded, his face filling out a bit more, the smile on his face entirely genuine.

and in this moment you feel a burst of clarity, a sudden realisation that's eluded you since that first night you met in college.

maybe -- just maybe -- you're as good an influence on him as he is on you.

#nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami kento x reader #may tries to write #oh lord #im not even going to tell you how long i spent drafting this bad boy #please join me in the brainrot please

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msmk11 · 5 months ago

Note

a hunger games fic where there’s tension between reader and haymitch but he feels conflicted because of the age gap i don’t know lots of pining and angst so i can go insane

Drunk on You

Haymitch Abernathy x fem!reader

WC: 4k

CW: Drinking/being drunk; mentions of death and blood; age gap (legal and consensual- reader is 21)

A/n: Thank you for the request!! I'm so sorry this took so long. I have been in a writing rut and also very busy, but I hope you enjoy this! I know I sure did.

You’d been lucky enough to avoid mentoring the first two years after your games- your first year by claiming insanity and the second merely because of the abundance of victors in your district. But the Capitol, and Snow, were ravenous for the return of their Angel- the sweet, innocent girl they painted you to be despite the blood they knew was on your hands.

And while the nightmares of your games were as fresh in your mind as the day they started, you persisted nonetheless. You couldn’t afford to let anyone else die at your hands, even if the cost to you was great.

So the day of the reaping you stood by Mags’ side- four’s other mentor this year- as you watched kids be chosen to be sent off to their deaths like pigs for slaughter.

The girl, someone you barely recognized but knew you’d gone to school with, looked strong. Like a potential competitor. She was tall enough, fairly lean, and the definition in her arms was obvious. Her age- eighteen- was a benefit too.

Whatever her name was (you’d been too anxious to pay attention), would be your mentee this year while Mags took the boy.

The boy.

Finnick Odair.

And while the age difference between you two was large- almost 7 years exactly- you guys were close. Like sibling-level close. It took everything in your power to not let the tears brimming at your waterline spill.

The aftermath was a flurry of rushed goodbyes, heated whispers, and your begging Mags to just help you make it through the games.

Though every instinct screamed at you to put all your efforts into Finnick’s survival, your mind knew it wasn’t the right thing to do. The girl, your mentee, may not have meant something to you, but she certainly meant something to someone. And she deserved life just as much as Finnick.

It didn’t make it any easier though.

And in the nights, when the nightmares and fears came creeping in, you turned to drink.

That’s how you met Haymitch.

Haymitch Abernathy. Blonde, 31, borderline alcoholic, victor of the second quarter quell. And your new drinking buddy.

Apparently.

When you get to the bar in the Tribute Center the first night it’s totally empty except for a few Capitol stragglers giggling in a corner booth.

You take a seat at the actual bar and order from the bartender- a brunette avox who couldn’t be much older than you. You’re sure to be extra polite as you accept your drink and take a sip of the strong concoction. It burns and you know it’ll fuck you up just enough to take the sting off the emotions squeezing your heart.

“Drinking alone? Seem a bit young to be doing that, sweetheart,” a voice interrupts from beside you.

You turn to find Haymitch Abernathy standing next to you, his appearance a little disheveled, but still obviously very handsome.

“Not sure you’re the one to be making judgements, Abernathy. You even sober right now?”

He smirks at you a little, “only buzzed for now. Care for some company?”

You scan the blonde suspiciously and decide he’s basically harmless, “fine, but you buy the next round.”

The District 12 victor lets out a chuckle and slides onto a stool beside you, “thought you had more money than you knew what to do with, four.”

“So do you,” you remind him with a shake of your head, “anyhow, it’s not about the money. It’s about the principle. You’re supposed to be a gentleman.”

Haymitch doesn’t reward you with an answer, instead turning to the bartender and ordering two glasses of whiskey.

“What brings you to the bar so early in the games?”

“Wanted to fully reacquaint myself with the tribute center,” you huff dryly, “I’ve missed it sooooo dearly.”

“You’ll get used to it pretty damn fast. Especially now that the Capitol’s got its claws back on you, you won’t be able to escape it.”

He takes a sip of his drink thoughtfully, “I mean, their angel has made her return.”

A scoff escapes you in spite of yourself and Haymitch smirks.

“What would they think if they knew you were getting wasted with the Capitol’s most disappointing victor? Your reputation would be ruined.”

“Then maybe I should stick around you a little longer, Twelve. Let some of your bad energy rub off on me. Maybe even have them catch me leaving your room.”

Haymitch chokes on his drink and you smirk.

“What?! Catch you leaving my room like, like we?”

“Had sex,” you tease, “goodness Abernathy, I didn’t pin you for a prude.”

He rolls his eyes at you and huffs cockily, “me, a prude? Babydoll back where I come from I have a reputation. I’m just shocked that the Capitol’s perfect little angel could be so naughty.”

It’s your turn to choke when he sends you a wink, and you try to cover it with a cough.

“Looks can be deceiving, Abernathy.”

*****

You’re not sure if it’s the booze or the blaring music that’s giving you a headache. Or maybe it’s the relentless stares and unwanted approaches by dimwitted Capitol folks. Regardless, you want to be anywhere but here right about now.

A party. Celebrating. The arrival of tributes. The arrival of doomed children.

It makes you sick.

You forget someone is yapping away in your ear until they’re suddenly interrupted by your savior.

Haymitch.

“I’m sure the story you’re telling is lovely, really, but unfortunately we’re being pulled away for important mentor business,” he shares calmly, barely suppressing a smirk.

“Oh, oh. Yes, of course,” the blue-haired person before you chatters, “I’ll have to catch you another time.”

Haymitch, thankfully, is already pulling you away before they can make you answer.

The blonde pulls you through the crowd, hands intertwined, and you can’t help but shiver. You figure it must be the evening chill in the air.

You seem to be walking forever, further and further away from the party until the voices and music are a faint hum. He’s hidden the two of you away in one of the President’s many flourishing gardens. One that, surprisingly, doesn’t have a rose in sight.

When Haymitch finally comes to a halt you look at him and smile, eyes darting between his face and your joined hands, “what was all that for?”

He looks at you disbelievingly, “I was saving you.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him, “who said I needed saving?”

“The poor glass in your hand that you nearly squeezed to death.”

You once over the glass full of some colorful drink in your hand and shrug noncommittally, throwing it back and then setting the empty glass on the wall.

“I think you just wanted time alone with me, Abernathy. Seems like an awfully convoluted plan….showing up to the Capitol party, stealing me away so dramatically….”

He releases your hand and leans back against the wall, “don’t flatter yourself. I’m here for the free booze. I only brought you here out of the goodness of my heart.”

A scoff escapes you and you roll your eyes.

“Anyhow, you owe me now- for saving you. And for missing out on free drinks because of it.”

“Let me guess, with more booze?”

“How else?”

“I don’t know… a meal, a simple favor…. My friendship?”

Haymitch winces and taked a large gulp of his drink, “don’t think the last would be much of a reward.”

You go to slap his arm but he stops you, his hand grabbing yours.

“You’ve got wicked fast reflexes,” you choke out, trying to suppress the gasp that escapes your lips.

“I’m a victor, remember?”

When you look up at him, his smile seems to briefly vanish, replaced with something much darker.

You take his drink and finish it while squeezing his other hand.

*****

“You clean up nice.”

Haymitch looks more than disgruntled to be stuffed into a fancy suit and you can barely suppress your laughter.

“Shut up,” he grumbles under his breath.

It reeks of booze.

“What? I’m just saying it’s nice that you’ve changed up the homeless look.”

The blonde eyes you with a glare, “And I see they’ve stuffed you into another ridiculous costume.”

Haymitch is right. You do look ridiculous, and you’re not even the one on stage tonight. The white, feathery dress made for you was certainly intended to represent your angel persona. You think you look more like a white duck.

“I suppose it’s better than usual,” you scoff, flattening out a few ruffled feathers, “though it itches like crazy.”

You begin to fidget with your dress again as the group of mentors slowly gather in their assigned seats near the front of the auditorium. The shrill voices of an excited audience echo loudly throughout the room as you step inside. You prepare for the stares and whispers, donning your mask and armor bravely.

Still, your hands shake. Your body’s thrown back in time to your games. You can remember clear as day standing up on that stage as Cesar talked and prodded, guiding you right into the role that had already been decided.

Sweet. Innocent. Lovely. An angel.

You’d fallen for the trap, mistaking the net for a lifeboat.

And had you ever really escaped it?

The knots in your stomach are answer enough, and the seat soon before you is a welcome reassurance for your wobbly legs.

Somehow, you’ve ended up between Mags and Haymitch. The former smiles at you warmly, nodding in a way that is inexplicably reassuring. Deep down, you know that she’s telling you that Finnick will be okay. That you’ll be okay.

And when a hand lands on your knee, you’re doubly reassured.

“Stop tapping your foot, it’s even making me anxious,” Haymitch grumbles.

You still, turning to look at him apologetically.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just… weird being back. I feel like I’m back in my own games, being in this room again. I hate it.”

Haymitch shifts a little and you see him reveal a small golden flask in his hand.

“Want a drink?”

As tempting as it sounds, you shake your head, “I think I’d puke if I drank. And I want to be present anyway. Ready for anything.”

Your eyes flit to his hand still on your knee and you recall the pleasing warmth as he held yours those few weeks ago. Carefully, you reach out and intertwine your fingers, resting your clasped hands between you. At first he stiffens, and you think he’s going to pull away. But then, he doesn’t.

And the flask disappears into his pocket, unused.

*****

The blare of the horn through the speakers nearly sends you into a meltdown on the spot. It feels so deeply real to you, even though you’re miles away from the games. Your eyes are trained on your tribute as she sprints forward towards the cornucopia, and towards her potential death. Still, she’s technically a career, so you have hope that she’ll survive the bloodbath.

Your eyes stray to Finnick too and your stomach rumbles in worry. But you know that he’s strong and determined, so you try to relax.

Like usual, the bloodbath is ruthless and you can barely stomach it. It’s worse too because you have a stake in the outcome. Not just your own life or strangers’ lives, but someone you’ve trained, someone you care about.

It doesn’t register with you that the death of strangers might actually affect you more than you realize. In particular, the two tributes from twelve. They’re struck down quickly, as they often are, and your heart twists. While the death of children is certainly part of the cause, it’s the image of Haymitch that really pains you. Another year, another loss, and you wonder how he bears it. You suppose he doesn’t.

Hence, the booze.

Once the initial craziness of the bloodbath calms down and you’re sure that both your tribute and Finnick are safe, you go on a hunt for Haymitch.

It doesn’t take you long if you follow the trail of beer.

Not literally, of course, but the bar is certainly the right place to start. Haymitch is slumped over on a stool and your heart breaks a little.

“Drinking alone?” you say quietly.

The blonde looks at you unimpressed and you’re immediately taken aback by the pain swimming behind his eyes.

“Care if I join you?”

He hums noncommittally and you don’t take that as an outward no. After you take a seat you order a drink and sip silently for a few moments.

“I’m sorry about your tributes.”

Haymitch shrugs, “I knew they were never gonna make it.”

“But it can still hurt,” you remind him.

Haymitch scoffs a little, “I don’t care. I barely knew the kids.”

You study his face and can tell that he actually does. Of course, you don’t say that. Instead, you reach out and grab his hand. This time, he doesn’t even flinch as he grips yours back.

“Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

You drag him along to the fourth floor suite and bring him inside.

“I’ve entered enemy territory,” the blonde says gruffly.

You smirk at him and hold up a bottle of whiskey, “what about now?”

He smiles a little and you pour a drink for each of you before settling on the couch next to him so that your knee is touching his thigh- so you’re fully facing him.

“You know, you don’t have to pretend to be strong,” you tell him softly.

“I’m not pretending, I’m fine.”

Haymitch turns his head away and you hear a small sniffle.

“Sweetheart,” you coo.

You grab his chin and gently turn his face towards you. He looks embarrassed and teary eyed and you stroke your thumb over his cheek. Haymitch’s eyes flutter shut and you think it’s a rather pretty sight.

“It’s okay,” you whisper very softly.

When Haymitch opens his eyes you’re inches apart, and your heart stutters in your chest.

You both lean slightly closer, your breaths mingling.

“Haymitch…”

He abruptly pulls back.

“I think I need another drink.”

*****

You suppose you’re glad it was quick. Hopefully pretty painless. No chance to be afraid or to bleed out slowly.

But it also happened so fast. One second your tribute was breathing, and now she’s gone. You’d had such high hopes for her, and now she was dead. Was it your fault?

Was there something you could’ve done to warn her? To prepare her better?

You feel even more guilty because you’re sort of relieved that she’s dead. Not because you wanted her to die, but because it means Finnick is one step closer to getting out of the arena. Back home to District Four where he is relatively safe- or at least in your dome of protection.

When the guilt subsides, it’s replaced by numbness. That’s all you feel.

You understand now why Haymitch drinks. It provides some semblance of warmth when all you feel inside is coldness and emptiness.

Knocking. You hear knocking.

You stumble to the door, bottle in hand, and there he stands.

“Haymitch!”

You lunge towards him and he catches you, gripping your waist firmly. If you were sober, you would’ve been able to suppress the shudder that runs through your body from his touch.

“Want a drink?” you slur, your boozy breath blowing in his face.

He shakes his head at you and you shrug, “more for me then.”

You lift the bottle neck to your mouth but he stops you, gripping your wrist gently.

“I think you’ve had enough, sweetheart.”

A loud laugh escapes your lips and Haymitch shushes you, shuffling the both of you inside and closing the door, “What’s so funny?”

“It’s just funny- you telling me I’ve had too much to drink. Hilaaaaarrious!”

“Well I have a better tolerance.”

You shuffle back and topple over the couch arm, sending Haymitch down on top of you.

“Oooooops… sorrrrryyyyy” you giggle.

The blonde pushes himself up off of you and sets the bottle down on the side table.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Haymitch asks softly, more kind than you’ve ever heard him before.

You sober up a little at the question and scoff, “Of course I’m not fine. My tribute just bled out on

television in front of millions of people.”

“I-I’m sorry,” he mutters gruffly.

“Why? What was it you said? You barely even knew your tributes…It’s not like I did either. Why should I care? Or be torn up?”

“Because you’re a better person than me,” Haymitch adds gently, “Because you wear your heart on your sleeve and care so deeply about people.”

He grips your knee and smiles at you sadly.

“Well I’m done with caring,” you slur, “It only hurts more. I like your way- drink yourself to death.”

You lunge towards the bottle behind him and he reaches out, stopping you again by grabbing your hips and pulling you against him. Surprisingly, he doesn’t let go when he pulls you away from the bottle. Instead, he pulls you into his chest, hugging you.

“What’re you doing?” you mumble into his chest.

“Giving you a hug, sweetheart.”

“Why?”

He scoffs exasperatedly, “I can stop.”

“NONONO don’t! Don’t.”

You shift back a little to look him in the eyes, “It’s… nice. You’re…nice.”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever called me nice before.”

You look at the blonde softly, infatuated by his face- the stubble across his chin, his piercing eyes, his lips…

By some unknown force, you’re pulled to his lips. You reach out and close your eyes, pressing your lips to his. For a moment, he reciprocates, his mouth melting against yours. But then he pulls away, “Stop, stop. You’re drunk.”

“So? You’re always drunk and I don’t stop you from doing things you want,” you remind him.

“I don’t- you’re. Even then, it doesn’t matter. You’re too young and I-”

Haymitch stands abruptly and leaves, abandoning you on the couch, alone.

*****

Finnick’s return to the Capitol should be more joyous than you currently feel. You’re beyond relieved that he’s back and safe, within arms reach. In fact, you haven’t let him out of your sight in days and you think he’s starting to get annoyed by you.

Still, something continues to burden your mind or, rather, someone.

You haven’t seen Haymitch since you drunkenly tried to kiss him a few days ago. Though you were incredibly wasted, his words still ring in your mind clear as day- “you’re too young.”

It’s more painful than flat out rejection, really. Him not having feelings is one thing, but the knowledge that he potentially does and still won’t let you in hurts much more. What-ifs haunt you constantly, and the memory of the look on his face when he pulled away slowly rips your heart to shreds.

Now there’s only an evening left until you’re set to return home to District Four, only one night until you won’t see Haymitch again until…well you’re not sure how long it will be.

“You know, I’m the one that should be moping about,” a voice says.

You look up to see Finnick staring at you from the doorway, a knowing look on his face.

“I’m not moping…I’m just tired,” you say.

It is true, but so is Finnick’s statement. Not that you’ll tell him that.

He quirks an eyebrow at you and walks into the room, plopping down on your bed, “Such a bullshit response. Come up with a better excuse if you’re going to lie.”

“I’m not lying I-”

You shut up as he looks at you unimpressed.

“Come on, I can read you like a book. What’s wrong?”

You sigh and look down at your hands, fidgeting with your fingers.

“Nothing I- I kissed Haymitch,” you murmur.

“What’d you say? I can barely hear you.”

“I kissed Haymitch,” you say more boldly.

Finnick’s eyes widen, and it would be comical if it were any other situation, “Abernathy? You kissed Haymitch Abernathy?”

“Yes, Abernathy. Is there any other Haymitch?”

Finnick shakes his head in disbelief, “I owe Mags five dollars.”

“Excuse me?”

“Mags told me she thought you two liked each other. But I didn’t believe her, so we bet on it. Guess I can’t be that mad though.”

“Well it doesn’t matter, we’re not together or anything.”

Finnick looks at you intently, “why not?”

You sigh and pause for a moment, “Because he said I was too young.”

“That’s such bullshit,” the blonde scoffs, “you’re only like, what, ten years younger? Anyhow, you’re an adult who can make her own decisions.”

You shrug your shoulders and sigh, “I just wish I never would’ve done anything. I was drunk and stupid and now he won’t talk to me.”

A pillow gets thrown at your face and you wince, scowling at Finnick, “what was that for?”

“Drunk you was smarter than sober you. She acted on her feelings. Now you’re just sitting around moping.”

“I-”

Finnick looks at you seriously, “Don’t waste your chance. We both know life is too short to have regrets.”

You stand up quickly and kiss Finnick on the cheek, “when did you get so smart little bro?”

He only rolls his eyes at your endearment and shoves you out the door.

Your hand shakes as you hold it up to the twelfth floor door. It’s ridiculous, really, how you’re more nervous to confess your feelings than you were to fight in the games.

You take a deep breath and finally knock stiffly.

There’s momentary silence and you think maybe Haymitch is asleep or not there. But then you hear shuffling from the other side and the door is yanked open- “Wha-?”

Haymitch freezes at the sight of you, his likely nasty reply hanging off of his lips.

“What are you doing here?” he asks more calmly.

“I-I came to apologize.”

Then, you shake your head, “that’s a lie. I’m not here to apologize because I’m not sorry for what I did… for kissing you. I’m only sorry you left too soon and I was too drunk for us to talk about it.”

Haymitch stands in the doorway still and only stares at you dumbfounded.

“Can-can I come in?”

Finally the blonde nods and steps aside, welcoming you into his space. It’s slightly messy and you suppose he hasn’t left the suite in days, not that you blame him or mind.

You find a seat on the couch, comfortably separate from Haymitch on the other end.

“Haymitch-”

“I’m sorry,” he interrupts.

“What?”

“I’m sorry. For walking out on you. It wasn’t the right thing to do. I-I panicked and you were drunk and…and I haven’t felt anything like that in a long time.”

You stare at him softly and your heart beats in your chest, “So you did feel something.”

Haymitch runs his hand through his hair exasperatedly, “Fuck, of course I did. I mean, you’re smart, funny, and beautiful, how could I not?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks and you look down at your hands awkwardly… “but you think I’m too young. You said that.”

He sighs, “I-I did. And I meant it. I still do. You’re young, you still have a life to live. You deserve to be with someone young and put together and better…”

You scoff gently, “Did you ever think to ask me what I think I deserve? Why do you get to decide for me?”

Haymitch’s mouth opens and closes silently like a fish.

“Maybe what I want- maybe what I deserve- is a kind, handsome guy who might be a little rough around the edges, but who is gooey and sweet on the inside. What then?”

“But I’m a drunk and fucked up and…”

You reach out and grip his hand tightly, “I don’t think I’ve seen you touch a drink in days. And also, look who you’re talking to. I don’t exactly handle my trauma well either. I’m a victor too, remember?”

You shuffle closer to him, “Please don’t push me away, please-”

Before you can finish your response you’re cut off as Haymitch moves forward and pulls you into him, kissing you passionately.

You melt into his touch and sigh, finally being rewarded with what you’ve been craving for weeks.

He pulls away and rests his forehead against yours, panting softly, “you know, you’re right. I haven’t drank in days because I found something better. I got drunk on you instead.”

#haymitch abernathy x reader #haymitch abernathy imagine #haymitch x reader #the hunger games fandom #the hunger games fanfiction #thg haymitch abernathy #thg haymitch #haymitch abernathy #haymitch abernathy x you #the hunger games haymitch #haymitch abernathy fic #haymitch abernathy fluff #haymitch abernathy angst #hunger games

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roanofarcc · 3 months ago

Text

PRACTICE LESSONS

pairing: jackie taylor x fem!reader

summary: while getting ready for your first high school party, jackie suggests you practice for the inevitable game of spin the bottle.

warnings: pre-crash! jackie, shy/borderline awkward!reader. classic tale of closeted girls being girls. seemingly one-sided crush. fluff! suggestive but nothing explicit. practice kissing & make out sesh.

word count. 1.5k || masterlist (requests open!)

The sweet smell of flowery perfume was the only thing keeping you from full-blown panicking. The night crept near, marked by the setting sun painting the sky in a fiery scene. The digital clock on Jackie Taylor’s bedside ticked away each minute in daunting red numbers, reminding you of what was supposed to be an exciting new endeavor.

You weren’t sure why you were so nervous for your first high school party. Most people, like your best friend Jackie, were thrilled to be invited to such a milestone. You were too, somewhat, but you were more nervous than anything.

As you watched Jackie finish getting ready, you tried to ground yourself in the smell of the perfume she had spritzed on you a couple of minutes prior. It was the same perfume she always wore, a signature scent that filled up the girls' locker room after practice and clung to your bedsheet when she spent the night.

Jackie smacked her lips as she finished applying her lip gloss and turned her head over her shoulder to peer at you. She had fished out a dress from the depths of her closet that she’d been saving for a special occasion. It was short, fanning over only half of her thigh and exposing her toned legs from soccer conditioning. The dress had long sleeves but showed off her collarbones, flashing her heart-shaped necklace. She had tied half her hair up, dusted her eyelids with shimmery shadow, and glossed her pursed lips.

The sight of her always brought a skip to your heart, but tonight it was enough to bring heat to your cheeks too.

“You’re quiet,” she said, tilting her head to the side.

You let out a breath, picking at a loose thread on your shorts. “Just nervous about tonight.”

Jackie stood up from her vanity with a soft smile, moving to stand in front of you with her hands outstretched. You swallowed the creeping nervousness in your throat and grasped her soft hands, allowing her to pull you to your feet.

Jackie had always been a touchy friend. Her fingers often found themselves twirling the ends of your hair when she wanted you to focus on her, rubbing the crease between your brows when she wanted you to be less stressed, or fixing any imperfections in your clothing that she spotted.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy the contact, even if you made your hands clammy and face warm. It was just how Jackie was with you.

She smoothed out the invisible wrinkles of your shirt against your shoulders. “Don’t be. We’ll have the whole team there to fall back off.”

Your fellow Yellowjackets were also attending the party, making the stakes feel slightly less intense. Freshmen usually weren't invited to big parties; the upperclassmen were scared they’d get alcohol poisoning and ruin the night or snitch. But those on sports teams, who were tight with the upperclassmen on their team, were the expectation. You didn’t want to screw it up for yourself or your teammates.

“What do they even do at parties? Do you think it's like the movies?” you asked.

Jackie shrugged. “Probably. Lots of drinking, maybe we’ll play spin the bottle or something.” She didn’t know either, but she seemed much more confident than you were.

Her words only brought on another wave of panic. You groaned, squeezing your eyes shut. Jackie still had her hands on your shoulders, giving them a shake. “What is it?”

“Spin the bottle?” you said. “That sounds like my nightmare.”

A light laugh fell from Jackie’s lips, causing you to peel your eyes open. “It’s not so bad. We played at Josh’s birthday party in seventh grade. Sure, you may get stuck with someone with bad breath or who kisses with their teeth, but it’s quick.”

“I’m not worried about who I’m kissing,” you sighed, eyes drifting behind Jackie due to your own embarrassment.

“Oh,” Jackie said. “You’re worried about kissing, huh?”

You knew it wasn’t a big deal that you had yet to have your first kiss, but knowing Jackie had made you feel slightly lesser. Was your first kiss going to be some boy from your high school while everyone else watched? Would he know it was your first kiss? Would everyone be able to tell? Would they laugh at you if it was bad?

Panic must’ve been evident across your face because Jackie shook your shoulders again and forced your attention back onto her. She gazed at you with her big eyes and lopsided smile before spinning you around. Letting go of your shoulders, Jackie moved to sit on the edge of her bed and patted the space beside her and you abided.

Once you were seated, she pulled her legs up on the bed and turned her body to face you fully. Jackie was usually close to you, she liked to speak close, sleep close, and walk close to you. It wasn’t usual, but it always caused your breath to hitch in your throat when you could see each dark-painted eyelash and freckle on her nose.

“Is it because you’ve never kissed anyone before?” You groaned in response, and she giggled, the blush on her cheeks glowing in the warm light of her bedroom. “It’s not a big deal!”

You frowned, brows creased. “You’re only saying that because you’ve already had your first kiss.”

Jackie scooted even closer, her knees knocking your thigh. She reached up and poked the crease in between your brows. “You’re gonna get wrinkles if you keep doing that,” she said. “And that’s not true. It’s seriously not a big deal. Most people haven’t had their first kiss yet.”

“I don’t really want it to happen during a game of spin the bottle.” You didn’t want a crowd of people watching you fumble around with the stench of alcohol in the air. You didn’t care so much about it being special or magical, you simply wanted it to be yours and the person you were sharing it with alone.

Jackie got that glimmer in her big eyes when she had an idea, something mischievous that you’d end up agreeing to just because it was her. “What if you had your first kiss before the party? Would that make you less nervous?”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh yeah. Let’s just go out and grab someone off the street and ask them for a smooch.”

“Not with a stranger, dummy,” she said before dropping her voice a little lower. “You should practice with someone you know.”

It took you only a moment to understand what Jackie was proposing, but once you did, you were almost certain your heart was going to give out from how quickly it beat.

Jackie. Kissing. You. Impossible.

Jackie who braided your hair with her manicured nails while she talked about her latest crush from the baseball team. Jackie who you stole glances at while you changed beside each other in the locker room. Jackie who always fell asleep with her head on your shoulder. Jackie who you wrote about in your diary since you had first laid eyes on her and she flashed you a bright smile.

“It’s not that scary,” Jackie said, breaking you from your panic. She brushed her hair over her shoulder and tilted her head just slightly, flickering her gaze between your eyes and your lips. “Ready?”

Your throat was dry as you licked your lips, nodding ever so slightly. She leaned in slowly, almost antagonizing-ly slow. When her glossy lips touched yours, you forced your eyes shut and did your best to kiss her back despite your lack of knowing. Her hands found your waist, warm fingers touching the gap between the bottom of your shirt and the top of your shorts.

Jackie tasted like strawberries and starlight. Your body felt tingly, nerves ignited as she deepened the kiss with a content hum. Your hands found themselves on the top of her thighs, where her dress had ridden up just a little. Jackie was impossibly close as she kissed you, the heat of her body like a scene right out of your dreams.

It wasn’t until a burn flared in your lungs, needing air, that you two pulled apart. Her lip gloss was half rubbed off, making your lips sticky.

You were too scared to move or utter a word, worried you’d wake up and it all would have been a figment of your imagination.

Jackie broke that worry by simply brushing her thumb under your bottom lip, clearing away some rouge gloss, and smirking. “See? Not so scary.” Like nothing, she slipped off the bed and glanced at the clock on her bedside. “They’ll be here to pick us up in ten. Are you all ready?”

You cleared your throat and pulled your shirt back down, covering the skin that was set on fire from Jackie’s touch. “Y-Yeah,” you replied.

Jackie slipped on her shoes and clasped a watch around her wrist before she approached you lingering near her closed bedroom door. You were dizzy, heart racing and flustered. She intertwined her fingers with yours as a car honked from the driveway, dragging you out to the party where your second kiss may have awaited.

#yellowjackets #yj #jackie taylor #jackie taylor x you #jackie taylor x reader #yellowjackets fic #yellowjackets fanfic #jackie taylor likes GIRLS!#she’s just a little confused

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bokunoheros · 6 months ago

Text

TAGS/WARNINGS: reader is gender neutral but afab (they do wear a dress and lingerie tho), reader and shouto are married, reader was in 1-A, pro hero shouto, everyone is 27+, alcohol consumption (shouto’s drunk), mentions of smoking a blunt (reader’s high), sex in a classroom, idfk GENRE: smut bruh SUMMARY: when you suggest doing it in public briefly and in passing to your husband, you were not expecting him to take you up on that offer at your fucking high school reunion!? WORD COUNT: 1.9K 🦊’s A/N: okay. so. this was originally supposed to be for iida, but since FORDULA couldn’t do day 18 like they were meant to… i wrote it for shouto instead bc im not writing for tenya sorry yall // also i wrote most of this the day before it was due after waking up at 5am so uhm 👍 god help me

the very last thing you were expecting from your husband would be the idea of him enjoying semi-public sex—it made sense how one would arrive to this conclusion, seeing as how he’s such a reserved person and all. you don’t even remember when it was that you brought it up—it must have just been a comment in passing; not that shouto missed it, of course. and then the suggestion got him thinking…. like seriously considering it. the more he thought about it, the more arousing it became to him, until it was a borderline fantasy: him fucking you somewhere you could easily be caught at with a large hand covering your mouth to make sure no one could overhear your desperate little noises. fuck.

now he finds himself at his ten year high school reunion, all dressed up with a raging erection that he was trying to hide by sitting at one of the tables there, grateful for the fabric draped over them, as he drinks and drinks to calm his nerves. thank god you volunteered to drive back home tonight. you don’t know what possessed you, but you didn’t feel like getting slizzard tonight—a stark contrast to your husband, who was trying to drink his boner away. (without much luck, mind you.)

when you come back over from the dancefloor to check in on your husband, however, he’s quick to excuse himself from the table he’d been seated at all night and drag you off to an empty classroom.

“shouto? ‘s something wrong?” you ask, looking up at him.

“no—i just—” how does he put this? “really wanna fuck you,” is what comes out of his drunken lips, his brain to mouth filter having shut off for the night. (was it really there to begin with though..?)

“oh!” you squeak as your cheeks flush at his words and he backs you up against the door. “h–here?” you’re at a loss for words entirely while shouto places both large, calloused hands on your hips as he begins to press sloppy, drunken kisses along your neck. “sh–shouto!”

“mmh?” he hums, not pausing in his actions—he doubles down, actually, by nipping at the tender flesh of your throat, the hands on your hips sliding down your thighs, down to the hem of the disgustingly skimpy dress you had decided to wear tonight—the reason for his raging erection all night—where they sneak up under it and back of to your hips so he could feel your bare flesh, quirk activating enough for you to feel an extreme difference in temperatures, but not ruin the fabric of your dress from the inside out.

“we—we can’t do that here; someone’s gonna get suspicious if we’re gone too long!” you weakly protest, words holding no real weight. because if you were being one hundred percent honest, you wanted this just as much as he did, even without any alcohol in your system! (you had smoked a blunt and hotboxed the shit out of your car after arriving at the prestigious school, though, as you refused to be sober for an event such as this.)

“oh yeah? like who?” he counters, beginning to suck at your neck, not lingering on any one spot.

“a–ashido, probably! i— i just got done dancing with her—”

“i know, ‘ve been watchin’ you all night,” he slurs. “so you’re just taking a break—maybe you went to the bathroom, that’s not her business.” his hips press into yours, and you whine at the feeling of his hardened cock pressing against your crotch.

“god—you’re so full of shit,” you tell him, burying one hand in his two toned hair while the other settles on a sturdy shoulder, and todoroki can’t help but smile at your words.

“so?” you can feel him grinning against your neck, like a drunken fool in love (which is exactly what he was, by the way).

you’re out of comebacks and excuses as to why he shouldn’t fuck you right here, right now, so instead of trying to argue against hip, you tug at his hair so he’ll look at you before leaning in to press a kiss to his plump lips.

he tasted like the sake he’d been sipping on all night as he watched you with that intense gaze of his—something he inherited from his father, like it or not—and he hums in a pleased manner as he grips your hips tighter.

“how much have you had to drink tonight, baby?” you ask once you reluctantly pull away from the kiss—a question shouto chooses to ignore.

he’d had maybe three and a half red solo cups worth of sake in his system, which was enough for his inhibitions of being caught melt away. he almost hopes you two do get caught (by an old classmate at least) just so he can wordlessly flex that he was the one with the smoking hot spouse and not them.

so, with your minimal resistance and shouto’s horny persistence, it’s not long until he’s got his thumbs hooked in the waistband of your panties and is tugging them down your thighs, asking you to step out of them so can keep them in his pocket (for the rest of the reunion).

“hhnng—,” you whine as two of shouto’s icy fingers move to play with your clit, and a chill runs down your spine at the feeling. “sho—” you’re cut off by a kiss as your husband slots his lips over yours, teeth clacking slightly as he kisses you sloppily and hungrily. it wasn’t unusual for shouto’s to be a bit of a sloppy kisser (as it turns out, he’s a really big fan of swapping spit), but generally he was more put together than he was right now—it’s like he was trying to eat you whole as his tongue easily slid into your already open mouth.

you, ever the tease, quickly get with the program and arch your back, pressing your chest against his, and start sucking on his almost burning tongue—something that catches him only slightly off guard. he’s fast with his response though, left hand moving to squeeze your ass, heating up enough to leave a faint burning handprint.

“fuck!” you squeal at the searing touch and accidentally bite shouto’s tongue in the process.

he pulls away with a hiss but no real disdain before the same hand that had left a print on your butt comes up to cover your mouth. sure, the music in the gym was awfully loud, but there could still be some other people in the hallway—maybe people who actually had to use the bathroom. it doesn’t matter. what matters is that shouto gets to fuck you, and—an idea comes to mind that only his drunk, secretly perverted brain could think of.

“shhh,” he shushes you, pulling his hand away from your mouth in order to undo his belt buckle and unbutton his nice dress pants.

biting your lip, you nod as he tugs the slacks and his boxers down to about half way down his thick thighs, letting his painfully hard cock spring free and slap against his lower stomach. you can’t help but bite your bottom lip at the sight, and you go to sink to your knees to suck him off before he’s tugging you back up by the hair.

“no,” he pants, taking his dick in one hand as he plants the other back on your hip. “need t’fuck you—please, angel, i— it hurts,” he whines, lining his throbbing length up with your already wet slit.

“yeah? okay, fuck—go ahead, baby,” you give him permission to actually insert himself, and he groans loudly at the feeling of your tight heat finally engulfing him. jesus! he had waited all night for this, and it was so worth it.

“hnngh—shit,” he whimpers, the hand that was previously holding his dick moving to play with your puffy clit as he pushes into you slowly at first before bottoming out all at once. fuck!

your breath hitches in your throat and you can’t help but moan shouto’s name while tugging at his hair as he kisses you sloppy style once more.

with how drunk and horny he was, it doesn’t take long for your husband to approach his climax, and with the way he was toying with your sensitive button, you’re quickly being worked up to one too, until—

knockknockknock!

“hello..? i thought i heard someone groan, are you okay in there?” the voice is familiar, but you can’t quite place your finger on who it was. (it was hagakure, by the way.)

shouto freezes in all his actions and looks at you with half lidded eyes and a knowing smirk, cheeks flushed as he tries to quieten his breathing. your hips involuntarily roll down against the fingers still pressed against your clit, and you accidentally let out a quiet moan before covering your mouth with both hands, face burning with shame and arousal.

“all fine in here, thanks,” shouto’s able to get out, though his voice is strained. “just— ….reminiscing!” he lies, as if he wasn’t balls deep in you right now.

“ooh! fun! can i join?” the door handle jiggles, and shouto’s hand flys out to freeze the door shut. “—huh? hey, what’s with the door?”

“it’s—uhm, it’s personal memories,” he follows up, dick twitching inside you. fuck, how was he meant to last like this?

you almost giggle at his lame ass excuse and over the top reaction, until you remember that over the top reaction is the exact reason tooru hadn’t just seen you both in such a compromising position.

“we’ll be—done soon!” you call out, and at the sound of your voice and insistence on her not coming in, the invisible woman gets the message before saying oh! okay! and finally walking off.

“that was— that was close, wasn’t it?” shouto pants, starting to move his hips again as his fingers resume their circular motions against your clit.

“yeah, i could really feel how excited you were,” you chuckle, to which shouto huffs and picks up his pace. “nngh–!” you moan softly, as you both finally get a chance to cum.

your husband's dick twitches sporadically deep inside you before hot, sticky cum spills out of it and into you as your pussy spasms and flutters around him, milking shouto for everything he was worth and then some.

slowly pulling out of you, he plants a kiss to your spit-soaked lips before pulling his pants back up and redoing his belt and melting away the ice he had created not too long ago as you tug the hem of your dress down, and—hey! that panty thief!

“shouto…. aren’t you forgetting something?” you try to remind him, cringing at the feeling of his cum starting to leak out of your wet cunt and trickle down your thigh.

“mmh,” his brows scrunch in thought, as if he’s actually thinking. “no? i don’t think so?” he moves to grab the door handle, but you bat his hand away and tug at his wrist.

“my…. my panties?” you say, trying to squeeze your thighs together to prevent any more cum from dripping out, but to no avail.

“oh! right—” he goes to take them out of his pocket before he pauses and a smirk tugs at his pouty lips. “you can have them back when we get home,” he tells you, opening the door and starting to walk out. “now come on, the others are going to get suspicious if we’re gone too long.”

goddamn him!

return to KINKTOBER | S. TODOROKI M.LIST

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aestheticpebbles · 7 months ago

Text

Servus Dei

Pairing: Priest!AU Aegon II Targaryen x reader

Warnings: NSFW/18+ ONLY! MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED, MDNI!, swearing, violence, murder, smut, religious/catholicism imagery/mentions/themes, priest+nun power dynamic abuse, dirty talking, light dubcon if you squint, fluff if you squint harder, use of alcohol, porn with plot, fingering, overstimulation, choking, oral (f receiving), p in v intercourse.

Summary: Father Aegon arrived at your convent, but things become alarming once you realize he isn’t the priest he appears to be.

Word Count: 8.1k

A/N: fic below the cut! not religious at all so please correct me if I messed anything up! also, not proofread… but enjoy! inspo from his cunty hair serving from s1.ep.8.

1548. Somewhere outside of Florence, Italy.

“Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.“

The rosary beads clenched tightly laced around your slender fingers nearly gave way to a pinching sensation between your knuckles as you prayed under your breath, reciting ‘Our Father’ as you do every morning upon dressing into your white habits and joining the nuns and sisters at the first morning service of your convent.

However, you weren’t sent here upon your own bidding, rather than fulfilling the wish of your parents after they sought to nip your rebellious streak of your late teenage years in the bud after you expressed during a drunken fit that you instead wished to dance and drink until you dropped before marrying off to some Lord.

You knew your parents did this to reduce any scandalous likelihood of you, an unwed daughter of a newer-money noble family, boring a bastard, but you still did not forgive them for your new life of chastity and divine mercy worship. Yawn.

You were still considered to be relatively new to the convent as you were just beginning your second year of working towards your devotion to God and being tested on your postulancy, so you still wore white robes and veils rather than black. You felt as though you had done well in your studies of the faith thus far considering the circumstances in which you were brought here upon.

“Good morning sister,” Sister Hilda, another white-robed sister about a year older than you, smiled once the first service ended and you found a place next to her side while making your way to the dining hall for breakfast.

The sun’s morning rays that began to peek over the horizon illuminated the dining hall with a dim, blue hue as the world awakened. You both made yourselves plates of bread and cheeses before sitting down together. Talk was kept small and hushed between the two of you while discussing various scriptures and chores needed to be done.

“I heard the new priest is arriving this morning,” Sister Hilda suddenly whispered under her breath, my eyes flickering up to meet her gaze upon the sudden topic of a conversation that could be considered borderline gossip and would serve much to the dismay of any superiors if anyone would overhear the two white-robed and veiled young women conversing over such a topic.

Instead of scolding Sister Hilda once your gazes met, you proved your nature of still wearing the white fabrics rather than blacks by leaning in as well about an inch or so, quickly looking around to see if anyone was lingering nearby to eavesdrop before responding to her.

“Is that so?” Your eyebrow cocked up in surprise. There had been talks of a new priest that had recently left from an abbey outside of London, and was continuing his preach of faith now here with us at our nunnery as our current priest was, well, he was old, “have you…?”

“Within the hour, I heard,” Sister Hilda’s eyes lit up with excitement, proving her own nature as she still struggled with her own inner turmoil with such activities. You found the vow of celibacy at first to be something that you wouldn’t have to think twice about while you devoted yourself, but as time went on, you found yourself seeking repentance and trying to pray away the gnawing feeling you felt bubbling within sometimes that made you doubt your own worth in the eyes of the faith.

You nodded once, acknowledging her words carefully with a playful side smirk. Though gossip was highly discouraged, word still had many opportunities to be carried by the wind throughout the dormitories of your convent.

“Il suo nome?” Your voice dropped down low once more after a few moments, switching from English to Italian just to be safe when you asked Hilda ‘his name?’, but she only shrugged in response, unsure of the answer either.

After breakfast, like usual, you found yourself in the library as you were one of the few sisters who, thanks to your upbringing in a decently noble family, had been taught Latin. You often found means of completing your daily chores by aiding in the translation of Holy passages and texts.

Today, you had been handed a scripture to be translated by an older nun who always wore a signature grouch, so there wasn’t much to be said when you were given the dusty book made of animal skin and thick, waxy lacing that secured the spine.

A relic of the sort lost to at least 300 years, resurfaced once more only to become your problem to deal with when you immediately find yourself scowling under your veil at the faded ink on the ancient pages. You stood up and found yourself a dictionary in Latin just in case whoever wrote that damn pitiful book didn’t know what they were saying, much to the older nun’s dismay but you didn’t care as you sat back down with a murmured ‘God help me’ under your breath.

Dipping your feather quill into a small jar of black ink, you began your day’s work of translating the pages that were practically threatening to fall apart as you delicately turned over each one.

It possibly would have felt odd for another white-veiled sister like yourself to have been tasked with translating such an eerie text of those who wore multiple, yet all beautiful faces and how to ward them off, but like it was just another day, it was just another book of Latin words that you were tasked to translate into fresh ink of English literature between your obligatory meetings for daily prayers and masses with the others, and you’ve read worse.

Your legs were itching to stand after sitting down for an extended period of time, nearly a static-like burn radiating deep as you leaned back in your chair from your upright posture, slouching your shoulder forward for a grace moment with an exhale before standing upright once more properly in case the Abbess, Mother Esther, walked by.

Afternoon sunlight beams shone through a nearby window that you now stood in front of trying to warm yourself up from the cooler temperature of the library, your muscles easing against the windowsill as your wrists and fingers had ached for a little while as well.

Being on the 2nd floor of the building meant having a lovely view of the convent’s architectural layout and the courtyard within the open holdfast of about an acre or so. A few young black locust trees littered the acre, creating enjoyable spots for shaded rest you occasionally found yourself under, almost smiling to yourself when thinking about better times than translating 300+ year old scriptures from Latin to English about an ill-satiable apparition—it’s biblical name, Agneo, one who shapeshifts and requires to feeds from the sins of its prey. A book of complete lunacy that was a blessing in disguise as it gave you something to do.

However, the momentary bliss of recounting suddenly soured once you realized you were about to miss the 4th prayer service mass of the day when you looked down from the window and saw a huddle of those remaining outside waiting to file along inside in orderly fashion across the courtyard of your convent.

It was no use to try to rush out and attempt to make it, so you hesitantly let out a tense sigh and leaned against the window still, your eyes moving to ground below until you saw mainly atop skulls of Mother Esther dressed in her finest– and in tow, a man that nearly made your lips part upon the sight of his features after the involuntary oath of celibacy you took on.

Broad shouldered, his face even from above was sharp-featured, straight nosed, and platinum blond hair as could be neatly combed and parted down the middle. He is, undeniably, the most beautiful man you have ever laid your wretched eyes on, and the sight made your legs press together as you watched the two of them below you.

Once seeing him, you were desperate to see Sister Hilda to willingly break your vows of what your new lifestyle meant to share the gossip of sin, to gossip silly words that meant plenty well beneath the surface that meant for yourself at least to have plenty of reason to seek confession and repentance from His mercy in the foreseeable future.

During your brief moment of pure sin, or what sin at least means to you at the time, you let out a small gasp and moved away from the glass realizing the neat head of hair was slowly tilting upwards in an almost premeditated manner, and from the 2nd floor, his ice blue eyes burned scorching hot daggers like the gates of hell straight into your soul for the mere seconds that you held his sudden eye contact.

As if he knew you were standing there above him and Mother Esther, as if he knew you had been leaning against the edge of the windowsill with your legs crossed and your thighs pressed together at the perfect angle while you watched them when you were supposed to be in the 4th prayer service.

Your heart was pounding in a mixture of adrenaline, anticipation, and … excitement. A certain feeling you haven’t felt since before being sent here. Desire.

Despite shifting away from your original stance next to the window, your vision couldn’t move away any further out of sight from him as the two of you kept your eyes locked.

Within that brief moment that felt like eternity and despite the temptation that threatened to fester within your neglected core now reigniting, the hairs on the back of your neck standing up as your instincts inside your mind began screaming ‘flight’ but your feet were cemented in place while looking down into his cold, dead eyes.

Behind the decrepit Mother Esther’s back, the new priest held his eye contact with you with a stone-like expression of almost disgust until the corners of his lips tugged and curled upright into a smirk. One side of his lips tugged higher than the other side and it made your blood run cold despite the heat pooling between your legs.

You exhaled once his head turned to meet Mother Esther’s as she turned back around to him to point out the library, and the two of them continued on and you were finally able to move from the frozen stance you held.

You had managed to avoid the new priest, his name quickly learned by you through Sister Hilda to be Father Aegon—until you found yourself kneeling before him at the altar rails while he wore the same disgustedly amused expression while placing the communion bread into your cupped palms sitting upright.

“Amen,” you murmured softly, placing the wafer into your mouth as he extended his other hand and brought the cup of wine in front of you as you swallowed thickly.

“The blood of Christ, shed for you,” Father Aegon nearly purred, the sound of his voice speaking directly to you for the first time was intimidating enough, let alone the manner in which it rolled off of his tongue was enough to catch you off guard and leave you stunned at such a vocal display during a Holy service.

Your lips had parted a few centimeters due to your shock and your bottom lip quivered as you barely choked out another ‘amen’ in response while he pressed the rim of the chalice against the pillowed flesh.

Maybe it was the way he spoke, or the way he wears devilish tight-lipped smiles like he knows he's fluffing up another chicken house with unpreened, unruffled hens who live among cobwebs, or maybe it’s the way you can feel him staring straight down into your soul as you took a sip of the wine while holding eye contact with him up through your eyelashes.

After drinking the same wine since the day you first arrived and you had returned to your seat, you realized on your tongue that the aftertaste of the once bitter representation of the Blood of Christ was now sweet. Too sweet.

The type of sweet that makes the feeling of temptation to yearn for more not sound half bad even though you still found shame while you prayed in your seat until the end of the communion, even more so in the hours that followed when nobody else seemed to comment on the wine. As if the taste was unchanged to the rest.

You actually managed well to avoid Father Aegon as he settled in and slowly took over hosting more and more masses and prayers over the next fortnight, though it was absolute agony that was slowly chipping away at your sanity.

No matter the distance between the two of you, an unnerving fear always found you when in his presence and even more so if it was without your knowledge on a passing occasion or he could see you but you couldn’t see him. Since the day he arrived, you felt like you were no longer alone at any moment, always holding your breath to turn a corner like an accidental dance of cat and mouse for no real reason.

You’d be shunned if you dared speak the reason of your maintained distance being temptation, even if you were going such lengths avoiding him to resist such.

Father Aegon’s piercing gaze alone sent chills down your spine, enough to rattle the assembled vertebrae within the confines of your habits just like the one that coursed through you while you browsed the shelves of the library looking for works regarding astronomy to keep you company in the late hours after the Midnight Mass.

You didn’t need to see him to know he was likely stalking nearby, whispering with that strangely enticing demeanor he holds himself up with, and the way his perfectly plump lips were always cocked in some purse of amusement to offset the dark purple, sunken look to his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days, weeks.

Your own eyes had begun to mirror Father Aegon’s sullen look as well during your descent into the madness occurring within your mind when you started to lose sleep because of him sinking his claws into you even in your dreams filled with imagery of sin beyond your comprehension. The more time you spent trying to avoid him, the more he encroached upon every aspect of your life and you hadn’t so much but exchange momentary glances and proper greetings spoken hushed on your part.

After all, anyone would find holding eye contact difficult with one whom they have carnal, perverse dreams about, waking up panting in the middle of the night covered in sweat and an agonizing pool between your legs. Even after waking up you could still feel his touch on your skin.

Though what terrified you the most was the eventual visible appearance that left residual memory fragments from the vivid dreams, as if they themselves were distant memories, real memories, from the past. Gripping bruises protected by layers were littered around your wrists, arms, thighs, breasts, small bite marks and scratches even as well. Some even would remain red, or pink as if they had just occurred moments or hours prior, but that couldn’t be possible.

You’ve been alone all these nights… right?

“What could possibly interest you at such an hour, sister?” The voice of the dreaded priest you desperately sought to avoid drew out from behind you, causing your shoulders to roll back into a stiffened posture to play off the chill that threatened to visibly shake you. You closed your eyes for a moment while goosebumps broke out across your skin hidden beneath the white fabrics before quickly reaching up to grasp the book you intended to grab and pulled it close to your chest before turning around to face him.

“Astronomy, Father,” you answered without nearly half a spine, mentally cursing yourself at your inability to hold yourself with dignity when subject to his commanding gaze.

Father Aegon never failed to not wear his smug grin that seemed to compliment the sullen orbs that were half-lidded in what could only be described by a blind person as being a seductive manner. When you finished answering him and his smirk grew, you didn’t miss his tongue swiping across his pillowy bottom lip— both stained red… and the smell that belonged to that of alcohol.

You swallowed thickly once putting the puzzle pieces in place and your fingers gripped the corners of the book tighter and the edges dug into the creases of your fingers creating a pleasant stinging sensation to help stay grounded. The priest, he who is supposed to live and serve to proclaim the word of God, stood here before you with sweet wine coating his wicked tongue with practiced precision.

Father Aegon had sin written all over his cruelly beautiful face. Certainly not to be trusted at any given second.

Father Aegon’s smug half-smirk was still etched on his mouth that sent another chill down your spine when his irises unmistakably fell from holding your gaze down to your own lips with those lazily-hooded blue eyes swirling with emotions beyond your somewhat innocent comprehension.

Father Aegon was absolutely terrifying to be around, but although your fear didn’t directly come from him, your own body produces enough cortisol and epinephrine for an entire herd of corralled sheep waiting to be slaughtered by just being around him. Afraid of the fact that if he touched you right now, you know you wouldn’t be able to stop. Afraid of the fact that you know he may know how you truly feel deep down by just looking at you with those eyes that appear to be hiding an inferno from within himself.

“Copernicus…” Father Aegon suddenly murmured with a cock of his eyebrow as if he had posed the single word as a question rather than the affirmative tone he used when referencing the Polish astronomer whose works had caught your interest when accessible, “you like him, Sister?”

“He’s an accomplished astronomer and a fine mathematician,” you responded carefully, unsure of the waters of the moment and feeling the bile threatening to rise and expel which prompted you to kindly dismiss yourself wishing to depart to rest for the evening until he suddenly reached out as you turned to walk. His taut grip around your dainty wrist in comparison to his large hand was daunting and was an unexpected rush of surprise-horror when you were practically yanked back where you stood before him.

“Hm,” Father Aegon hummed in amusement, a flash of something eerie glazing over his lazily hooded eyes while his strong grip on your wrist loosened slightly, but not without his calloused thumbpad grazing gently across the delicate skin of the underside of your wrist, “why don’t you come by my office tomorrow evening? I have a piece that would interest you… brought it with me from when I met him briefly at Oxford.”

Your own eyebrow cocked at his words, nearly-half bewildered that a man like him went from such a prestigious place like the Oxford society to… priesthood in Florence where he, in the middle of the night, now was intoxicated and having you cornered like a rat subject to his mercy while his thumb caressed your wrist like a coveted lover.

Your eyes flickered down to the tight grip he held on your arm and you dared to pull once more, and much to your surprise he let go. Looking back up at him, he was amused with a strange sense of triumph like he could already foresee the internal turmoil you would be rolling in all day tomorrow until you would eventually cave in within yourself to give in and seek him out for the sake of knowledge.

Wasn’t that the sin of Eve? Coaxed by the snake, the devil, to taste the forbidden apple of knowledge?

Father Aegon wouldn’t taste half as sweet as an apple, but a part of you knew deep down that with dealing with a man like him and his caliber comes with knowing the venom from his fanged canines would likely sting twice as bad in the days to come if you did not seek him out.

So like the loyal hound you were, there weren’t many inhibitions that stopped your fingers from clasping the golden ring hanging from a matching golden lion’s head mounted on the wooden door and knocking twice. You knew you had no business being here at this hour. You had stopped by this very office twice today, once before dinner, and again afterwards but left both times with only pursed lips and heightened anxiety. Evening. Evening. Evening.

“Sister…” Father Aegon grinned upon seeing the sweet lamb standing there outside of his door waiting so patiently for him like the good girl that he knew she is even if she couldn’t muster any words to properly greet him. He stepped out of your way with an outstretched palm directed towards an empty chair sitting on the other side of his desk, the open hand gesturing to you to sit, “please, come in.”

Shame and humility fueled the pace that drove your footsteps from the corridor and into his working office in a scurry, the fuel most delectable for sin to fester within and grow necrotic while Father Aegon shut the door behind you. You couldn’t miss the sound of the lock turning over as you focused on your breathing pattern and your fumbling fingertips toying with one another as you sat down and silently pulled your chair in under yourself.

It wasn’t the locking of the door that made your eyes widen, but watching him pick up a golden, jeweled chalice that sat on the edge of his desk with matching rings adorning his thick digits, taking a hearty swig while sauntering behind you and over to a large bookshelf on the left wall that likely carried prized works both owned by the convent and his finest pieces.

You kept your head straight for the most part, only tilting it slightly to be able to keep an eye on him in the corner of your peripheral and through the thin white veil head covering, watching his ringed finger reach up to one of the shelves while the other hand held the chalice. The way he moved so freely was almost sensual in a way, his fingertip grazing the spines of the prized collection of knowledge as he searched using the dim orange glow emanating from the roaring hearth that danced as the flames waved.

“Tell me, sweet girl, what is it about the stars that calls to you… draws your attention so?” Father Aegon suddenly broke the silence that only hosted the soft crackling of the embers causing your head to angle slightly more in his direction. You swallowed thickly again, inhaling through your nose while watching his index finger curl around a medium-sized book and gently tug it free from the confines of the neat shelf.

“One can’t help but wonder who they are,” you answered shakily, referring to the stars themselves, the subconscious anxious habit of your fingertips toying with one another going full blast in your lap that had sparked back to life hearing the previous words of endearment he must addressed you with as if he was toying with you too, “what are they… what are they made of?”

Father Aegon nodded slowly with another hum of acknowledgment as he turned on his heel with his chin cockily angled, walking back over to where you sat on the other side of his desk and stepped next to your chair. He held out the book for you to take and you did after a moment of hesitation, taking the book delicately from him as your eyes danced over the intricate stitching and adhesives carefully applied that held the valuable text together.

He stood over you for a moment with one hand on the back of your chair, the other bringing the rim to his lips for another swig before he let go, much to your approval as you let out an exhale you didn’t realize you were holding, and stepped away to sit down in his own chair on the other side of the desk while you admired and he purred out, “the book… Copernicus’ heliocentric theories. One of the first copies given to me from Nicolaus himself. I’ll let you borrow it for the evening...”

You couldn’t hide the spark of interest that illuminated behind your eyes at the topic that you had been wishing to learn more about as the theories were still considered recent developments. A small smile crept onto your face but you quickly pursed your lips together to swallow your pride and triumph– something that didn’t pass by Aegon, but the suggestive tone towards the end of his final words didn’t pass by you either.

“Thank you Father,” you murmured softly, your thumbs grazing over the pressed letters of the title embossed and sealed by gold leaflets, “you are very gracious.”

Father Aegon only chuckled darkly, something you hadn’t heard yet until now and it was scarier to experience first hand than his empty, soul-piercing glare.

He took another sip of his wine before setting the chalice down on the desktop and leaning forward on his forearms with intertwined fingers and an unmistakable gleam in his wicked eyes, “I’ll tell you what Sister. I have heard nothing but good remarks regarding your performance… I’ll let you have it if you promise to take good care of it.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise and your forehead scrunched in confusion, lips parting in shock but quickly stammering out a response to his words while gently placing the book down on the desk with a forced smile. A part of joining sisterhood was an oath of poverty despite your aversion to the lifestyle but your conditioning was taking over your frazzled mindset, and a book of that value had no business being in your possession good marks or not.

“Father I-I apologize, I can’t accept such a gift, you honor me but-I,” your tongue and lips failed to coordinate without an exasperated stutter while your brain misfired, only making Father Aegon’s lips curl further upwards in a devious smile.

“Call it a favor then,” Father Aegon replied with a low purr, his half-lidded eyes missing any trace of the blue pigment against the orange hue of the fire and the darkness of the world as he stood up, slowly stalking back around to where he stood behind your chair again.

“A…favor?” Your eyebrows dropped from the cocked expression of shock into one of weary alert as you tried to read him as best as you could, holding eye contact with him until he eventually always won with the inferno that reflected in his black holes for dilated irises while he walked to your most vulnerable side.

“A favor,” Father Aegon sluggishly murmured in response, his teeth baring in his amused grin when you flinched feeling the topside of the joints of his fingers reach up from behind you and brush against your cheek.

Your eyelids fluttered under his delicate brushing touch against your cheek, unable to comprehend a single thought in regard to how to react to such inappropriate behavior and gestures being exchanged, but after involuntary celibacy and conditioned shame, it only drove you further mad yearning for the touch of a skilled lover after being denied such pleasures for so long.

It wasn’t until his index finger pressed against the underside of your chin to lift your head up and his thumb curling up to press against your bottom lip that you were violently dragged back to reality. Looking up at him while fidgeting with your fingers absentmindedly in your lap, he smiled deviously as if he was a child with free reign in a candy shop.

He stepped in front of you to enter the small space available between you sitting in the chair and his desk, leaning against the edge as he twisted and reached back to grab the chalice he’d left behind, turning back to you. Your heart pounded in your chest watching him extend his hand, guiding the rim to your lips and raising the cup for gravity to let the rich, deep red juice funnel into your mouth as if you were kneeling at the altar and had already received your tasteless communion wafer.

Eyes widening, you realized he wasn’t relenting until you finished off the remnants of the chalice when he kept tilting the cup’s stem and you having to swallow in faster lapses than expected to keep up with his antics causing you to choke softly.

You pursed your lips shut tightly with a bemused expression on your face between his actions and the sweet red wine, unable to save the small bead that gathered and trickled down from your lip to your chin, but Aegon was there to spare your white habits from any stains with a brush of his thumb collecting the alcoholic nectar and bringing it to his own lips to suck clean off.

“Tell me… why are you really here?” Father Aegon slurred out between tipsy snickers after releasing his thumb with a sickly sweet suckle like he knew exactly the effect he had on you and the reactions you were willing to give back with a little shove.

“My parents wished not for scandal,” you blurted out, almost like not caring how sloppy you spoke for the sake of your own honorable presentation.

“So, you liked to get around. You liked to have fun… you were a whore?” Father Aegon’s grin was wicked and curled up with a sense of malice as he gently caressed your cheek while you shared details about yourself to him. You knew he found some sort of satisfaction with your words by the way his teeth clenched like he was thinking hard through the intoxicated haze of his own mind.

“Um-,” your eyebrows furrowed again, a streak of anger shooting through you causing you to flinch again away from his hand, pulling out of his grasp on your chin as you stood up, not willing to explain to him that laying with two men that you had possibly seen as prospective husbands doesn’t make a young lady… a whore, “I apologize Father this is highly inappropriate. I should go.”

Your abrupt reaction to his words seemed to replace the playful gleam in his eyes with one that teetered on the edge of malice and danger, one that made your blood run cold. Panic flared through you when he dropped the golden chalice without care, and grabbing your wrist with one hand, yanking you back down to sit again.

“We are not done talking, Sister,” Father Aegon snarled out, a sinister gleam in his eyes while he stood up straight, letting go of your wrist only to take a hold of your chin once more, your lips slightly smushed between his fingers, “I haven’t given you permission to dismiss yourself.”

“I-I am sorry, Father,” you sputtered out, unsure of how to respond to him and his firm, calculated grip that always reminded you he was one step ahead at any given point. Aegon only hummed in amusement, his moist tongue darting out to swipe across his bottom lip as he turned your head in his grip from side to side, studying the details of your face against the orange glow from the inferno of the fireplace.

“Let me see you show it…Prove it,” Father Aegon’s eyes lit up in deranged excitement while yours glossed over in confused horror, sitting frozen in shock while he kept his grip on your chin with one hand, the other reaching up seemly to lovingly caress your cheek only to fist a palm full of your white veil, forcefully undressing your dreadful headdress and revealing one of your secrets you hid from your other Sisters. Instead of cutting your hair short like the rest, you kept yours braided and secured beneath your headdress, the same one Aegon pulled off without hesitation that made your jaw drop in disbelief.

“I don’t understa-,” you cried out in a sudden frustration, angered that he was abusing the power dynamic he knew he held, then still having enough fuel inside him when daring to lay a hand on you in such an inappropriate manner and revealing your hair.

If your Sisters found out you hid your hair, you could suffer greatly socially, and Aegon just paved his way straight over without any second thoughts. Your words though were cut off when his fingers clutched your braids and yanked you back to your feet.

“Understand this, doll. I see the way you look at me, how you scurry away from me like a mouse, there’s nowhere you can hide from me,” Father Aegon taunted, his dilated pupils laced with delirium and sin as he maniacally giggled, “I know everything.”

Any protests or shrill shrieks that could have escaped your mouth would be forced to be made straight into Father Aegon’s mouth that nearly swallowed your face whole when his lips came colliding down on yours in a pre-established sloppy, yet demanding kiss.

You wished to want the will to release a frightful scream against his lips, to cry out in disgust, to thrash around violently in his concrete hold on you while he forced his tongue into your mouth after letting go of your chin and dropping down to your hip.

His grip quickly moved from squeezing your hip around to your backside, grabbing a fistful of your buttock and his other hand still holding and tugging on your hair to elicit a gasp while your palms were outstretched when pressing back against his firm chest, but you did none of those things as your mind began buzzing softly, signaling the beginning the swirling descent into a tipsy haze from the amount of alcohol he had you consume in one sitting.

In fact, you did the opposite once the taste of him resonated with you when you found yourself sucking back on his tongue instead of screaming and crying about your dignity, your outstretched palms bundling up the fabric of his neat, black collar between your fingers like a deserted whore needy for more. Because that’s exactly what you felt like, and the realization made you sick when you suddenly were spun around in his groping embrace to be lifted onto the desktop.

Father Aegon wasted no time shoving his knee between your legs and parting them to situate himself between your legs without breaking the heated exchange between your lips that caused soft groans to escape from the both of you.

His hand that held your buttock again wasted no time reaching under your skirts, hiking the fabric up while he held your whimpering skull in place by your hair as he kissed down your jawline, panting heavily in your ear when he traced up your inner thigh.

He smiled wickedly against the shell of your ear while you managed to let out a stifled moan feeling his fingertips slither their way past your small clothes dampened by your arousal, massaging agonizingly slow circles against your clothed clit, sending ripples of electricity through your body. a soft, humiliating ‘there she is’ was murmured into the cartilage that echoed down to your eardrum once your lips parted with your surrender and giving into his touch, your cheeks shamefully burning red hot.

“For someone who took a vow of chastity, your cunt weeps like a virgin,” Father Aegon nibbled softly on your earlobe while your face contorted in pent-up pleasure and your mind swirled. In truth, you hadn’t truly consumed that much alcohol, but the effect he had on your mind caused the effect to feel 10-fold from the scent of his musk and the wine on his lips, his wretched tongue and damned touch assaulting all of your senses out of nowhere.

Your fingers clutching onto his black button up gripped on for dear life feeling his fingers begin to variate their course from rubbing circles to teasing your slit before dropping down, his middle finger breaching fully past your entrance coaxing a shrill gasp from your throat that his lips were licking and placing open-mouthed kissing down. One of your hands jumped from his shirt to his bicep, wincing from the sudden scissoring penetration as he got to work establishing a pace.

“Fuck, your pussy is so tight,” Aegon murmured quietly through a groan against your skin, your entrance clamping down almost painfully around the 2nd digit he teased your tight hole with for a moment before adding it in, his middle and ring finger moving in and out of you in overwhelming patterns that made you look at the back of your skull doubled with the feeling of his free hand suddenly groping your breast through your robes, pinching and rolling your clothed nipple between his fingertips, “this pussy ever been fucked?”

Your eyes rolled back straight and snapped wide open at the vulgarity of his words, your lips parted further in sheer shock that those words could at all even be used together in a sentence, but your body was still betraying you as you ground your hips against his hand that was fucking you mercilessly. How this man became a priest was beyond you at this point, barely choking out a ‘yes’, his gaze darkening as if that wasn’t what he wanted to hear and he let go of your breast, reaching up behind the nape of your neck again.

Aegon’s hand found a hold your braided hair and twisted once more, a pained cry leaving your lips and your eyes screwing shut in another wince while his own lips were curled upwards. His eyes bright with a sinister intent, his other hand still pumping his two fingers in and out and you panted with a heaving chest.

“My name, sweet girl, say it right,” Aegon purred with an underlying, dangerous tone of voice that hid the true intentions that he was only giving you one chance to say it right despite multiple answers being applicable to stroke his ego while his fingers repetitively curling a ‘come hither’ motion within you.

“Yes sir,” you finally cried out, his chest emanating a grunt of acceptance meanwhile your spine arching as the coil deep within you threatened to build up. As if Aegon could read you like the back of his hand, he let go of your hair and reached around you as he swiped everything, including the prized book, clear from off of his desk.

He withdrew his fingers from your weeping cunt much to your dismay, only to be rendered speechless when he used both of his hands to grab and move you by your hips to the side of the desk, using one to shove your back down to lay on the surface and the other to hastily hiked up the skirt of your habits as his head dipped down, his lips kissing and his teeth nipping up your inner thighs.

You prayed that nobody was walking by Father Aegon’s office as they’d receive earfuls of lewd cries that fumbled from your throat in wails after he practically dove headfirst, your legs on his shoulders and his hands holding you in place by your thighs as his lips and tongue got to work swirling and sucking on your clit.

His platinum silver curls that were neatly parted down the middle, combed and slicked back behind his ears was disheveled within seconds as you reached down and carded through his hair, crying out in pleasure and awe at his ability to seem like he already knew every inch of you by heart.

“O-Oh my,” you squeaked out, your jaw agape as you tried to grind your hips against his face as he groaned delicious vibrations against your core, his tongue in place of his fingers greedily drawing your essence from your walls in filthy slurps that had you sobbing praises in a pleading mantra as you writhed in place.

“That’s it, good girl,” Aegon praised between quiet growls, kitten-licking your tented and overstimulated bud leaving you whining and yearning for more. The coil had begun to wind up tightly in your lower belly creating a burning sensation that threatened to snap like a taut rubber band.

“I’m gonna’ come,” you cried out softly and he chuckled darkly, nipping your sensitive flesh before suckling harshly that elicited a sharp yelp from your throat that quickly morphed into a wail of surprise as you flew headfirst into your first orgasm in almost two years. Aegon feasted and slurped every drop that expelled from your contracting cunt like a starved man, groaning in delight when your evidence of ecstasy from his touch spilled from your aching core and into his greedy mouth that caused your toes to curl painfully.

Father Aegon quickly stood up, not bothering to wipe his fingers and chin that were still glistening with the residue of your orgasm causing a deep blush to form on your flushed cheeks as you slowly came back to reality from the sound of his belt unbuckling.

Aegon hastily reached into his pants and pulled his throbbing cock free from the confines of his black dress trousers, watching his beautifully plump lips parting when he slapped the angrily flushed head against your weeping cunt a few times. His vile actions were so bewildering you were rendered speechless once more, unable to formulate words when looking up at him with bleary eyes as he fondled your folds for a few seconds, gathering your slick and smearing it across his tip and down his thick shaft waiting impatiently to fuck you in half.

“This is wrong. I-We shouldn’t do this. I don’t want this. God for-,” you managed to blurt out in soft whimpers, lying to yourself to try to hold onto the last shred of dignity you had while shaking your head only earning a sadistic smile in response from Father Aegon as he cut you off.

“You don’t want this? You weren’t the same girl watching me, pressing her thighs together as she hid in the library? Stupid girl, you’re so desperate and touch-starved, I could smell your cunt from outside. Your False God isn’t here. He can’t save you,” Aegon cooed softly, shutting you up immediately as you were left staring at him like he sprouted three-heads. You wouldn’t be surprised at this lint though. A priest using the words ‘False God’— how ironic.

Despite his cruel words, his tone of voice was almost sickly sweet if his hand wasn’t guiding the head of his cock back to your entrance and you braced yourself with a shrill gasp while he leaned forward, his lips brushing against yours while he giggled maniacally under his breath sending chills of fear down your spine.

Father Aegon whispered in a taunting sneer as he continued to threaten you in a gravelly voice under his breath, the stench of wine still lingering on his tongue mixed with your release, “oh, pretty girl, the only God here is me,” and with that, he pistoned his hips forward.

A sharp hissing cry fell from your lips feeling the tip of his cock parting your neglected walls, splitting you from the inside out as your jaw hung agape and his eyes were wide– almost deliriously so as his own jaw hung agape too as if he was breathing out the energy of the cries carried out by your exhales while it seemed as though your body was losing energy as the seconds passed on. Like his hand, his hips made work establishing a steady pace as he fucked you open for him, drawing raw shrieks from your diaphram that forced him to clamp his hand down over your mouth.

“Shut the fuck up,” Aegon snarled against the back of his hand as your eyes rolled back, his lips kissing the corner of your parted lips when he finally let go of your mouth after the initial burn within your core dissolved and your sobs died down. His plump lips continued to kiss down your jaw, suckling and nibbling up and down your neck as you moaned and cried out shamelessly.

His words were absolutely vile and defiling and he knew it only spurred your innocent heart further, his hand that was pressed against your mouth dropping back down to grope your breast as he fucked you deeply, “God your cunt was made for my cock. Fuck it’s so fuckin’ tight– you like it when I talk to you like that? You like being fucked like some needy slut? ‘Course you do. What would your Sisters think if they found out what their whore pupil was doing in here?”

“I can’t, I can’t,” you suddenly started blabbering out in response despite your own legs hiking up around his hips to draw him in closer, your hands reaching up and gripping onto whatever you could while you rocked back and forth to his merciless motions.

“Yes you can,” Aegon panted breathlessly against your skin, his tongue swiping across your collarbone as he grunted over and over in his own world of desire, the lewd sound of skin slapping and your cunt squelching was foul in harmony with the considerably romantic blazing of the fireplace while he kissed his way back up your neck and caught your lips in another fiery, sloppy kiss between grunts and moans and cries of pleasure.

He murmured against your lips and his free hand not holding you down against the desktop in place by your breast being kneaded between his fingers, reaching between the two of you with his other hand and rubbing furious circles on your overstimulated clit, “say my fuckin’ name. give it all to me.”

“Aeg- I’m,” you cried out against his lips trying to obey his command to use his name while feeling the coil quickly wind tight once more as he effortlessly fucked you apart. As you came, stars littered your blacked out vision as you trembled and writhed, your spine arching pathetically trying to gather as much friction as possible while you shook in pleasure. Aegon moaned lowly feeling your walls contract and squeeze his cock as he continued without stopping, fucking you straight through the waves of ecstasy that left you feeling as though you had to piss everywhere, but that wasn’t what it was.

You could not have cared any less about any repercussions of your undoing with this man tonight— until he pulled out, flipped you around and bent you over the desk, plunging back inside of your cunt from a new angle causing a mewl to rip through you, and even more so when your walls fluttered down and you practically squirted back, coating both his legs and yours from your newfound experience of being overstimulated.

But as Aegon was turning you around, you suddenly had the perfect view of Father Aegon in the reflection of a mirror that had been hanging on the wall behind you, now seeing him in a full display in a reflection for the first time and took in the image that could have fueled your nightmares for the rest of eternity.

His shadow was cast up against the ceiling from the flames of the hearth illuminated, except two massive wings stood above Aegon and joined his body’s shadow as you mewled out incomprehensible words of confusion through the haze of pleasure that wracked your mind.

“Aegon,” your voice cracked, your eyes flickering to the mirror hanging on the wall dead ahead of the two of you, finally seeing Father Aegon for who he was finally through another lense and the sight alone made a scream of fear tear through you, but once more his hand came clasping down on your mouth and another sharp cursed reprimand dripping in poison was hurled at you from behind. The reflection of the man that had you bent over like a plaything, pistoning his thick cock roughly in and out of your aching cunt in the reflection of the mirror was unlike any creature you’d ever laid eyes on before.

In the reflection, while your face was streaked with tears and flushed in terror, his face looked nothing like what you saw with your own eyes, his reflection having beady black eyes, almost paper white skin, teeth long and sharp like fanged razors and his hands with long, clawed digits. You couldn’t miss the tall, pointed and curly black horns and the almost impressive black feathered wings that slowly rose and outstretched in the air after you said his name.

You couldn’t pull your eyes from the mirror even after he said your name, his hand eventually let go of your mouth and roughly grabbed your jaw, holding your head steady. Tears flowed hot from your eyes as you tried to thrash in his hold but it was no use as he chuckled wickedly above you, his pupils blown wide but it was no comparison to the dark, gaping holes you saw in the reflection of the mirror.

Father Aegon was no Father, no priest at all, learning within seconds that life was in fact cruel like that. Was there truly a God now realizing you had the entire situation practically spelt out for you when you translated that ancient scripture in the library, but you were too naive to realize the foreshadowing. The name of the shapeshifting apparatus isnt Agneo. It’s fucking Aegon.

This revelation truly meant only one thing: Aegon was a demon, and you, by saying his name, sealed off the deal and selling him your soul, his hand angling your chin up and to the side to press his lips down on yours, his tongue working your mouth apart once more, grunting against your lips when his pace faltered.

You felt your womb grow heavy while he panted and mewled, his wretched seed spurting from the head of his cock as his hips twitched between stilled moments, painting your walls as he moaned into the crook of your neck. You thought it’d be the end of the night, your mind too frazzled to even comprehend what to do next as your blurry eyes cracked open from being scrunched shut.

But Aegon’s nightmarish reflection remained the same, his smile sinister and evil as his snakelike tongue sharp and black as could be trailed up the side of your cheek as his hand kept its tight grip on your chin to hold you steady while he collected your salty tears on his tastebuds.

“Aegon…Please don’t hurt me,” you whispered pathetically, trying to claw at his taloned grip on your face and it almost struck a chord within his despicable body as he chuckled darkly, placing a soft kiss on your trembling cheekbone.

“I think it’s too late for that, sweet girl, you taste too divine,” Aegon purred softly, your doe eyes wide with horror watching in the reflection of his other hand reaching up, his clawed talon delicately moving a stray lock of hair from your face. He actually admired you, pleading through tears and drool and all, but the moment had to end at some point as his clawed hand caressed your temple and he murmured softly against the apple of your cheek.

“Just know this though, so far, I think you were my favorite. I might actually miss you,” Aegon kissed your pillowed flesh for the last time after vocalizing his odd apology that almost felt genuinely sentimental before his talons dug into your chin and your temple to hold you steady as you cried out in protest, then silenced for eternity after his wrists rolled and snapped your neck.

His deflating cock was still buried to the hilt within you as you dropped lifelessly against the desk, and the demon removed himself from his latest victim with a triumphant smile. He hastily readjusted himself and your skirt to cover your modesty, not that you were alive anyway to care, as he sat back down in his seat.

Father Aegon kicked up and crossed his legs on the desk while pouring himself another chalice of wine, continuing to admire your lifeless expression of shock while your pupils slowly dilated, and the blood that slowly dribbled out of your nostrils and out from your lips onto the desk. The blood dripped down onto the floor while your lost soul descended to the pits of Hell with that same sinister smirk he wore the first time he laid his eyes on you.

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