#deeply traumatized and hurt by everything that has happened to her

[lith-myathar]

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[please-picturemeintheweeds]

tw: abuse discussion, intimate partner violence, grooming discussion, power and control. Trying to be vague here and not fly too close to the muse Sun

Re: red tv and the manuscript discourse, I wonder if people realize that it is actually possible to have abusive/toxic/harmful relationships with people your own age, too? Like even if Taylor and jg were 2 years apart, harm still could’ve occurred….? Like it was obviously not grooming bc that is a very specific set of experiences usually involving a child and a person in a position of trust/power like a parent or teacher or coach etc (I know this bc I lived it!!!). But like… that is not the only kind of harm that can happen to young people???? Her youth/naivety was definitely a factor in how fucked up the situation was but it was not the only element. Power dynamics do not begin and end at age. Adults can fuck each other up, too…

[strawberrystepmom]

cw: overt infidelity (gojo is married to someone that is not reader), abusive relationship, physical abuse though it is not described in a graphic way. gojo x sorcerer/teacher f!reader. | word count: 3k, reading time: approx. 12 min.

As time passes, it becomes harder for you to remember the little reasons why you dumped Satoru five years ago. Distance may make your memories hazy but you’re certain that they were small, pitiful excuses you used to hide the truth from even yourself. 

You loved him as deeply as you’ve ever loved anyone but you weren’t ready for the responsibility of doing so. 

A man of his stature is only as strong as what he comes home to and you knew you’d fail him - you were emotional, unstable at the time, hard to get along with. The two of you had been through traumatic events one after the other and it left you feeling unmoored and unable to love the way you knew even then he needed to be.

You’ve never felt the need to begrudge him for moving on. It seemed only natural that he’d carry on with his life and you’d carry on with yours, slowly handing him boxes of his things from your place over months before one day you had nothing left to give and it was over. He was nothing but a blip on your radar and an indentation in your mattress that you’d eventually get rid of too.

The next day you learned about his new girlfriend, now wife. It hurt to hear about it in passing but you understood that your role as the heartbreaker left you with little entitlement to know what happened in his life and you also didn’t think anything of the lack of invitation to his wedding when it happened. Despite this, you pressed an envelope heavy with cash in his hands the following Monday at school and felt absolved of any further responsibility toward the man despite your lingering feelings.

For years, you assumed that the two of you would continue to move in divergent lines toward different lives and for a while it was true. You were able to work professionally and peacefully alongside him, unwilling to give up your beloved career as a teacher and sorcerer to save yourself from a bit of heartache. 

You saw him and his wife from time to time, the woman at his side never becoming particularly warm despite your genuine attempts to be friendly. A smile in her direction would be met with a smirk and then a frown, a smug reminder that she is the cat who got the cream rather than a woman in love with the man at her side. At some point a decision was made to be cordial enough to never raise questions but distant enough you rarely had to be around her.

Things seemed fine until the night your phone lit up and buzzed on your nightstand, clock ticking well past two in the morning. Squinting, you picked up the phone and scowled at the contact picture of a younger, far more audacious version of the man on the other end of the phone. 

“Satoru?”

Your dazed voice through the speaker was a revelation and the world rolled off his shoulders in an instant. Pacing in front of the convenience store across from your home, he watched your front door carefully with one of his hands stuffed in his pocket.

“Hi, it’s me. I know this is weird but I was in the neighborhood and wanted t-”

His voice sounded frenzied in a way you hadn’t heard in years, your anxiety spiking with each word. Something is wrong, why else would he have called you this time of night? 

“Slow down, I can hardly understand you.”

He sighed, shoulders slumping forward with the weight of it.

“Can I just come in? I’ll explain everything.”

Against your better judgment, you said yes and for months he has been coming to your door at the same time several nights a week. The first time he was kicked out for coming home later than his wife expected, his excuse of a mission more than she was willing to buy despite verifiable evidence that is exactly where he was. The second time, they argued on a date and she threw a drink on him in view of their friends unprompted, his bare chest exposed while sitting in your kitchen waiting for his shirt tumbling in the dryer. The third time, she hurled a shoe at him immediately upon entering the door for reasons he didn’t stick around long enough to hear.

Now, the twentieth time, you wonder why he’s bothered to remain married to this woman at all. 

Tonight his long body rests on your couch, socked feet dangling off of the end. You kneel on the ground beside him, petting rain wet strands off of his forehead while resting your chin on his chest. 

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

His eyes are closed tightly, the cerulean hidden from your view because he knows you’d be able to read him like a book otherwise, as you always have been. A shared glance between the two of you used to be a means of silent communication and ever since he rekindled this friendship, he worries it’s back to old times in that sense. He cannot connect with her the way that he does you, the same effortlessness never appearing in the way he assumed it magically would, even after three years of marriage.

“She hit me.”

You gasp, head popping up an instant and hair flying behind you. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to picture your face nor does he have to open them and use his Six Eyes to know that you are seething. Blood is rushing into your cheeks and your hands shake where they gingerly brush his hair away. 

“What do you mean?” Scoffing, you press your shaky fingers against his cheeks. “How?”

He laughs and in an instant, you feel terrible for questioning what has happened to him. You know this relationship is and always has been difficult, the grittiest of the details dropped off at your door so he can return home to her with an apology before the sun rises, but you never assumed she would go this far to prove her point or get her way.

“Satoru,” you start and he stops you, shaking his head and finally opening his eyes. They’re as dazzling as they are every time you are given the privilege of looking into them but he can’t chase the sadness buried in them away. He reaches for where your hand rests on his face and pulls it away, kissing your knuckles the way that he used to years ago when he still believed you’d be his forever.

“It’s fine. I was late again.”

A humorless chuckle leaves you and you rise from your kneeling position to stand with your hand on your hip, letting him keep his grip on the other one in some poor attempt to comfort him. You don’t even have confirmation that you bring him comfort, an assumption because he keeps showing up and nothing more, but you hope that’s the case. It’s sick and wrong but you can’t stop yourself from loving this man as much as you did years ago, marriage aside. You vowed to let him move on but you never vowed to stop caring. 

“She doesn’t get to hit you because a mission ran late, you know that, right?”

He shrugs. 

“I guess.”

His willingness to roll over and take it is what frustrates you the most, finally pulling your hand from his grip so you can fold your arms over your chest and pace the floor in front of him. You stop in your tracks and look down at him, eyes welling with tears. The emotion of the past several months, these illicit meetings where the two of you do nothing but talk and hold each other, hits you like a brick looking down at the dazzling man in front of you crumpled into a heap on your couch.

“Hey, don’t cry,” he soothes despite his own hurt and you find it frustrating that he’s so quick to jump to comforting you just like old times. You wave him off and continue to pace, chewing on your thumb nail while thinking of the best way to handle this. He sits up with a sigh and reaches out for you, one arm wrapping around your hip and the other guiding you into his lap. 

This isn’t the first time the two of you have crossed this line so you settle in, resting against the broad expanse of his chest and looking up at him from below. Your hands once again find their home on his face, cupping his cheeks, and you sniff. 

“I’m going to hit her back,” you warn and he laughs, his hand traveling up your arm and fingers wrapping around your wrist. “I am. Harder than I’ve ever hit anyone.”

The thing about love, Satoru has discovered, is that it’s a flame that only survives as long as you’re fanning it. Some people fan their flame with gentleness and patience, sweet touches and reassurances, lazy mornings and happy memories. Others fan theirs with anger and passion, frustrated groans and distrust, venomous words and poisoned glances.

Unfortunately, he learned this after he got married and has spent every night wishing he were resting in the familiar cradle of your old mattress rather than the cold bed he tied himself to for the rest of his life. 

“I don’t want you to do that.” 

He presses his lips against your forehead and you lean into it. What’s another physical boundary broken given how far the two of you have let this thing go. He is weaker now than he ever has been, strength zapped thanks to the battles he has to fight between the walls of his own home, and yours has become his paradise as it was not so long ago. His lips press a trail from your temple to your cheek and you sigh, wishing you felt more conflicted or at least guilty about it.

“Can I ask you something?” He nods, you feel it against your face rather than see it with your eyes.  

“When’s the last time you felt loved?”

The question hangs between the two of you painfully, your stomach turning at your own carelessness. He is married to a woman you’ve met, you’ve looked her in her eyes and smiled in her face, yet all you can see when you think about her is a person who has deeply hurt someone you love. Your someone. The someone you selflessly gave up to allow her the chance to meet him, a decision you’ve regretted often.

You can’t change your past but maybe you can convince him that he deserves a better future.

“Last night when I was here.”

You start to laugh but stop yourself looking at the softness in his face. This is surrender, something you’ve never asked him to give to you in all the years you’ve known each other, and he’s rewarding you by handing it over freely and of his own accord. 

“I mean that. I can’t remember the last time I was happy before the night I called you.”

Bottom lip quivering, you look away from him. You don’t want to show him the emotion on your face, keeping your cards close to your chest after all these years, but he lifts his hand to your face and tips it in his direction anyway. He scans your features and looks for any hint of regret. 

He doesn’t find it and continues to speak his mind, unafraid of consequences for the first time in years.

“I love you.”

Your quivering lip turns into full blown waterworks looking at him, tears carving a path down your face and dripping onto your chest. He loves you and hasn’t stopped since the last time he told you, the night you let him go. His lips go back to work on your face, kissing over each tear that falls before it can drip off of your chin and onto your shirt.

“It’s horrible but every time I look at her all I can think of is how she means nothing to me and how little she is compared to you.” He mutters with his lips still pressed to your cheek. You aren’t actively crying any longer, cheeks warm beneath his lips, but he knows you’re on the edge judging by your breathing. “I’m a terrible husband.”

Shaking your head, you shift your face enough so that you can look into his eyes.

“You are not, babe.” The old nickname slips before you can stop it and he smirks, the twinkle you didn’t see in his eyes earlier returning now that his old flame is no longer a single light in the darkness but a full blown forest fire razing his life. “She has never given you the chance to be your best.”

He wishes he disagreed despite how he’s convinced himself over the years he deserves what has been happening to him. The screaming, the arguments and accusations, the instability, it’s all because of his own ability to be good to his wife. To give her what she wants, which truthfully, he has no idea what she wants besides a subservient punching bag.

“You would have given me that chance, wouldn’t you?”

The question makes you sigh and you close the gap between your face, pressing your lips to his to break yet another physical boundary. He’s starved for the contact, quickly enveloping your lips with his own and groaning. He’s too greedy to tell you to stop, arm wrapped around your waist holding you tightly and his disappointment is evident when you place your hand on his chest and stop him. 

“In some terrible way, I think I already am.”

It’s true and both of you would be liars if you argued it. You may not be sleeping together, not yet, but he comes to you for the things he should be getting from his wife. Compassion, patience, confidence boosts, the things he can’t recall receiving from her once yet he finds bountifully within the four walls of your home.

“What should I do?” He finally asks, grip strong around your waist. You let your head loll against his shoulder, catching your breath and trying to think of the most reasonable way to handle this.

Selfishly, you want to tell him to run. To file papers tomorrow and move in with you here despite how everyone would gawk and talk, the way your colleagues would speculate and gossip. You’re certain she already has an inkling he’s here every night, the steely look she leveled your direction a few weeks ago across the room at a small dinner gathering for the sorcerers making you head out of the event in near record time. He ended up at your house that same night, head in his hands wondering what he possibly could have done to make her angry.

Choosing your words carefully seems like the less reckless option so you do.

“What do you want to do?”

Despite your very intentional word choice, you hope his answer will be the one you’re looking for and that he will ask you for help. Being his safe haven is a job you’ve always taken seriously and now more than ever you know he needs it.

“I don’t know. I think I need some time to decide.”

It’s disappointing that he hasn’t made his mind up yet but you understand. It’s never easy to walk away from something you promised your lifelong effort toward, not unlike this life of sorcery the two of you share, so you simply keep your head against his chest and wait for him to keep speaking rather than breaking the silence yourself.

“If I decide to leave, I won’t tell her about any of this.” 

“You don’t have to do that, Satoru. I made this decision too and she has a right to know unless you plan on never speaking to me again after.”

He laughs, genuinely. You can’t remember the last time you heard his cackle like this and you smile. He kisses you again.

“No. If I leave this is where I want to be.”

You don’t speak it, but the if makes you wonder how serious he is about the whole thing. It doesn’t matter though, you suppose, the hour ticking far past 3 am and stretching into 4 when you let him kiss you again. And again. And this time with tongue, with hands, with frenzy and need. The sun is about to rise by the time he stops, cheeks pink and eyes sparkling once again, and he digs his phone out of his pocket with a groan.

Looking at the missed call notifications, all from his wife, he rolls his eyes and swipes to dismiss them. You feel smug, not unlike her every time she has spotted you from across the room, but you remind yourself to be better than this woman who has shoved Satoru back into your arms.

“I have some shit I have to take care of but I’ll text you later, okay?”

You nod, sliding off of his lap and watching him stand up to adjust his clothing. His shirt is wrinkled and he hasn’t slept but he looks no different than he did upon his arrival, no trace of what transpired here tonight left behind on him.

“Okay.” 

You finally respond and he kneels in front of where you sit, holding your hands. It isn’t hard for him to catch on that you are apprehensive, uncertain about where you truly stand in all of this, so he does his best to reassure you.

“This is where I want to be.”

As he stands again, but not before pressing a pair of kisses to your forehead and the tip of your nose, all you can do is assume that he means it. 

He’s never lied to you before, why would he start now?

[sepublic]

Amity obviously forgives Luz for not mentioning she helped Belos find the Collector for a lot of rational reasons. But among them, let’s consider that…

She knows firsthand what it’s like to unfairly blame yourself for doing something an abusive adult pushed you into doing, that had a traumatic impact on loved one(s); And so you hide this secret believing others will feel the same way, especially from your (future) girlfriend that you don’t want thinking any lesser of you, because you don’t want to sabotage this new, wonderful thing that has happened to you. But instead of admitting it of your own volition, someone else does it for you, and you expect to be hated but instead you’re loved and reach resolution.

That’s the beauty of S2 Lumity onwards; That after Luz put in so much compassion and patience towards Amity and her unpleasant side, Amity is repaying that same favor. It’s her side of the relationship now with someone who’s trying to love but has also been deeply hurt and become difficult, but is trying to accept they can love themselves too.

It’s heartbreaking for Amity to see in real time what happened to her, happen to Luz after Luz rescued Amity from that; But maybe a lot of that framework was already there too, and so Amity is understanding her girlfriend better too, in so many ways; What it was like to handle Amity herself at first, the trauma Luz hides so well, etc. Amity’s appreciating her girlfriend even more than she already did, knowing Luz had her own baggage all along but kept trying. Luz isn’t the perfect fix-everything girlfriend either, she needs help too.

I wish we could’ve seen Amity and Camila bond over their concern for Luz’s spiraling state and have a Mother/Daughter-in-law moment, particularly in For the Future (with Amity being preoccupied beforehand). But at the same time, Willow had a similar conflict and needed that focus more. It definitely made more sense to have Camila and Willow together, plus Luz needed someone to look after her while Camila received private advice; The girlfriends needed a proper conversation with each other in S3 where Amity could comfort Luz after her self-isolation in the previous episode, which we see here.

And Luz is allowed to have what she gives out. What goes around comes around. All the people Luz has helped are coming back to help her too, and when she asks why, it’s because they remember what she’s forgotten; Not just the help, but that they themselves know firsthand. And that was Luz’s wish, was it not? To be understood.

[luv-lock]

Will Jason in Jaybird ever become mentally healthy? Because, I know that Jason is a victim and that this is dark fic series. But, I do wonder in the small bits of sanity he has, if he will ever regret it.

Tho, loving the story, and do wonder if you received a previous asked of mine, cuz my internet was fucky on the last ask.

Sorry love I didn't got your previous ask. But it's ok I'm going to answer your question and well if you guys want to know anything about the story just ask, I will gladly answer.

Anyway let's dip in. First of all I had plan to start a new series about what will happen afterwards. So yeah I will explain more there but here's a shortcut:

Jason’s mental health in Jaybird is a complex thread that runs through the entire story. On one hand, he’s a victim—a deeply traumatized individual shaped by his death, his resurrection, and everything in between. On the other, his choices in the story are his own, steeped in anger, pain, and an obsessive love that he can’t seem to escape.

So, will Jason ever become mentally healthy? Probably not fully—not in the way we typically imagine. But that’s not to say there’s no hope for growth. Even in the darkest corners of his mind, Jason has moments of clarity, bits of humanity that shine through. Those moments are crucial because they show he’s capable of change, even if he’s not ready to embrace it yet.

Does he regret what he’s done? Absolutely, but it’s layered. It’s not just guilt; it’s this deep, gnawing realization that he’s not the boy she used to share candy with on the balcony. He’s become something he doesn’t recognize—and worse, he’s hurt someone he loves. But regret doesn’t equal redemption. Regret is passive, and Jason’s journey is anything but passive. He’s constantly wrestling with his pain, his anger, and the tiny sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, he can be better—not for himself, but for her.

When the story moves forward, their relationship shifts too. It’s quieter, more strained. They don’t immediately go back to what they had, and maybe they never will. There’s a lot of avoidance, a lot of hesitance, but there’s also this undeniable pull between them. They can’t stay away, even when they know they should. It’s toxic, yes, but it’s also deeply human.

Jason calls her “Doc” now, and she still calls him “Jaybird.” Those little things matter—they’re pieces of the past that neither of them can let go of. They argue, they push each other away, but at the end of the day, they find themselves back in the same orbit. It’s messy, it’s painful, but it’s also real. And in those quiet moments, when they’re sitting on a balcony sharing a cigarette instead of candy, there’s a sense that maybe, in some small way, they’re healing—not perfectly, not completely, but enough to keep going.

[devildomwriter]

you said the brother's seven sins are based on their PTSD symptoms can you elaborate on it, please?

I’m not sure how I phrased it but when I mean is much of their personalities can be attributed to PTSD.

Lucifer’s need for control stemming from a situation where something traumatic happened that he had no control over.

Mammon’s need for instant gratification (serotonin) through things like gambling. Hoarding treasure to make sure he has a little financial security. Kleptomania is also a more uncommon symptom is some people with PTSD based on specific traumas.

Leviathan shells himself away in his room and becomes obsessively passionate to the point of blocking out the real world. He’s also self deprecating and afraid of socialization.

Satan’s fits of rage, lashing out before he can be hurt, learning things obsessively to avoid feeling inferior or like a burden. The need to constantly put down the person he feels inferior to.

Asmodeus being obsessed with gratification, validation, and recognition of others.

Beelzebub eating no matter the situation. Food is a big coping mechanism for most people and he’s eaten so much his stomach is a bottomless pitting meaning he needs to keep eating more and more.

Belphegor sleeps to avoid the waking world, school, socialization, generally everything. He also redirected his trauma of the war on humans because he needed something to blame and couldn’t otherwise cope.

Simeon wrote his trauma and loneliness down and created an ideal world with the brothers, one that he could control. He also acts as though nothing has changed since the war, still treating them exactly as he did, even calling them by their old nicknames.

Diavolo is bubbly and friendly because he’s deeply lonely and wants friends. He has people pleasing tendencies not only due to the pressure of his position but because of the rejection and strictness of his own father.

Mephistopheles is prickly and angry towards the brothers because they take Diavolo’s attention and Diavolo was the sole reason he was born and who he was raised to stand by. All that he is is meant for Diavolo.

Raphael is quick to defend himself with spears, likely trauma from war. He’s hyper observant and generally tries not to react to things or give away what he’s feeling. He’s built a metaphorical walls around himself.

Solomon never gives away what he’s feeling, avoids talking about himself, manipulates others before they can manipulate him, and has desire for dominance, power and control. He also seeks validation and praise for his work, especially from a human, since the human world rejected him as a child.

Thirteens’s trauma is based solely on Solomon’s cooking and she does what she can to avoid, lash out, and take revenge through her various pranks.

Michael collects mementos and reminders of his friends, storing them safely away and immediately recognizing when something was missing. He also maintains strict control of the friends left in his life likely keeping an eye on them to make sure he’s not left or betrayed again.

[zara-renata]

the stone, the water, the sand | ao3 | masterlist

A continuation of an exploration of an alternate reunion/au of mc and Caleb's childhood part 1. This part is a series of memories from the moment Gran brings you home and you meet Caleb for the first time: being children together, then teenagers, and then adults when you try to cut him free from you. This story contains: codependency, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, teasing and caretaker Caleb, slightly manipulative caleb, vomiting, mention of menstruation, unresolved sexual tension when MC and Caleb are 17/18 years old. MC refers to Caleb as her brother, Caleb consistently denies this title. MC is deeply traumatized and has no memory of what happened to her. Caleb's canon rainchecks and absences exaggerated for the sake of drama, not meant as a predictor of what we'll learn about their history in the game. Caleb x f reader, Caleb x mc.

You are the stone—your memories entombed beneath impenetrable layers, sediment upon sediment, the weather of years rounding all of your sharp edges, and yet your chipped pieces grind, grind.

He is the water, dripping—ever present, the gentle, inexorable force that carves into you, shapes you, his paths sinuous, lovely in the echoing depths of you.

The woman brings you home. You don’t remember her. What she was to you, before. You won't find out until after she’s dead, what she was to you.

What she did to you.

She tells you to call her Gran. Not grandmother. Nothing so maternal—the guilt, perhaps. You didn’t know, back then. What she did to you. What she allowed others to do to you, again and again.

She was simply there, when no one else was.

She brings you home, and suddenly there are two, when before, there was none.

A boy with downturned indigo eyes.

He smiles freely, something you don’t know how to do. You watch him take you in, his smile fading, just a little. He sees something in you that you know is there, but you want to keep hidden. You want to shrink away, or lash out. Fight or flight. 

But you’re afraid of being sent back. Of the unknown. At least this woman has been kind to you, so far.

The third option, then—freeze.

The moment stretches, as he watches you, reading you—your fear, your rage, the vibration under your skin.

But his smile brightens again. He holds out his hand. Even then, bigger than yours. He pulls you in, shows you around your new home. He chatters about everything. You aren’t used to all the talking, but it soothes instead of grates. 

Each day, you wake, startled at the sensation of a body without pain. You don’t know why. You don’t remember why it’s strange to be in a body without pain.

Only your heart, on occasion, limps in your chest. Gran takes you to the doctor. You swallow pills, big. You choke a little, gag, at the beginning. The boy rubs your back, hands you a new glass of water, urges you to try again. He places his palm on your throat, his touch soft, to focus on as you swallow. The pills go down more easily, with his hand on your throat.

At first, the side effects are terrible. Worse than the hitching in your heart.

The boy holds your hair, kneeling beside you at the toilet.

Where is your Gran? She still works. She has two children to support, now, after all. Her gaze, her shoulders, the weight of guilt. You don’t know it then. Just that she gets migraines, sometimes, when she’s not at work. She shuts herself away in her bedroom, lies in the dark, with ghosts only she can see.

But the boy—he’s there. He holds your hair, as you heave, as you shake and sweat. He wets a cloth, again and again, wipes your forehead, your lips. He lifts you in his arms, even then, even in his boy’s body, strong and decisive. He carries you back to your bed, until the next wave of nausea.

Gran keeps taking you to the doctor. A kind man, with sad eyes. You don’t realize that guilt is not normal, because it lives in every face that looks at you until you’re well enough to go to school.

Eventually, the medicine dosage is adjusted, the side effects lessen, become bearable.

Gran allows you time, to adjust. You wander the house, while the boy is at school. You memorize its contours, its idiosyncrasies. The stair that creaks, the burner that doesn’t work quite as well as the rest on the stove. The secret, dark places. When the house feels too big, too empty, with Gran at work, the boy at school, you tuck yourself into closets, filled with clothes. Curl yourself in the dark. You feel safer, hidden. A cave, to hold your body, reflecting your mind riddled with caves just like it.

This is the first, the only home you’ve ever known.

When the boy comes home at the end of the day, he always finds you. Instead of acting like what you’re doing is strange, instead of trying to pull you out into the light, he squeezes in next to you. Joins you in the dark. Puts his arm around your shoulders. Tells you about his day at school. His friends, the pranks pulled, his efforts in sports. He’s warm, and he smells good. You melt into him. Allow him to lift you, guide you out of the small, dark spaces. 

He takes you for walks in the neighborhood, through the fields beyond your neighborhood. You didn’t know then that they would later be developed, that they would disappear, along with everything else. Along with the only home you know, the only family you know, the boy.

He takes you out, under the wide open sky. You’re disoriented—it’s so big—when the vertigo swirls in your brain, as the sun, the clouds, melt, swirl, he pulls you back down, tethers you. You’re anchored back to the ground, the dirt, the butterflies, the wildflowers, the crickets, the fireflies— your hand in his.

He doesn’t offer to help you fly, yet. He knows that, already, you need his hand in yours. That you can’t let go. Any distance already hurts too much, the long empty days while he’s gone at school, while Gran is gone at work. 

He doesn’t offer to lift you with his mind, let you drift, spin—he knows you’re not ready. He’ll wait, until you are.

Sometimes you can’t sleep at night. You crawl onto the roof, look at the stars in the cold dark. You forget a coat, but you don’t want to go inside, down the stairs that creak, the floorboards groaning no matter how soft your step. You don’t want to risk waking anyone up, bothering anyone.

You wrap your arms around yourself, shivering, staring up in the night sky. It’s dizzying, terrifying. The stars feel so far away, unreachable flames. You can’t help but look, an animal frozen in fear, blinded by lights in the dark. Lost in the vastness that swallows.

You don’t know how he knows, the first time. But somehow he does. He crawls through the open window, wraps himself around your back, his long legs bracketing yours, his arm thrown over your chest.

It’s warm against his chest.

He points out constellations, speaks about his dreams of flying. Through his eyes, the sky is rendered beautiful, instead of terrifying. The stars are just pretty crystals, filtered through his eyes, dropped one by one into your open palm.

You begin to dream of flying.

One day, Gran says that you are well enough to go to school, her voice filled with relief, guilt—exhaustion in her eyes.

The boy is excited. He helps you choose your backpack, your supplies.

He is there, at home. He is there, at school. He walks beside you, through the halls filled with so many people it makes your heart hurt again, but not in the same way as before. Too much—it’s too much. You are used to echoing corridors, the clack of brisk heels, the beeping of machines. From where, you don’t know. Another missing memory in the cave system of your mind, your body.

After, you are used to the creak of a wooden stair, the moan of wooden floorboards, the quiet of a house empty of all but your huddled body in the closet. Then, at the end of the day: Gran’s footsteps. The boy’s.

But the school is full, of bodies, of throats calling to others, laughter and shrieking, teasing and so much life, it’s overwhelming.

The boy sees what’s inside you, as he has from the first moment, his indigo eyes watching, watching.

He grasps your hand, pulls you into a quiet room. He gently backs you into a wall, the smell of chalk, dust, early morning sunlight slanting through wide windows.

Look at me. Look only at me. His voice is soothing, no longer a child’s, not yet a man’s. Sometimes it breaks. He has a light lisp when his mouth, his tongue form the letter s.

The lisp becomes your lullaby. Everyone else’s s sound wrong in your ears.

You look at him. His soft, indigo eyes are all you can see.

Your heart slows, the pain fades.

When it’s too much, look for me. I’ll protect you.

So you do.

When the mass of bodies, of people, of eyes looking becomes too much, you look for him, and you see his indigo eyes looking back at you. Everything else fades away, as his smile spreads across his face, the warmth tangible, even across the distance of a classroom, a hallway, a football field, a running track, a grocery store, the living room, the bathroom. He is the compass in the geography of your life.

The map in the desert.

You are the stone, with your unsmiling face, your strange stillness that causes others to be curious and yet keep their distance.

He is the water, flowing around you, through you. You sink into him, and it’s the only place you can actually breathe.

Gently, diligently, he carves into you, your stone yields to him, his eyes, his warm smile.

Others are also drawn to his warmth, like the sun, a basket of wholesome apples. When you’re capable of sitting alone at your desk, of walking through the hallways without your heart doing that terrible, stuttering thing, you turn, find him surrounded by other people.

You keep your distance.

At the beginning, you don’t approach him. You are simply cold stone, when the river isn’t flowing over it.

But he always notices, turns his head. His indigo eyes find yours through the mass of people, his worshippers. 

You try to turn away, but he parts the crowd. He stands above your desk. Takes your hand in the hallway. 

Are you hungry? Let’s get something to eat. Do you need help with this homework? Let’s look at it together. Are you ready to go home? Let’s walk together.

He holds out an umbrella to you in the rain. Pulls you close to his side, shields you from the vast, heavy sky.

People admire the way he looks after you, his selflessness in looking after his strange little shadow, the generous warmth he bathes you in. 

Are you his sister? Why do you walk home together all the time? What’s wrong with you?

You turn your head. What can you say? You’re not his sister, although you wish you were. Because then he could never really leave you. You’re just a cuckoo that Gran brought home one day, and he was generous enough to accept it into his nest. Who knows when he’ll finally tire of being your caretaker, your protector?

You, the echoing caves of you, layered, impenetrable stone, except under the steady force of the boy’s flowing water.

The people interrogating you look up, suddenly look anxious.  

No, she’s not my sister. 

It hurts. Being denied, every time. You take comfort in the fact that Gran calls him your brother. That everyone else looks at the two of you, and sees the tie between you. 

Perhaps he views it as an accusation. He can’t conceive of himself being tied to you like that. Not you, with all of your empty, echoing spaces. Your strange stillness, your unsmiling mouth.

An accusation, a tie that he denies with his mouth, even as he shelters you with his body.

Being his strange shadow is never enough, for you, but you learn to endure it, through the years.

The boy takes your hand, leads you away, slips his long arm over your hunched shoulders. You’re never approached again by classmates. Not like that.

He’s there at home. He’s there at school. He teases you, calls you Pipsqueak. Shows you his big hands, opens his palm wide, pulls you by the wrist to compare sizes. His is already so big, against yours.

He beats you at races through the fields beyond Gran’s house, calling to you, as you lag behind, your shorter legs never quite enough to reach him. You want to trip him, even as you admire him, want to be him, want to beat him.

He just laughs, ahead of you, nimbly avoids your kicking foot.

He is a seawall between you and the world, as well as a steady, torturous drip of frustration.

Can’t open the pickle jar by yourself? Give it to me.

You continue to struggle, stubborn. There has to be something you can do, where you don’t need him.

He snaps his fingers, lifts the jar from your hands with his evol, the shimmer lovely and soft in contrast to you, as you’re about to bash the jar in anger and frustration against the kitchen counter.

Just let me. I can do it for you. It’s okay to need me.

Ultimately, every time, you give in. You let him, the relief coursing through you, even as the frustration sits uncomfortably in your throat. You need him. You know you need him. You hate that you need him, he who denies you at every turn.

She’s not my sister.

You soak into his waters, and you also try to resist his current.

One day, you wake up, and there is blood.

You can’t breathe.

There’s blood in the bed, bright and strange. Brighter than the skin of a shiny apple.

Strange, but familiar. Why is this so familiar, the sight of your blood staining the mattress underneath you?

You can’t breathe.

You can’t breathe, as you look for the wound. There is always a wound. There is always something that has hurt you, even though you can’t remember why, how. You just know that blood comes from where you have been sliced open, where you have been ripped apart.

You must be making noises in your throat, because suddenly the boy is there, pulling at your scrambling, scratching hands, one big hand holding your wrists away from your body, away from where they’ve been tearing at your clothes, your skin, trying to find the wound.

Look at me. Look only at me. Don’t look at the blood.

Your eyes jerk to his, your chest heaving, and all you can see are his pretty, pretty eyes. The warmth in them. The smile that reaches them.

Good girl.

Something fills you. It’s like the warmth in his eyes passes through to you, and it feels so, so good. Flowing, warm water, sloshing inside your empty spaces. You want him to say it again.

He tells you to breathe when he breathes, and you do. Eventually he lowers your wrists, holds them against his chest.

It’s your period. We’ll get you pads at the store.

You stare at him in shock. You don’t know why you didn’t think of that. You know what periods are, you’re not an idiot. You know other girls at school have already gotten theirs, from their chatter, their complaints, about it in the bathroom as you wash your hands, unsmiling, ignored, at the far sink.

Why did you think you were hurt, that there was some wound flaying you open?

What happened to you?

Gran never says.

The boy helps you strip your sheets. Start the laundry. Waits patiently for you to change your underwear, to pull on clothes, big hands in his pockets. He walks with you to the corner store, his phone in one hand, your hand in his other, as he searches for what’s best for teenage girls. 

He watches you walk around your Gran’s living room, wearing a pad for the first time.

You look like a cowboy, walking bow-legged like that.

Shut up. You throw an apple at him. He lifts a hand, and although he could easily catch it, his evol encases it, the shimmer a mirage between you. He lifts it, floats it back to you.

It’s cute, Pipsqueak. Bite.

You watch him as you take a bite from the apple. As you chew it’s sweet flesh between your sharp teeth.

He smiles at you, and he looks angry, hungry, affectionate, all at once.

The years pass.

You don’t know when it happens. From one season to the next? Spring melting into summer? Or from one day to the next, one hour, one minute, one breath.

There comes a day when he is a boy, but looks like a man. It feels like you wake up one day and find a stranger standing in the bathroom mirror, as he comes up behind you, leans over you to grab his own toothbrush. As he watches your face as he brushes, his shoulders filling the mirror, his naked torso filled with muscle you didn’t notice him gaining, somehow—his eyes, his lovely eyes with their rose and indigo irises, never leaving yours.

He has always been bigger than you, yes— My hands are bigger than yours. That’s just the way it is. But he has always been attainable, somehow. He has been reachable, in his awkward, slender height, even though you never reached for him first. You couldn’t bear to reach for him first, and for him to deny you, as he denies you as his sister.

But one day, your heart speeds up, instead of slows down, when you see him in the bathroom, in the hallway, at the kitchen table.

As you watch his new big body flex on the football field, the track.

Your heart hurts, looking at how lovely he is, settled into his newfound strength.

You feel strangely empty, now, when you look at him. Some part of you knows that only him, and his big body, can fill you.

Your heart is stable. You can move around alone at school, when you must, when the boy has an activity that requires him to bend down, round his now-big shoulders, to look into your face, meet your eyes with his, ask the question he always asks.

Will you be all right without me for a little bit? I promise I’ll be back as quickly as I can.

What can you do, but poke him teasingly? Make a joke. Ooh no, gonna suffocate without you. Get outta here. Of course, dummy. Watch his broad back, his back which has grown ever broader—you watch him walk away from you, as you feel like suffocating. But he always turns before the hallway, before being swallowed by the crowd. He turns, waves, smiles at you. You can breathe again.

Wholesome as an apple. Warm as the sun.

You do your homework, let your mind drift.

As you grow more comfortable with him, in Gran’s house, as you get used to being in crowded hallways, as the years pass, as you settle into the routine, the new normal, with your black hole of a memory feeling further and further away with each sun soaked morning walking with the boy to school, the nightmares begin.

Where is Gran? The medication she takes for migraines, for the guilt-induced depression, make her impossible to wake.

But you—you wake, shivering in sweat-soaked sheets, your throat raw from noises you don’t recall making.

The boy, the boy who doesn’t feel like a boy anymore, as he stands, barely fitting in the hallway, a silhouette in the dim light from the hallway night light, left over from when you first came to this house—

You whimper, reach for him. You need to drown in him, his warm waters. You can’t remember what you dreamt. All you know is that it hurt, and you’re still afraid.

He comes, long legs bringing him quickly to your bed. He pulls you from your tangled sheets, lifts you in his arms, encourages you to wrap your legs around him.

You do, clinging to him. His hand is huge on your back, spanning its width. His other supports you under your ass, his palm warm under the tenderest part of you. His thumb strokes across your sleep shorts, soothingly, as he turns, carries you out of your bedroom. He is quiet, so quiet for the big man he has become, while you sheltered in his shadow through the years at school.

During the day, you can be normal.

Well, as normal as someone can be, with your strange stillness, your unsmiling face. The boy always smiles for you, and people now tolerate you by association with him.

As the years pass, you grow to trust his offer of safety, even outside the house you share. 

When the noise, the people, the cruelty of adolescents, the strange feeling of being hunted left over from whatever you can’t remember gets to be too much for you, you go to him when you need him, no matter what he’s doing, no matter the crowd gathered around him. You go to him, say his name.

He drops whatever he is doing. The coaches don’t say anything when he leaves practice for a bit, to go calm his strange, distraught sister. 

She’s not my sister.

You look into his eyes, drag his hand to your hair. Press your face into his chest.

He gives you everything. You can calm down, and go back to pretending to be normal. During the day, at school.

They don’t see how you can be at home. How, as the years pass and you grow into the safety of his sheltering presence, you are free to let the rage inside of you, and not just the terror, out.

You bottle it while at school, but at home, he is witness to your fits of fury, your throwing anything at hand against the wall, the anger inside of you so bright, so hot, it’s intolerable until you can hit, throw, kick.

When you are misunderstood. When you hear the whispers about you, even as people have learned to be discreet or risk enduring the anger of the school’s wholesome apple boy.

Strange. Off. What does he see in her? Why does he protect her? She’s not even his sister, he always says so.

He catches your thrown glasses, cups, dinner plates with his evol, shimmering like a mirage in the desert, gently sets them back on the counter with a snap of his fingers.

I wish I could create a world with just the two of us. He wraps his arms around your body, shaking with rage, your chest heaving, at the unfairness of living in a world that judges you when you can’t even remember what made you this way. You’re perfect, just the way you are, Pipsqueak.

He holds you, even when you struggle, bucking in his arms. When you kick back at his shins. When you bite his hand hard enough to leave your teeth marks in his skin.

Sometimes you catch him staring at his hand, the bite you left there. A strange, hungry, angry look on his face.

When he looks up and finds you staring at him, his wholesome apple boy expression returns, his eyes warm.

And then, something strange begins to happen.

It’s like he’s not satisfied, soothing you at school. When you come to him when you’re sad, panicked, when the people and the world become too heavy, a tsunami in contrast to his gentle waters flowing through you.

He starts to intentionally provoke you, at home. 

When he knows you’re really looking forward to the last scoop of ice cream, but have to go to a doctor’s appointment. You come back, and see that he’s eaten it.

Oh, did you want the last bite?

You’re so mad at him. He’s acting innocent, when he knew how much you were looking forward to it. A treat after what you have to endure at your checkups, the cold stethoscope against your chest. The betrayal stings. 

You rush at him, trying to smack him, but he just holds out his big hand, places it on your head, matches your strength so that he doesn’t push you back, but doesn’t let you advance. Oh, your arms are too short, huh Pipsqueak? That’s just the way it is. I’ll always be bigger, stronger than you. So I can protect you.

He watches as your frustration grows, as you growl and lunge over and over again, only to be gently rebuffed by his hand on your head, the span of his big arm.

Who’s gonna protect me from my big jerk of a brother who eats the last of the ice cream? You manage through your panting breath.

Something shifts in his gaze then. Anger. Frustration, mirroring yours. His teasing smile suddenly doesn’t reach his eyes.

I’m not your brother.

You jerk to a stop, feeling like he just slapped you in the face, even as you haven’t managed to smack him once.

The tears are in your eyes before you can stop them. You try to blink them away. You don’t want him to fucking see. He can see anything else. Your body bent over the toilet, vomiting from the meds. Your bloody sheets. Your panicked breath. 

But there’s something in you, some prideful, twisted thing, that doesn’t want him to see your tears.

You want to step back, out of his hold.

He snaps his finger, and you’re held still in shimmering, soap bubble sheen. You can’t move, the tears now flowing, floating, drifting spheres leaving your eyes, your eyelashes in the gravity field he has you pinned in.

He steps forward, closing the distance, the rainbow oil slick of his power enveloping the both of you now. His hand moves from your hair, down, along your cheek, along your throat. He squeezes, just a little, like he used to do to help you swallow pills. He then slides it, curves it around the back of your neck, and you’re released from his evol. You collapse into his waiting arms, press your face into his broad chest.

He holds the back of your neck in his big palm, soothes his other hand down your back.

It’s okay, baby, we needed new ice cream anyway. You can have the first, freshest bite. I ate the last bit so you didn’t have to.

You want to drown in him—burrow into his stomach, take up all its space, fill him when he’s hungry like you want him to fill you. Slip him on like a coat when you get cold. Match his long stride. Share his blood.

You nod. He holds your waist, as he walks you to the corner store. As he picks out all your favorite flavors of ice cream, because he knows what you like best.

He is the wound. He is each stitch, drawing the edges back together again.

He teases you at home, like an annoying big brother, all while denying that tie to you. He winds you up, pisses you off, seems to enjoy your fits of rage, your tantrums and your claws. He absorbs your blows, dodges your thrown glasses, catches all that you launch at him in his rainbow mirage shimmer, and then he draws you in.

A treat, for each fireworks display you offer him as a result of his inexplicable instigations.

He holds you against his big body, as he watches your favorite movie with you. It’s a guilty pleasure—something romantic and stupid, a vampire holding an apple.

I’d never leave you alone like that idiot, for the literal wolves to circle. If you ever got hurt because of me, I’d just resolve to protect you harder, not abandon you.

You wonder as he talks about you, the film, as a lover would talk, imagining himself as the love interest, and you the object of his desires, and not his strange little shadow, who isn’t even a sister to him.

You burrow into his chest, relish the hand on your back, your waist, soothing over your hair, as he talks non-stop through the movie. We should go surfing someday, I think you’d really like it. If I could read peoples’ minds, I think it would be hilarious, why does this asshole have to be so edgy? I’d just say out loud what they’re thinking, make them think they’re nuts. If I could live forever, I would not be repeating fucking high school over and over, the fuck? Can’t wait till we’re done. 

When you tell him to be quiet during the scene where the love interest carries the main character up into the heights of the tallest trees, he scoffs.

You wanna climb trees like that, Pipsqueak? Pfft. That’s nothing. I can make you fly.

At school, he is always poised, gentle, the model wholesome apple boy. He protects you, smiles so you don’t have to.

At home, he not only teases you to piss you off—he begins to draw your attention to his big body. As if you’re not tormented enough, already, watching him across a crowd in the school hallway, head and shoulders taller than anyone else. His thick thighs, crossing the finish line at track practice. His ass, flexing as he does deadlifts after practice.

I’m doing pushups but it’s too easy, c��mon, sit on my back to make it harder.

You stand in the doorway to his room, taking in the books scattered across his desk, a little model airplane gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the big bay window. The boy, in a man’s body, on the floor, shirtless, his basketball shorts silky around his big thighs. The elastic band of his boxers sneaks up beyond the waistband of his shorts. He’s sweating.

You almost can’t handle the delicious image in front of you—forbidden, lush fruit. Put some of your books on your back, you don’t need me.

He grunts. Nah, I do need you. Books aren't soft. And they fall off. C’mon.

Despite yourself, you want to touch him, all the time. You move into the room, perch yourself on his back.

He laughs, lifts himself into a plank so fast that you have to grasp his shoulders, his sweat sliding under your fingertips. He smells so good.

Hold on, baby.

He begins to push up, controlled, fluid, his broad back never bowing under your weight. After a meditative amount of time for you, rising and falling with him, his scent in your nose, his slick skin under your greedy hands, he lets himself drop, gently dumps you to the floor. He rolls over, facing you and smiling, his pretty dark hair sticking to his forehead. Help me get my hair out of my face?

You roll your eyes, but find yourself reaching forward, smoothing the wet strands back, let your fingers trail through his soft sweaty hair. He looks pleased at your initiative. See how much I need you?

One night he comes home after practice, wincing. You’re huddled up in the attic, reading a book. He squats down next to where you’re sitting, a little pot dangling between his long fingers.

Something happened to my shoulder, I hurt it a little. Help me put some tiger balm on it?

You don’t look up from the book, refusing to let your eyes have what they want—all of him.

Don’t you have hands?

I can’t reach the spot myself. C’mere, help me. He pinches the book between his big thumb and forefinger, gently lifts it from your hands. You look up, scowling at him.

Don’t give me that cute angry face. I’ll give you a treat, after.

You tilt your head, intrigued despite yourself.

What kind of a treat?

Help me, and I’ll tell you.

You don’t even bother arguing. You were always going to give him what he wanted, even without a treat.

You dip your fingers into the little pot, marveling at the almost immediate heat against your skin. He turns, and the muscles of his back ripple under your touch, as you rub the cream into his soft, soft skin at his direction.

You’re focusing so hard, enjoying touching him like this, the heat of the balm, the pungent scent in your nose, mixing with the scent of his skin, you don’t notice that he’s staring at you in the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. That his brows are drawn, with the hungry, frustrated, affectionate look that sometimes eclipses the warmth in his eyes.

You touch him, you feel hollow, and need him to fill you, with purpose, with his big body. You wish you could be his aching muscles, that you could flex, strain for him, move him where he wants to go. 

In a few months, he’ll be leaving for flight school.

Now, as you wake up from another nightmare, the screaming having echoed through the house. As he stands in the doorway, filling it with his big body. As you reach for him, and he walks quietly across the wooden floorboards, lifts you, carries you to his own bed, holding your sweaty body against his own.

Sorry, I’m gross. You have second thoughts, demanding this closeness of him, the closeness he has never denied you.

The closeness of slipping into his bed when you can’t sleep, not because of nightmares, but simply because your racing thoughts won’t allow for sleep. This closeness he has taught you to expect, to feel entitled to, to demand, as he has drawn you in, as he has asked you to put your hands on him. Every time, he opens his soft duvet, welcomes you in. You scoot close to him, rest your head on his large bicep. He runs one big hand along your waist, around to your back, letting his fingers soothe up and down your spine. Can’t sleep?

You shake your head, not wanting to talk about how your anxious mind won’t quiet. The fear of failure. Of fucking up, losing Gran’s distant, sad kindness. Of losing the boy’s sheltering tolerance, his fluid warmth, which reshapes itself around you again and again, whatever you need, he provides. The fear, the anger at the kids at school, the whispers you still hear. You no longer hide in closets, when you feel like this. You hide in the boy.

Just look at me. I’ll protect you, from whatever it is. He tells you stories, funny anecdotes from track practice that you missed because of yet another doctor’s appointment, running with a separate group. He is distance—you are a sprinter. He tells you gossip overhead in the teacher’s lounge, while he does school council work, volunteer work. Lets you in on the secret that adults don’t have it figured out any more than you do, than he does.

You soak yourself in him, as he pulls you closer to him, his body warm, safe against yours.

Whatever you need, he provides.

When you are ill, not from the heart meds, but just the flu. He holds your hair again, fisted in his big hand, running his other along your back. When you are too exhausted to move, he lifts you, lifts a glass of water to your lips.

You weakly try to turn your head, push the glass away. I don’t want it. I’ll just throw it up.

He just smiles, soft, a smile you’ve only ever seen him give you, but what do you know what he does when he is away from you, as your breath grows short with his absence, no matter how brief? Perhaps this smile is not reserved for you, but for all the weak, pitiful creatures who are drawn to him like flowers toward the sun. If you throw it up, I’ll hold your hair again. You need to hydrate.

You shake your head again. I hate you seeing me like this. It must be so gross. You hate it, but you need it. What are you, without his hand fisting your hair, without his eyes seeing all of the worst parts of you, and still reaching for you anyway? At least you’re not crying. He can see you do anything but cry.

He just leans forward, presses his forehead against your sweaty, clammy one. Nothing about you is gross. Not to me. Drink, Pipsqueak.

You do as he says, let him hold you against him, let him pull down your underwear, his long fingers gentle against your skin. He sets you gently on the toilet. 

Go, then we’ll go to bed.

You do as he says, and he watches you, indigo eyes tracing you, seeing everything. 

You feel like the cold stone, the echoing caves inside you are flooded with him, as he watches you, as his indigo eyes fill your vision.

He carries you to his own bed, after. Sets a bowl next to it, in case he can’t rush you to the bathroom in time, the next time you need to vomit. He pulls you back against him, and you feel the contours of him carve further into you with each breath. Your lungs, knowing to breathe because his lungs inhaled first. The clasp of his big hand spanning your stomach, holding you tightly against him, grounding you in his bed, in your Gran’s house, in the world.  You are cold stone, except when you are floating in his warm waters.

At school, boys look at you across the classroom, across the track. You hate their eyes on you. You want to pull on pants over your shorts, the boy’s hoodie over your torso, if you look up and find yourself pinned in their gazes.

It’s like he always knows. He jogs across the field, across the track’s lanes. Takes your hands in his, turns you gently so that his broad back shelters you from the rest of your classmates, your teammates.

Your shoulders drop, as the world falls away, as his indigo eyes are the only eyes you can see, feel. He holds both your hands in one of his big ones, then reaches down, fiddles with the hem of your shorts. Okay, Pipsqueak?

You nod, because how can you tell him that you hate everyone looking at you, but him? That you feel naked, exposed—you want to actually be the cold stone that you always feel yourself to be, untouchable, unyielding, under the eyes of everyone else.

These are pretty short. He runs a finger underneath the hem along the side of your thigh, his finger soft against your skin. You want more. You want his whole hand, lifting, spreading, filling, covering you.

You feel restless, hungry, hollow between your legs under your short shorts.

Do you not like them? You will put on your pants, if he hates them. You’d do anything, to keep him looking at you with such fond warmth.

I didn’t say that. I just don’t want you to wear them if they make you uncomfortable. His finger leaves your skin, slips from under your shorts, and you feel cold again, feel your shoulders tense again. He tugs on the hem, pulls it down a little, but now the elastic waistband is lower, stretched around the top curve of your ass. He moves his hand, spreading it across your lower back, a few long fingers covering the newly exposed skin there. You relax.  I have some compression shorts in my duffel—do you want to put them on under your shorts?

You know you have to return to practice. That you have to leave the warmth of him, his gaze, and subject yourself to everyone else’s eyes. You don’t want anyone seeing where he just touched you, as your shorts flutter in the wind, along with your speed. That place is yours now—through his touch, your body has been returned to you. You won’t let anyone else take it from you now. You nod.

He strokes his other hand down your hair, runs his big palm down the side of your face, before letting it fall further, his fingers along your arm, until he clasps your hand, pulls you along with him.

He takes you to his open duffel amongst the bleachers, hands you the compression shorts, walks you across the field and to the school building, along the empty, echoing halls.

He comes to a stop outside the girl’s locker room. Do you need me to come with you?

You stop, hesitating. He isn’t allowed in there. If anyone sees him, he could get in trouble. 

Your heart hurts at the idea of walking away from him, even for just a few moments. You know this isn’t normal. You overhear classmates talking about their siblings, about their best friends—you don’t know where you’d place your indigo-eyed boy on such a spectrum, because none of the words available to you seem quite right.

You aren’t his sister. He says so, at any opportunity. You met him when you were halfway to being an adult. He isn’t your best friend, because you want to crawl inside him. You want to drown in him. You want to inhale him, carry him in your lungs. You don’t exist properly, unless his indigo eyes are watching you.

You want his big hands between your legs, where you ache, and feel so hollow, like the rest of you, unless the liquid warmth of his presence is filling you.

You shake your head in response to his question, as your chest aches, where your heart beats painfully. Of course not. I’m not a baby. You turn to go, but he holds fast to your hand.

His eyes drift from your face, to your chest, as if he can see your heart through your shirt, your skin, your meat and ribs.

Yeah, yeah, you're not a baby. You're my baby. Here. He pulls you away from the locker rooms, further into the school, until he stops at the bathrooms. At the one bathroom that is an individual room, for people who need more space, who need to be able to lock the door. He pulls you inside, flips the lock. You stare at him, his lovely eyes, the soft fall of his brown hair.

He gestures at you, coaxingly. You step back into his warmth. He squats down, face level with your shorts. Looks up at you, but he doesn’t ask a question. He already knows what your answer is, has always been, even if you protest, pretend to push him away. Trying to soothe your own pride. Your own hurt, every time he denies your tie to him. He lifts his hands, gently tugs down your shorts, pulling the slippery fabric down your thighs. As they pool around your ankles, he lifts one of your cleat-clad feet, then the other.

He pauses, a breath away from your body, staring.

Your shorts had built-in underwear. Now, you stand before him, naked from the waist down.

His calm, pretty eyes drift from between your legs, up, back to your face. He leans forward, eyes never leaving yours, and rests his cheek against your thigh. You feel him inhale, and feel the blood rush under the skin of your cheeks, at what he might be smelling, his upturned face resting right next to where your legs meet, this soft, hollow, aching part of yourself.

He closes his eyes, and it is like being cast adrift in a sky without end. You shiver, feeling his late in the day stubble scrape across the sensitive skin of your thigh.

He started needing to shave, at about the same time you noticed how big he had gotten.

Something about the tremor of your body must wake him up, because he opens his eyes again, breathes deeply, one more time, and then reaches up, taking his compression shorts from where you grip them in your shaking hand. 

You want him to stay down there. You want him to move his head, to come closer, to put his mouth on you while he looks up at you with his pretty, purple eyes.

But he just looks down, his brown hair spilling, shifting, the masculine line of the back of his neck exposed to you now, and you can see where his longer hair shortens, is buzzed into a soft bur that you’ve had your hands against, in the night, under your fingertips, clutching him to you as you try to sleep, as he lets you.

He lifts one of your feet again, pulls the leg of his shorts over your cleat, repeats on the other side. He then pulls them up, up along your legs, until his fingers are dragging them over your hips, covering everything that was just revealed to him, that he had breathed in.

He then goes through the same motions as before, in reverse, pulling your short shorts up over his compression shorts. His ass is so thick, he is so much bigger than you, that even with the stretchy fabric, there’s still room around your own waist, your own ass.

You imagine his skin, instead of his shorts, pressed against you there.

This is how it always is.

He touches you with such tenderness, with such closeness that you know doesn’t exist between other siblings.

You know he’s not your brother, even if you wish he was. He’s something else. But you don’t know the word for it. You just know that it could evaporate, at any moment, because there’s actually nothing tethering you together except a piece of paper, of societal expectations.

For other adopted siblings, they are family.

But the boy has always denied you, even as he cares for you like this. Despite Gran’s insistence. Your classmates’ insistence. The world’s insistence that he’s your brother.

But even as he denies you, he won’t touch you beyond the care shown to a broken, fragile thing.

Even though he knows the strength of your arm when you throw things in a fit of rage. The strength in your legs, as you win medals in track. The strength in your swing, at the batting cages or on the golf course, as he taught you.

He walks you back to the track. He turns to you, before releasing you. I wish I could create a world, with just the two of us.

You watch as he rejoins his teammates. As they slap his back, say things you can’t hear with sly grins on their faces that make you feel uncomfortable, ashamed again, despite the boy’s shorts now covering you.

You don’t hear the boy’s response, or see the look on his face, in his eyes as he says it.

She’s not my sister. And you do not fucking look at her.

All you know is that after that day, you never feel unwelcome eyes on you at track practice again, no matter the length of your shorts, while the boy is still at school with you.

But all that’s in the past, now.

One day, he leaves you behind.

He took your gifted necklace, your lungs, yanked them right out of the box, right out of your ribs, with a snap of his fingers.

Bent down, demanded you clasp it around his neck.

Don’t you have hands?

You knew he had hands. Big hands that never touched you in quite the way you wanted. It has never stopped him from asking you to come closer, to put your hands on him, all while not putting his hands on you in the way you wanted, needed.

And then he was gone.

He was gone, and the time between responses in texts, in returned phone calls, grew longer, and longer.

He had already convinced you to become a Hunter, before he left. He trusted your strength, your resonance. Thought it would be good for you to have a clear path, to feel useful. 

In your last year of high school, you walked the halls, a quiet ghost amidst all the living bodies, as you existed for each holiday, for each visit home from him.

The visits that grew less and less frequent.

With him gone, the looks from classmates grew bolder. The whispers louder.

You hid in closets again, at home, when Gran wasn’t around.

You had nightmares every single night.

You knew that you needed to make a change.

That you couldn’t continue the rest of your life like this.

You thought about how the week before he left, he lifted you in the air with his evol in the field of wildflowers beyond your Gran’s house. He promised that he’d always come home to you as he let you experience the feeling of flying for the last time. As he lifted his face to yours as the shimmering mirage of his evol held you aloft, as you looked down at him from a height as opposed to the other way around. As he ran his nose along your cheek, breathed deeply. 

As he still wouldn’t kiss you, no matter how obvious your yearning must have been.

You said his name, as you flew, floated, fell, caught in the glittering sheet of his shimmering evol.

Promise me, you won’t forget about me.

He smiled, spun you gently in the air, your hair a cloud around your face.

Do I even have to say it? You know I could never forget you, Pipsqueak. I’ll be home on break before you even know it. You won’t even have time to miss me.

Your heart was heavy, at the idea of him leaving, even as your body was light as air, floating in his power.

You do have to say it. Promise me. That you won’t forget me, and you’ll come home to me again.

He had pulled you back down, then. Wrapped his arms around you. His voice low in your ear. I promise.

A week later, he was gone.

And just like that, when you weren’t even looking, the wreckage of his promises lay at your feet, stranded on the ground.

With his absence, the feeling of safety, of belonging, the thrill of flight, the memory of his soft touch, faded.

She’s not my sister.

You would call, and he wouldn’t answer.

It would take days for him to call back.

And then weeks.

You know that you relied on the boy for far too much, for far too long.

Your anger grows. 

He had lured you in. Made you feel safe. Provided for you, anything, everything. Taught you to be touched, soothed, to need his touch, his soothing. Taught you to touch him in return, to reach for him, to yearn to be his blood, his muscles, to live in him. He had tamed you, like some wild thing, even as he provoked you, teased you, challenged you.

And now he is gone, like the snap of his fingers, lifting you in his oil slick gravity well, the force stretching you thin.

Waking up from yet another nightmare, sweating, shaking in the dark, turning to your phone, finding that he still hasn’t answered your question about coming to your graduation. Something inside of you breaks.

You think about the boy’s charming smile, his easy going manner, his teasing mouth, the strength in his body as he threw a ball, ran across the finish line, the proof of his cleverness in his good grades, the trust that teachers and other adults placed in him.

You were alone, before Gran brought you to this house.

You have been alone, except for the boy, through the years since.

You climb onto the roof. Look up at the glittering night sky that he could be flying in, right now.

You shiver in the dark, without his arms around you.

You think of stone, and water.

You think of the desert. Of the book the boy would read to you, when you first came to Gran’s house.

The downed pilot survived in the desert for a long time without water.

So can you.

She’s not my sister.

No. You’re not his sister, even if he is your brother.

That’s clear to you now.

“Caleb,” you say. Out loud, alone on the roof in the dark.

Of course, he doesn’t answer.

He hasn’t answered in weeks. Why would he answer now?

You begin to construct your mask.

You are the stone. He is the water. You begin to fill the echoing caves inside you, the pathways he carved in you, with sand from the dry desert.

At school, you smile. You think, what would Caleb do? What would Caleb say?

You return the looks from the boys at track practice.

It’s incredible, how quickly people forget the strange, quiet girl with the unsmiling mouth. How quickly they accept the mask, when they could never accept the authentic person underneath.

You make yourself soft, palatable for the world. But Caleb always said you were like the rose from the book he would read you. You soften yourself for the world, while retaining your thorns. You will never let anyone come close to you again.

You toss Caleb to the world. 

Instead of a world where it’s just the two of you, it is just you.

All it costs is all of you.

You have your first kiss with one of the boys from track who used to watch you, before whatever Caleb said to them to get them to stop.

Don’t tell Caleb. The boy looks scared, as he asks this of you.

Caleb misses your high school graduation.

You go to the Hunter Academy.

You excel—socially, academically. Learn to channel your rage into your work. Eliminating wanderers. Putting your future colleagues down on the mats. Sharpening your knives. Cleaning your pistols.

You have a particular fondness for grenades. They remind you of yourself, somehow. Your true self, underneath the ever intricate mask.

Little bomb.

Fireworks, that you only ever showed Caleb.

When you do see him again, when he does manage to drop by Gran’s house on a rare day off from his work in the Farspace Fleet, when he manages to descend from Skyhaven to the ground where you’re stranded, you make your unsmiling mouth smile at him.

You’re good at it now. Pretending to be soft, pliant. While holding the world away from you with the knives of your thorns.

He looks angry. Frustrated. But he still smiles. Still watches you with his indigo eyes, even if the smile doesn’t reach them, anymore, when he’s looking at you.

That’s okay. You’ve learned to live without his smile, after all.

Maybe his smile no longer reaches his eyes because you don’t pick up the phone when he manages to call, anymore.

You text back politely, weeks after he texts you.

You have your first fuck, some guy whose name you can no longer remember. It gets easier, every time after. Not to imagine Caleb’s hands on you, instead of your lover’s. You pick men with big bodies, empty brains. After, you never call them again.

You graduate again. 

He misses your Academy graduation as well.

There’s always a reason, even if it’s vague. An excuse. A sincere sounding apology.

When you see him again, at your Gran’s house, you politely pour him water. He smiles, pretending to be pleased, as his eyes look angry, frustrated.

You ignore your necklace around his strong neck. You ignore how you feel, thinking of him chained by something you gave him. He’s not, and never has been, someone for you to claim.

She’s not my sister.

You tell yourself that you don’t yearn for his arms to wrap around you in the dark, like they used to. That you don’t yearn for his breath on your skin, his hands on your hair, his indigo eyes watching, watching, with a warmth that’s no longer there.

You tell yourself that you don’t need him, at all, anymore.

You tell him that you don’t need him to tag along as you investigate the metaflux fluctuation.

You lie to him about being injured, are shocked at his barely controlled anger as he jerks up your arm, threatens to find “the cat” that scratched you.

You can’t stand this strange evidence of his care for you, how just these few crumbs of protective affection from him already threaten your carefully maintained mask, the mask you’ve spent years perfecting now.

He said he wanted to create a world where it was just the two of you, and then he left you stranded, alone, buried under the sand. Empty promises, empty fucking words.

The only true thing he ever said to you, about you: she’s not my sister.

You tell him you’re not his sidekick. Order him to go in first.

The door clicks shut.

Your brother dies on a bright, sunny day, right after you say something cruel to him, the last thing you ever say to him.

After, you wake up to a nightmare without end.

[klaus-littlestwolf]

A Failed Escape -Elijah M.

Warning: This fic depicts an abusive relationship and Non/Dub Con as well as eluding to threats of suicide, if you aren’t comfortable with or are triggered by these things than please do not read any further. This is a very Yandere!Elijah portrayed from the same Police!Elijah and Doctor!Klaus universe as I’ve written before. I hope I have done well in the request that was sent in, I don’t usually write Elijah like this.Smut ⚠️ Dead Dove:Do Not Eat!

For @moonlight-melanin I sincerely hope it is everything you wanted it to be🩷

Y/n didn’t believe him when he told her how far from any help they were, she had only tried to escape once and it was a massive failure…not to mention traumatic.

The trees scratched at my flesh painfully as I ran through the dense woods, trying to find a road, a house, any kind of civilization to get me away from him.

I had trusted Elijah. He had made me feel safe and protected, and then he locked me away and betrayed my trust, ensuring that I would be his forever. I love Elijah, despite everything he has done I’m still in love with him, and I hate myself for it.

I had been running for hours at this point and still not found anything but trees, exhausting myself and eventually collapsing against a large oak tree. I tried to catch my breath as my muscles aches and my thighs burned, exhaustion taking hold of me quickly and pushing me to rest my eyes for a moment…just a moment.

Waking up was disorienting. My body still hurt but I was laid on something comfortable when suddenly I felt a sting on my leg causing me to flinch and open my eyes.

‘Lay back down Y/n. I’m almost finished with these cuts.’ My blood ran cold as I heard his voice, looking down and seeing Elijah was cleaning the blood from my legs, the thorn bushes doing more damage than I thought. ‘Did you really think you would get away?’ He tossed the first aid kit aside and looked at me, waiting for an answer but all I could do was stutter. ‘I warned you, you wouldn’t find anything out there. I did you a favor telling you that, I didn’t want you to get hurt and look at you now. The closest person is 10 miles away and that’s if you so happened to choose the right direction, which of course you didn’t…is it that terrible here?’ He asked, his eyes cold and hard as he looked down at me.

‘N-no…you’ve been good to me.’ I stated, trying to calm him down.

‘And yet you ran away. You ran through the woods while I wasn’t home like you were desperate to escape me. I saved you, I’ve taken care of you, given you better than that idiot ever did or could and you do this?!’

‘Elijah, I’m sorry. I…I got scared when you-you said I couldn’t leave, I shouldn’t have-‘

‘But You Did! You Left Me!’ He shouted and I tried to pull my legs to my chest, his hand gripping my calf so tightly it felt like the bone would snap. ‘I love you! You’re my everything! My life, and you ran away-‘

‘I love you too, I-‘ all of a sudden his hand was wrapped around my throat and gripping it tight, cutting off my ability to breathe which left me gasping and clawing at his hand.

‘Don’t you lie to me! You left me! You abandoned me! I gave you everything, I risked my job helping you and bringing you here, saved you from ruining your whole life and gave you someone who was here for you! Worshipped the ground you walked on, And You Left Me!’ He was now leaning over me as he held my throat and with the last bit of strength I had I clutched into his shirt and tugged at it pathetically, watching as his eyes widened and he looked down at his hand, releasing me and allowing oxygen to flow into my lungs. I gasped deeply, painfully as I took in air and felt my throat still burn and ache in agony from his strong grip. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’ I was shocked as he said this, staring at him in silence. He had just choked me within an inch of my life and he was apologizing? ‘I’m so sorry Bunny, oh baby!’ He suddenly hugged me around my waist, head on my stomach as he held me firmly and apologized over and over again. Eventually I reached down, running my fingers through his hair to calm him, afraid of him getting worked up again.

‘I’m okay.’ I told him, my voice strained and he looked up at me with soft eyes. ‘I’m sorry too-‘

‘No. No baby, it’s okay. I know I scared you when I told you that you can’t leave I just…I love you so much. I need you all to myself, and you make such bad choices on your own that I need to protect you. I never should have hurt you. Please forgive me?’ He begged, moving to press his lips to mine sweetly and while I should have been repulsed by it, there were butterflies in my tummy like every time Elijah kisses me so sweetly. ‘I can make it up to you, I can make you feel better. I promise.’ He pressed his lips to mine again and his needy attitude was different than ever before. His hands pulled my shirt off before connecting our lips again and trailing his lips down my jaw before kissing my throat tenderly. He had never been this gentle before and I wasn’t sure what to do with it, so startled I couldn’t find it in me to object to anything he was doing. As he unclipped my bra and tossed it to the side he kissed down my collarbone and over my breasts. ‘So perfect, my beautiful girl.’ I gasped as he sucked one of my nipples between his lips and couldn’t hold in my moan at the feeling. He had always been rough and desperate with my breasts but his gentle treatment was doing amazing things to me, all while he pulled my shorts and panties down my legs carefully, not wanting to hurt any of the cuts on my skin. He kissed down my stomach, pushing my legs apart to make room for him before kissing my clit several times, sending jolts of pleasure up my spine as he did.

‘Oh God!’ I screamed as his lips sucked my clit hard, tongue coming out to play with it roughly and I couldn’t keep my hips still as he did, but unlike ever before he didn’t stop them, allowing me to grind against his mouth desperately. ‘Ah! So close! Please?! Eli, please!’ He pulled back suddenly, lifting me up and causing me to squeal, hauling me up and laying back on the pillows as my knees settled next to his head.

‘Take what you need Bunny, sit on my face until you can’t take it anymore.’ His tongue peeked out again, teasing my clit and prompting me to grab ahold of the headboard and grind my pussy down against his mouth. He moaned, sending a vibrating feeling through my clit, the fingers of my right hand finding his hair and holding his head still as I ground my hips down and felt that tight feeling in my belly snap.

‘Oh fuck! Yes! So good! Don’t stop, please?’ He didn’t move, not pulling back for air even once as he shoved his tongue deep into my cunt and fucked me with it. His nose was rubbing against my clit as he did and I couldn’t help riding his mouth roughly as I climbed so high so fast, being thrown into a second orgasm less than a minute after the first. Elijah was seemingly desperate, trying to continue sucking on my clit again when I pulled away, the second orgasm making me too sensitive to continue immediately and I crawled back down to lean against him and see his wet mouth. ‘That was amazing…you’ve never done that before.’

‘I want to make you feel good baby, I only ever want to make you feel good. I hate it when you make me hurt you.’ I was startled by that as he grabbed his shirt and wiped his face clean, that was when he took hold of my hips and pulled me down farther, having removed his pants and pushing himself into me, stretching me deliciously but still uncomfortably as I was so sensitive. ‘I’m gonna make you feel so good baby!’ He pulled back and shoved himself into me again before beginning to move my hips with his hands and making me ride him.

‘Oh God! So Good! Don’t stop Eli! Please don’t stop?!’ I begged as he continued thrusting up into me at a steady pace, picking up speed as my third orgasm teetered just on the edge.

‘Never! Never gonna stop Baby, I’m all yours, forever. You know that right?’ He asked, almost whining as he forced me to look down into his eyes. They were soft and desperate but there was still something dark, deep inside of them that was always there. ‘You know how much I love you, don’t you? More than that boy ever did or could, all he did was hurt you, get you in trouble, the kind of trouble that would have ruined you if I wasn’t there-Fuck-I love you so much Bunny…you-you love me too…don’t you?’ The worry and fear in his eyes was enough to make me want to be sick.

‘Yes! Yes Elijah! Love you so much!’ His cock was pounding into me almost painfully hard at this point and I was so close to the edge I would have signed my soul to Satan if he just let me cum!

‘You won’t leave me again…Promise me! Promise me Bunny, you won’t run away from me again-I can’t live without you Baby, I won’t! I’ll die without you, do you hear me?! I’ll Die!’

‘Never leaving you! Never! I Promise! Please-Please I Can’t-‘

‘Cum for me Bunny, my good girl!’ He slammed his hips into mine painfully hard and as I felt him cum the tightness in my belly snapped and I cried out, collapsing against him as he pulled me into a deep kiss. ‘I love you Baby, I’m so sorry. I’ll never hurt you again, never.’

Later that night I found myself freshly showered and clean, thanks to my police officer boyfriend. Elijah brushed his fingers through my hair, resting my head on his chest as I began drifting off, completely fucked out after he jumped me again before the shower, twice during, and again after. His fingernails against my scalp felt magical as he tried to relax me enough to fall asleep in his arms.

‘No more running from me, okay? If I have to come and search for you again, it won’t be this much fun…’ I shook my head instantly as he said this, knowing that I never want to relive this moment, even if it means I never get away…maybe staying with Elijah isn’t so bad…it could be much worse.

‘No more running away…and no more hurting. Promise?’ Elijah leaned down, kissing my head with a smile on his face.

‘Promise. I love you…my little baby Bunny.’

Elijah Mikaelson Masterlist

[gx-gameon]

As I get back into Yugioh while also watching one piece an idea won’t leave my mind.

What if after Bond Beyond Time, Yusei goes to take Jaden back to his time. They leave Yugi and head to drop Jaden off. But the Crimson Dragon doesn’t stop at Jaden’s time. Instead taking both of them to Yusei’s time.

Yusei feels awful. He was suppose to bring Jaden back to his time, but he messed up. He has no idea how the Crimson Dragon brought him back and forward in time other than it did. It called to him and he listened. He can’t do it on command. It’s not his fault but he feels like it is.

Jaden is a little freaked out. But weirder things have happened to him. So he reassures Yusei that it’s alright. Maybe he was brought here for a reason. Maybe once that reason is done he will be able to go home. He’ll figure it out.

And Yusei stops his over thinking dead in its tracks because, “what do you mean you’ll figure it out? We’re in this together. You’re not alone.” And Jaden, who is so deeply traumatized by the dark world and is still pushing everyone away, is a little overwhelmed.

His friends always leave it up to him to solve the problems. Jesse always helped, as did Jim and Axel, but for the most part Jaden is left to solve everything. Yusei barely knows him and is already offering so much. A place to stay, help getting home, it’s more than Jaden feels he deserves.

Especially when they meet up with the other Signers. Once Yusei introduces them all and explains what happened, they are all instantly on board with helping Jaden find away home. And it’s been a while since Jaden’s been surrounded with this much support.

So he stays with them for a while. After all he is there for a reason….

But he bonds with the Signers.

He helps Akiza with her powers. She already has a strong grasp on how to use them but being around Jaden makes her more comfortable using them. She’s always felt like a monster and being around the other Signers has helped a lot, but being around Jaden, who has such a good grasp on his powers that he can actually teach her things while also making her feel normal is awesome. The two become very close with Jaden taking on an older brother role for her. (At first he was ready for this to be like Cyrus and Hassleberry, but there isn’t the same level of hero worship. Yes Akiza looks up to him but she treats him as an equal. She really values her friends and being seen as normal so she doesn’t treat him like a savior and it’s really nice for Jaden. For both of them)

Luna and Jaden also have a close relationship as he is the first person she’s met who can see spirits as well. Wing Kuriboh and Kuribon are constantly playing. He’s able to teach her how to reach the spirit world safely and be more comfortable with her powers. She not only Aliza’s level of mastery but she has raw power and she’s very lucky Jaden came along when he did to help her master them.

Leo is much the same but also so different. Jaden is really confused when everyone is telling him about being Signers. He understand the idea, he can see the power. But he’s confused why everyone is acting like Leo doesn’t have powers, he can see the kids aura and it’s got the same crimson tint that every other signer has. But Leo is also bursting at the seems with power, he just can’t access it. And he tells them that. Leo is pumped. He’s a Signer to! Are you sure? This is awesome! Jaden is very clear that Leo’s powers are blocked but unblocking them at all at once could hurt the kid so they will have to do it carefully and slowly, with Jaden helping him master his new powers before they unseal anymore. It’s a slow process and exhausting for both. But Leo is pumped. Jaden is his third favorite person ever!! (1st being Luna, and 2nd going to Yusei)

Needless to say the twins adore him and look up to him as an older brother just like they do with the rest of the signers.

Crow and Jack respect him as a duelist and are glad he can help the others with their powers. Crow brings out Jaden’s goofier side as the two joke around. Jack reminds him so much of Zane and Chazz and yet at the same time he’s so different.

Jaden really admires Yusei, Jack, and Crow’s strong bond and brotherhood.

Jaden and Jack to but heads because of Carly. Jaden meets Carly and instantly recognizes her power and talent and tries to help her. At first she hesitates because she doesn’t like her powers. Plus this is Jack’s friend and Jack has been avoiding her and she just doesn’t know why. But slowly she starts coming around. Her and Jaden get along well and she starts helping out team 5D’s with the WRPG.

Jack though thinks that if Carly is around him she might remember her time as a Dark Signer and he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want her to hurt. He also doesn’t want her in danger and the WRPG has become dangerous. He snaps at Jaden over it, as it’s easier to blame Jaden than talk to Carly about all this. Jaden doesn’t know about Carly being a Dark Signer and the two argue. He thinks Carly is a great addition to their team, and she deserves to learn how to control her powers, Jack just wants her safe.

Eventually Jack and Carly talk and he gets his head out of his butt. He and Jaden talk it out later.

Yusei and Jaden become best friends (you could see it as Starshipping if you want but I’ll probably keep it platonic) Yusei is a calm stable presence that Jaden has needed for a while. He’s a pillar of strength when everything seems to be going crazy. On the reverse Jaden is a sources of strength of Yusei. He’s so out of his depths with all the magic stuff that comes easy to Jaden. It’s nice to have an expert with them. All Yusei wants is to keep his friends safe, but he never has to worry about Jaden, he does anyway, but Jaden always comes through, he’s become a pillar for Yusei as well. Someone to lean on.

I’d probably change the villains of WRPG or maybe this takes place before the WRPG. Because I want Sayer/Divine and the Arcadia Movement to be the main problem. (I read that they were suppose to be the main villains of Yugioh 5D season 2 but because of Carly’s voice actors involvement with a real life cult the story line was scrapped and Carly’s role was reduced. I want to work with the cult so I’m working with the cult)

But anyway. Jaden is starting to feel at home here. He still needs to go back, rainbow dragon is burning in his deck box. He needs to return to his time, needs to return Jesse’s family to him (my spiritshipping heart) but he also loves his new friends.

And this is where one piece comes in because it’s time for Water 7/Enies Lobby.

Jaden is taking the twins out one day. Maybe they got out of school and they are waiting for the rest of the crew to show up. But the twins run an head and as Jaden goes to catch up, someone bumps into him and whispers in his ear. “Welcome Supreme King.”

Jaden freezes.

How could anyone here in this world, in this time, know that name. He turns on his heel and sees the stranger waiting for him. They have a cloak hood pulled over their head so he can’t see who this is. But they beckon him to follow, he’s not going to until they make a threatening gesture towards the twins, who’s excited voices are getting farther and farther from Jaden.

So Jaden follows. If they are going to have it out he doesn’t want the twins in the cross fire. But they’re not fighting. In fact Jaden is ambushed by Sayer/Divine who tells Jaden they know exactly who he is. That he’s going to help them with creating an army of Physic Duelist and help them attach the City. Jaden laughs and is ready to fight, until they threat his new friends. After all “you already murdered one friend group. Do you really want to be responsible for the death of another?”

The reminder of his friend’s deaths in the Dark World rattles Jaden. Enough that he’s willing to make a deal. He’ll help Sayer/Divine. As long as Team 5Ds is untouchable. Sayer/Divine can’t go after them.

It’s a deal.

So Jaden ‘Betrays’ Team 5Ds there are hurt feelings all around. “How could this happen? Why would Jaden betray them? It doesn’t make any sense.

So they start digging, and find out that Sayer/Divine is going to use Jaden’s power as a batter for his Physic duelist when they attack the city. But that still doesn’t explain why Jaden betrayed them.

Maybe Misty shows up and reveals Sayer/Divines plot

Maybe Carly figures it out. Maybe Sayer attacks her because ‘she’s not technically a member of 5Ds and Jaden protected her. She is present for their little back in forth argument. Because Jaden says she’s untouchable because of their deal and Sayer/Divine want to kill Carly because she knows to much now. But he has to fold because he want to keep Jaden under his thumb, so the solution was kidnap her but Jaden resist that to long enough for Jack to show up and get Carly out. (At this point he thinks Jaden is a traitor who is trying to hurt Carly so he attacks Jaden and Sayer/Divine.

Or maybe Jesse shows up in this time period. He went to the Spirit world looking for Jaden and Rainbow dragon and got dragged forward in time. He hears everything and explains Jaden’s history in the Dark world. While he wasn’t there to see it he got all the details from talking to the Gx crew and Jaden/Jaden’s spirits.

I think a combination of idea two and three are best. (I want Jesse to show up.)

Now that they know that Jaden has sacrificed himself to keep them safe, they won’t stop till he’s back safe with them. It’s a race to Jaden now. Can they get to him before Sayer/Divine’s plan is complete and he drains Jaden’s power/life.

Jaden deserves friends who would fight from him. Plus him get his own “I want to live.” Moment like Robin in Enies Lobby is very important to me.

Sorry if this sounds insane. It’s been bouncing around in my head for a week and needed out.

[fischyplier]

Misfits and Magic Season 2 Episode 2 "Magma and Mingle": My Thoughts and Analysis

So here are my thoughts on Evan and Sam. Am I the only one that doesn’t see their relationship progressing into romance? I can understand that in this season Brennan and Danielle are having more scenes together. At this point, Evan and Sam's relationship feels platonic to me, but who knows what could happen in the next few episodes. I prefer platonic relationships because they feel more interesting than just romance. Also want to take the time to say, I love and appreciate all the hard work that went into this and every season of D20. Thank you to the crew, the players and Aabria cause misfits and magic has become very near and dear to my heart!

Click below to read more, warning long post:

Anyways, Evan has gone through a LOT of traumatic experiences since childhood and continues to till this day. Evan's body is riddled with scars, broken bones that healed wonky, etc. He got stabbed on a bus at night trying to retrieve a talisman for Boodle 10 months ago. And I would not be surprised if he's been through more but hasn't had the opportunity to tell his friends or elected to say nothing. I can't help but to read too deeply into the quote "dream small". Is it cause I feel that Evan has learned to dream small in order to not get his hopes and expectations too high? Just a theory... A game theory! I'm sorry.

After 3 years of no contact the pilot project are back! But they haven't really had the time to sit down and catch up. In the video below, Sam says "I feel like there's a lot of things that when we talk you don't tell me." Which kinda leads me to believe, Evan doesn't want to worry his friends so he bottles up his feelings and doesn't open up. And when he does it's always with a smile and jokes to mask the hurt. He isn't just sad, he feels like a burden and tries to not take up space. I can really relate to this.

Even Brennan says Evan is in deep pain. The breakup he went through didn't help but there is more under the surface we as the audience still don't truly know. The experiences of being a lonely unhoused teen is the reason why Brennan chose "belonging" as Evan's ideal track. Because that is the one thing he's been deprived off, humans are social creatures and need to interact with others. What happens to a developing brain when that is taken away? When all you know is your shadow, loneliness and hunger? So when his friend says we can talk, he takes that as a serious invitation. Evan now surrounded by friends wants to do everything in his power to protect those he loves. He doesn't expect it to be reciprocal. You can see that when he says "if I've ever done a bad job about being here for you, I'm always here for you" after Sam says we can talk. When Brennan tears up with that incredible delivery of "I missed you"... I keep rewatching that part! Evan is always on the go, needs to be prepared, needs to be ready when shit hits the fan. Sam has created a safe place where he doesn't need to be hypervigilant and can relax, maybe open up and be a little vulnerable.

Sam is rightfully concerned that something deeper and terrible is going on with Evan.

When Evan continues kicking a half dead Salamander that isn't a threat to any of his friends, a darkness in him wants to kick it mercilessly for pure enjoyment. That even his eyes turns black. The first thing Sam does when she sees this is to attempt to drench it in water like Jammer did. Cause she said that this has become "unnecessarily dark" and that "this is freaking her out". That she'll even resort to spitting on the creature if it means that Evan will stop kicking that crap out of it. The water cools and stops the creature. Sam is a great friend that sees Evan do something twisted and wants to help so desperately. You do not have to be falling in love with someone to do the right thing! I still think they should just be friends.

I love that in this season we can really see their friendship blossom and not just be surface level chit chat. As they get closer hopefully they can help each other in ways they really need. In the preview for the next episode Evan says, "I don't see you the way you are afraid people see you." Sometimes it takes someone outside of your point of view to see aspects of yourself you are too close to see. And I think that's beautiful.

That leads into my next point, no I don't think the progressing of their relationship means that romance is in the air. I can't remember where I read it but another person said it best, intimacy doesn't mean romance. You can get close to someone, be a shoulder to cry on and depend on without developing feelings. You can love and respect your friend and keep it at that level but develop on that intimacy of a great friendship. I feel like it made the most sense for these two to get closer in this season because they have more in common now. Before it was just the fact that they were students learning magic at Gowpenny and being NAMPS (non magical person or let's be serious MUGGLES!). But now Evan and Sam have both underwent break ups and that's something they can really connect on. I really hope they don't get together right after cause that sounds like a rebound and to me, story wise pretty boring. And in my honest opinion, jumping into another relationship right after being with K is a little too soon. Evan needs a friend not a lover, at least for the time being. He needs to keep his inner darkness and insecurities in check. That or a therapist.

Hopefully this doesn't age like milk, and if they do get together I guess I'm wrong! :3

Thank you if you read till the very end, here is a gif of Brennan giving you a thumbs up!

Why? Cause you are pretty cool!

Please consider liking or reblogging this post if you liked what you read. And I'd love to hear your thoughts on this episode and if I should continue!

[wingedshadowfan]

⚠️arcane s2 act ii spoilers⚠️

listen to me and listen well. i'm gonna analyze the caitvi breakup scene conflict in detail (and tell y'all why caitlyn is not the villain y'all paint her out to be)

first of all, caitlyn has every reason in the world to hate jinx and want her gone. there are more neutral reasons like the fact caitlyn is a police officer and jinx is a threat to piltover and zaun's law and order, any material property she can reach and basically everyone around her bcuz she's insane, unstable and more than capable of causing damage. then there are deeply personal reasons: jinx tried to blow up caitlyn and vi on multiple occasions, kidnapped caitlyn (god knows what she did to her before vi joined the tea party, but other fans have pointed out cait was so traumatized she went from not exhibiting any fear of jinx before to shuddering when seeing her after), tried to get vi to kill caitlyn, killed her "father" silco on accident, blew up the council, killing caitlyn's literal mother among others and causing injuries and damages. caitlyn at this point might even believe jinx is the one who organized the massacre at the statue reveal ceremony. she even acknowledges how easily jinx's actions and the trauma they've caused her have undone a lot of the work caitlyn has put with the help of vi by her side into seeing zaunites as people despite the way she was raised. all of her anger at jinx for this, for taking her mother, for all the pain she's caused, even her fear make caitlyn desparate. she starts taking more drastic measures in order to catch jinx like using more violence/threats towards innocents, which is the one thing vi tries to address with her. caitlyn promises she won't change. but she already has, as an unconscious and natural reaction to what she's experienced.

earlier, caitlyn doesn't offer vi the police badge just bcuz she's mentally stripped vi's zaunite identity from her and now sees her as a topsider and one of "the good ones" (i bet she's started to do that too, as alluded to by maddie's words abt caitlyn saying vi went after silco alone, but caitlyn does this just so she can compartmentalize better and separate her lover vi here next to her, from her mother's killer jinx who's taken so much from her in zaun), but also bcuz she needs vi's help to get through zaun and find jinx. as she's just lost someone, she badly wants to be able to keep vi close, on her squad, in her line of sight, in order to protect her and make sure nothing happens to her on the potentially deadly task of finding and eliminating jinx. (i want to add smth else here: notice how vi feels guilt for failing to keep others safe and feels responsible for protecting the people around her, so she tries to distance herself from them, like not letting powder go with the big kids, and fights short range, keeping enemies close to her and away from her allies so they can't get hurt. caitlyn does the opposite, she's a long range sharpshooter so she tries to keeps her loved ones as close to her as possible under her watchful gaze, far from her enemies.) it's never implied she wants vi to be a cop forever, or perform any such duties outside of this jinx mission. she's still at fault for not understanding what putting on the uniform would mean to vi - a betrayal of her family, her home, everything she's ever known and loved until now, which vi isn't ready for and caitlyn can't rightfully ask of her. yet vi doesn't say that to caitlyn (and continues to not say anything when their squad of misfits starts gassing up the undercity) and takes it because she sees no other way. she knows her chances alone against jinx aren't looking good.

vi can't bring herself to kill her sister (despite the fact that she's mostly gone, incredibly dangerous, unstable and could've easily killed vi and caitlyn - even accidentally, like she killed silco) and doesn't want her to die either. we can even look at what caitlyn thinks needs to be done with jinx and what vi thinks needs to be done with jinx as a cultural difference betw the two bcuz in zaun where survival is essential, family is everything, you're bound together by what you've been through and you need each other to survive so you don't just cut family off, you don't judge them harshly, leave them or turn them in, but in piltover where that's not the case, there are laws and people who serve to enforce them like caitlyn so if you're a bad person who's done bad things, there's a way for you to be dealt with. vi doesn't realize she wouldn't be able to kill jinx or let herself feel that way bcuz of the amount of guilt she harbors for "creating jinx" and the responsibility she carries for jinx's actions (smth she internalized bcuz of vander teaching her that as a leader she's responsible for whoever chooses to follow her) - again, jinx stealing the hexcore, kidnapping/torturing cait, almost killing the two of them, blowing up the council, etc. so she offers to deal with jinx herself, which caitlyn doesn't want, knowing first hand what jinx is capable of and maybe even suspecting vi's weakness before vi can - caitlyn even says that she's scared that if either of them goes after jinx alone, she'll return in a box. and instead of listening to her own feelings and telling caitlyn about them, vi again decides to "toughen it out" and pull through with it. she tries to seem stronger, more ready and certain when she tells caitlyn to take the shot, but her fear of being faced with having to kill jinx becomes even more evident in the fact she basically indirectly asks caitlyn to do it for her so she doesn't have to.

when the fight breaks out, the danger is very real. sevika can take caitlyn down easily as she's a long range shooter, not a close combat fighter. while cait's fighting tooth and nail, jinx and vi are dancing around each other the way teen girls fight compared to other fights they've had (jinx hitting with her wrists, vi stumbling, etc). they're not fighting to the death bcuz they don't want the other to die. when vi finally pins jinx, who's seemed quite normal until now btw, as if she's finally in her right mind (like smth in that mind can be salvaged), vi notably hesitates. a lot. and before she does anything or moves so caitlyn can shoot, isha jumps between vi and jinx with a gun to vi's head. and here's where i need y'all to be fucking for real. the fear and anger caitlyn must've experienced in that moment are what made her completely lose it, i bet she fully had an out of body experience. now, caitlyn isn't a great shot, she's an excellent shot. if she shoots the gun out of this kid's hand, she saves vi from her brains being blown out of her head. if she misses, worst case scenario, she takes this kid's hand out. she takes the fucking shot to save vi's life, a calculated risk even if she does it rather on reflex. we even see how the bullet flies way closer to vi than to the kid because she's self correcting potential aim errors away from the kid.

now that the kid isn't pointing a weapon in vi's face anymore, instead of pulling the kid from jinx and hauling ass so caitlyn can shoot again safely (see: bcuz she doesn't want jinx to die), vi stands up and starts telling caitlyn not to shoot, even getting in front of her. caitlyn is verbally but not really mentally responsive to her surroundings in this moment, that's how gone she is. her vision tunnels onto jinx and she tries to keep shooting until sevika pulls the lever and we exit combat. vi reasonably confronts caitlyn for shooting at a kid (after caitlyn stops hitting the wall like a woman gone), which she only does because of her fear for vi and fear of jinx (and what she might do next, or if they let her get away) because she feels betrayed, since caitlyn just told her she wouldn't change. she did changed - she became more brutal, but she'd already changed long ago, when she lost her courage, her mother, her progress and when she came to love vi.

and now it's caitlyn's turn to confront vi. vi didn't have the guts to tell her she can't kill jinx, that she can't wear the uniform, that she's not okay with gassing zaun up, and even encouraged her to shoot, so cait was under the impression that this was it. that they were going to end jinx for good. when she says "i thought you were different but you're not", of course she might mean she thought vi was "better" than other zaunites, but i think perhaps even more than that, she means she thought vi had also been changed in the same way by the trauma jinx had caused caitlyn, that she'd finally let go of her hope powder was still somewhere inside jinx and realized how truly destructive and dangerous jinx is and how that necessitates killing her. while vi is immunized against the terrors, caitlyn has never experienced anything like this in her life, which is why she doesn't understand why vi doesn't understand, why she wants jinx to live despite everything.

while vi doesn't seem to understand, she's ready to try to. she's let her guard (and gauntlets) down, she's open and attempting to talk to caitlyn who has shut off completely and refuses to even look her in the eyes (which is one of the primary ways in which caitlyn connects to people). vi tries to stop her from leaving and caitlyn strikes her, as hard as she can, purposefully hitting her in her stab wound which she helped vi recover from herself - almost as if condemning their past relationship and everything they've been through. not only does that physically bring vi, someone used to taking hits, to her knees - it completely incapacitates her and breaks her heart. she can't even follow. she's officially lost the last good thing she had, the one person who cared about her.

both of them are left feeling betrayed and hurt. some of these conflicts could've been avoided by simple communication, others were by design of who they are and where they come from.

[ippipo]

some husband!rafayel hurt/comfort, reader has a bad past

"rafayel," you call out, lazily splayed all over the bed in a starfish position. you were fed up of him not talking to you, "I told you to come here for the tenth time."

he huffed and ignored your calls. you weren't sure what upset him. and the last thing you want is someone who is meant to love you acts otherwise. "would you at least tell me what happened?" you ask him, not wanting to hurt him if you get annoyed.

"keep it shut," he replies, his tone coming off more aggressively than he imagined. he regrets it instantly but you didn't notice the look on his face. "don't you fucking dare talk to me like that," you sit up straight, your body trembles a little. the disrespect got you annoyed, but the past experiences you've had with males in your upbringing was traumatizing enough for you to not allow that behaviour from someone you loved.

"i'm sorry, didn't mean to," he immediately apologized. it was your turn to give silent treatment. you wanted to clear your head off, especially because this evoke memories of your father speaking to your mom. and you did not like that one bit. you abruptly leave the room, leaving him disappointed with himself for taking it too far.

"forgive me?" he says while snaking his arm around your waist as you stood out in the balcony for some fresh air. "i wanted to surprise you with something and i wouldn't have been able to if i talked to you."

you were relieved that it wasn't meant to disrespect you intentionally in any way. "thank you, i just remembered something unpleasant in that moment," you explain.

"i shouldn't have said that either way, baby. no one should speak to you like that. i expected it to sound more playful but it came out the wrong way. just know that i would never talk to you like that on purpose," he caresses your cheek and kisses your temple apologetically. "do you want to see the surprise or do you want some time first? no space because i can't live without you for a second. literally."

you chuckle at how needy he was. "can you tell me what you remembered though?" his curiosity got the best of him. "it's about my father," you begin. a lump in your throat forms as you try to not reminisce the past without it affecting you. you weren't gonna cry but you don't like talking about it.

he leans his chin on your shoulder while both of you gaze at the view in front of you. it was comforting. "he used to hate my mom, blamed her for ruining his life and stuff," you turn towards him, wanting to look at his face so you could look at his reactions, a habit of yours that made you change the things you're talking about and twist them in a way that the other person wouldn't get weirded out.

but this was rafayel. your rafayel. the one you could tell anything to and wouldn't get judged. you exhale deeply before caressing the back of his neck with your hands behind, the lump in your throat subsiding the more you feel his skin. he let out a 'hm', wanting you to continue. his eyes were locked onto you, his entire attention was on you and you loved it.

"he would say mean things about her and her family, and he used to get extremely angry at me for being like her. when i do something that annoyed him, he used to say that i was acting like my mom and shout at me for hours on end," you take a deep breath in, somehow feeling like you weren't being put on the spot like when you opened up to some others.

feeling his fingers trace shapes on your back, you continue, "my mom was very strong willed, of course. but she was always shouting at my sister and me. our house was never quiet, and i constantly had to force myself to tune it out."

"when you told me to shut it, i felt like everything was repeating all over again. i swore to myself that i would never have a marriage like my parents, so it triggered something in me," you sighed before going on. "i just wish you hadn't used that tone. because one word becomes a sentence, and a sentence turns into everyday conversations that end up into us shouting at each other. i'm afraid more than angry."

there was a pained expression on his face that you almost mistook for pity until you noticed that his eyes were welling up a little. "i'm so sorry, pretty. it won't happen again, okay? you know that i promised to give you the best life you could ever possibly imagine. you don't need to forgive me, but i don't want you to feel like history is repeating itself. i'll make sure you never feel that way again. i'm so sorry, sweets." he peppers your face with kisses all over, making you giggle.

you liked how he didn't make you regret opening up. fun. his watch suddenly beeped and signalled that it was 12 am. "do you wanna see the surprise now?" he asked expectantly. you nod with a grin etched onto your face, anticipating and guessing what it could be.

"close your eyes. no peaking," he warned you. you obliged and stood in place. "surprise." he slowly comes back to your side and grasps your hand. your jaw dropped as soon as you saw the painting. it was a portrait of you, turning your back towards him while staring at the beach on that one cold night. he got every single detail meticulously crafted into the painting. the curve of your hips, every dip in your body and every strand that glided along with the wind.

"happy anniversary, wifey," he grabs you by the waist and tries to spin you around to face him but you don't budge, still awestruck from the masterpiece he made. "i didn't know i was that beautiful, rafe," you whisper out to praise him. "as much as i love you admiring yourself, i'd rather you only admire me," he pouts playfully.

you turn towards him and press a kiss on his cheek. "my gorgeous husband is jealous of a gorgeous portrait he made of his own wife. that's kinda fucked up, don't you think?" you try to suppress your grin but the painting was just so damn beautiful. "i think this is the best thing that ever happened to me," you sincerely say.

"i thought i was the best thing to ever happen to you." you sigh intentionally to irk him further. "you are the best thing to ever happen to me," he suddenly uttered, his voice turning serious. you blush profusely because it caught you off guard.

you close the gap between your foreheads and whisper, "i love you so much, thank you for existing."

"aaaaand here comes the waterworks," you sigh again as he teared up. "but that was such a perfect cinematic moment," he whined as his tears flowed down his cheeks, appearing pearly when the moon rays struck it through the window. "and you ruined it," you slap his ass.

"ow! i love you too though. even though you torture me with your spanks."

[epitaph-echoes]

I wanted to go on a bit of a ramble about Misa so like

I've been seeing this sentiment recently about people expressing frustration over people ignoring Misa's wrongdoings and painting her as an innocent angel who never did any wrong. And you are all correct to point out the fact that yes, she very much DID do things wrong. The sentiment that she is pure and innocent is very much factually incorrect. She DID stalk Light and coerce her into dating him. She killed people. I just wanted to throw in my two cents on her real quick.

BUT I also want to point out that I kind of see people's love for her as almost a rebellion against the early days of the fandom. As a shonen series, a lot of the content and discussions around it were being had by anime dudebros. To add on, we KNOW how bad Ohba is about writing women. How many sexist undertones there are in all of his work. He himself has admitted with no shame that he cannot write women. (Which as a professional author should make you feel shame tbh but I digress)

When I was first getting into the fandom, Misa was pretty widely disliked as a character. The people that did like her were very much sexualizing her. The sentiment was that she was a dumb blonde bimbo unworthy amongst the genius of Light and L. There was SO much bashing of her. That came from fans that weren't the typical dudebro as well. This was peak shaming girly "shallow" girls era. The not like other girls era. I think this definitely played a role in at least some fans, now that the fandom is more chill, latching onto her as she was definitely treated pretty badly and people wanted to avenge her. Or people wised up more and thought more critically about her as a character. I think over time, that protectiveness over her, along with the somewhat humorous nature of it, morphed into the "uwu she did nothing wrong" narrative.

Additionally, I kinda have some thoughts on her as a character. I am not excusing her bad actions, maybe moreso rambling about my understanding of them.

She witnessed her family being murdered. This is stated to have happened a year before the series starts, so she was like? 16? 17? Understandably a very traumatic experience. She had to see the killer being allowed to walk free, her word, her testimony, not mattering. The man who took everything from her was allowed to walk with no repercussion while she had to live with that trauma. When Kira (aka Light) killed that man, avenged her family, it is understandable that she would form this odd parasocial relationship with him. She was mentally unstable enough to start with, griefstruck and seeing Kira as the one who helped her gain some faith in the world again.

To add onto that, she was also stalked by an obsessed fan, who after being rejected, was going to kill her. She was only saved by the sacrifice of Gelus, thus gaining the death note herself.

I see her as not an innocent angel who did nothing wrong, but as a deeply damaged young woman who had no agency in the world before this. Being hurt by multiple men, living in Japanese society which we know isn't very supportive of women in general. She finally gained some power, a way to protect herself in this world. And she saw the person, who helped her at her darkest, unbeknownst to himself, as her saviour.

Yes, she was absolutely not in the right for starting to kill people, yes she was absolutely wrong for stalking Light and forcing him to date her. I just wanted to ramble about her a little bit and give my silly little thoughts on her. I love her as a character, I can see WHY she is why she is. And it is absolutely okay to dislike her for those things! It is absolutely okay to criticize her actions because they are not okay. And yes I also believe her character missed a lot of the depth some of the other characters had simply because she was written by a misogynistic author. When I say she deserves better, I mean that she deserved MUCH better writing. But also Light is NOT innocent in their relationship either. I hope we can all still agree on that.

[shaanks]

listen what i'm saying is, I know the perv trope thing with Sanji is annoying and overplayed. i know it is. i know that some of it is Oda's humor and some of it is like. shit that anime always seems to find one character to shunt onto, and I don't like it and nobody likes it but like

pretending that's the only character trait that he has, or refusing to connect the dots through what appears to both be some vestige of the Vinsmoke programming (since ALL of his brothers have the exact same kind of nosebleed awooga behavior despite their lack of other meaningful human emotions), and a strict adherence to anything Zeff taught him (bc children do not process trauma and traumatic events the way adults do, and at that point Zeff was not only his first and ONLY example of paternal love, but the only hand capable of reaching in and stopping the knife he'd been twisting in his own guts), isn't just stupid, it's a deeply shallow and backwards take of an incredibly complex character.

yes, Sanji is flawed. they're all flawed. that's half the point of the story, that people are more than the sum of their parts, or the circumstances of their birth, or their pain.

Sanji's journey in this story so far is one of broken shackles, of healing, of finding comfort in himself and trust in his found family despite how deep the roots of self-loathing and fear run in him. in that way, of course he took Zeff's perspective to heart. Zeff who cut a piece of himself off and chose Sanji's life over his own well-being again and again, when Sanji's birth father abandoned him to torment and death. Zeff, who thought he was wonderful, and kind, and intelligent, and nurtured his potential, and taught him how to make sure nobody could ever hurt him again, when his birth father discarded him as damaged goods. Zeff, who is proud, in his own way, to know what his son is up to, and for people to know that's his boy, when his birth father's only direct words to him were to make sure to never bring him the shame of letting anyone know they were related.

(and that's the wild part, one of the things that really breaks me about Sanji sometimes, is that he kept that promise, too. If WCI hadn't happened he might never have told anyone at all.)

Zeff saved Sanji in every way a hurt little boy could possibly be saved, and so when he said "You never hit a woman, that's wisdom from when the dinosaurs walked the earth." and "Beat any man's ass you want, but if I ever catch you raising a hand to a woman I'll cut your dick off and then myself too for teaching you that." like???

He's not being a misogynist, he doesn't refuse to fight women because he thinks they're weak and frail and the fairer sex that needs to be protected at all costs by big strong men, he respects Nami and Robin and Vivi and refuses to give up on his friends and even forgives Viola despite her almost killing him and agrees to help her, like?? he internalized everything Zeff ever told him, not just how to make risotto really well or how to pair wine to cheeses and desserts.

does Oda sometimes play that up for laughs, or run it to extremes? yeah, absolutely. I actively like to pretend Fishman Island was 10 episodes of political backstory and Jinbei. But those moments of hyperbole aren't the fucking point of his character, or his development, and to pretend like they are removes Sanji--and an incredibly poignant story about abuse, recovery, self-love, and the acceptance and importance of found family--from the story.

[siderealcity]

Okay, I said in another post that I think there were a lot of parallels between Dawntrail and Heavensward, and I threatened to talk more about that. So, here's me making good on that threat.

Grief, mourning, and letting go are such recurring themes in ffxiv, we find them in literally every expansion. It's a key plot point, as well as a theme. The Ascians, ultimately, are driven by their grief. They are unable to let go of their dead, literally. The souls of those they sacrificed cannot be let go, because they are the bulwark holding back despair from destroying everything.

Just... just think about that for a moment.

The dead are the ones protecting us from succumbing to despair.

And so, over and over, we see characters who are dealing with the consequences of memory, grief, and loss. Nidhogg, in his relentless rage, is unable to move forward out of his memory of Ratatoskr's murder. Hraesvelger, likewise, cannot let go of Shiva's memory, and deliberately so.

But at the same time, we also see characters continually struggling with the consequences of forgetting what they've lost. From the very beginning of the MSQ in ARR, we have people trying and failing to hold services to grieve for the dead they cannot remember. Alisaie even makes a scathing remark about it at the time. The loss was real, the scars it left still hurt, but those who have forgotten can't move on. Not fully. Cid is, in some ways, the prime example of this in ARR, since when we meet him he is clearly traumatized. His lack of memory doesn't in any way insulate him from the horror of what he suffered--in some ways it might be worse because he's unable to even attempt to process it. He can't begin to heal until he begins to reclaim his memories.

What do we owe to the dead? How do we live with grief? How do we heal from loss?

Heavensward takes these ideas and makes them a battlefield.

On one side: Nidhogg, who remembers and can't move on, trapped in a moment of perpetual outrage forever. On the other, the Ishgardians, who have no idea what happened to bring this down upon them. And on the final side: Hraesvelgr, who remembers everything and clings to his grief because unlike his brother, the memory of those he loved and lost keeps him sane.

Thordan, in Heavensward, plays the part of Preservation in Dawntrail. He's deliberately keeping his people from the truth of what happened to them, supposedly to keep them together, to protect them. Only united can they withstand Nidhogg's justified anger. That's the claim. And yet, their ignorance, and the cultivated false memory that the Holy See created for them, doesn't keep them together. The heretics, as Ysayle demonstrates, deeply feel that something is wrong. The lowborn already had revolutionaries like Hilda, ready to tear things down. They know it's a lie. Something terrible happened to them, but they're robbed of the power to do anything about it.

Keeping their guilt and grief at bay only serves to make them controllable. It's not ultimately for their benefit. And it turns them into a powder keg ready to explode.

We see this again in Stormblood with Yotsuyu and Fordola. Yotsuyu forgets her guilt and trauma, and as a result, once she reclaims her memory she rejects the very notion of moving forward. Fordola accepts redemption, however grudgingly, when it's offered to her specifically because she is forced to remember what she did.

Shadowbringers and Endwalker make it even more clear: Every monster we've battled, every crisis, every calamity, every machination, all of it has been unresolved grief all along. Those who remember what they've lost destroy the present to bring back the past, while Fandaniel, who made himself forget, just wants to burn it all down. No more futures, no more past.

The patches that lead into Dawntrail add another dimension to the question of what we owe to the dead, one which began back in Shadowbringers and Endwalker: How do we let go?

If the dead are our shield against despair and ruin, how can we possibly let them go? Because, as they make more and more clear throughout the MSQ, and the raids, and the Void quests, none of this benefits the dead. The dead we meet overwhelmingly want to be released. The denizens of the Thirteenth are literally fighting for the chance to rest. Durante's decision to irrevocably seal his friend in crystal rather than let him die wasn't for Golbez's sake. It was his own inability to cope with loss. Lahabrea, Elidibus, and Erichthonios have their memories dredged up by Athena to prop up her personal agenda, not because she cares about any of them in the slightest. Those who, like the ancients who created Zodiark and Hydaelyn, already gave their entire lives. Wasn't that enough? Shouldn't they be allowed to go?

Is what we owe to the dead, more than anything else, to make peace with our own memories of them?

So then we get to Dawntrail.

For the first time in the MSQ we see a plot begin with the premise: How do we plan for the future? What do those who came before owe to those who come after? Which, honestly, seems like a pretty logical progression from where we've been. We've ended the cycle of ancient tragedy and let the dead who were protecting us finally rest. Now we have to look ahead.

Which is why the Yok Huy graveyard is such an important turning point in the plot, because for so long in this game we've been seeing characters who refuse to let the dead go, who cling to their unresolved anger and grief, or who forget entirely and are unable to heal. And here we have the example of people who remember the dead, who keep that memory alive, specifically for the benefit of those who come after. So they won't forget the pain and sorrows that were suffered in the past. So their future might be brighter than their past. The Yok Huy carve in stone memories for the living.

Alexandria presents its idea in the same language, that the dead are not gone so long as they're remembered, but none of that is for the benefit of the living.

It's the worst possible fusion of remembering and forgetting. Alexandria refuses to accept loss, and just like Durante, seals up the memories of the dead and pretends this means they aren't truly dead. At the same time erasing those memories from their own minds, just as Hermes did. So they can't grieve, and can't heal from the wound they just inflicted upon themselves.

Just as uploading memories to the cloud is framed as being for the benefit of the living, the Golden City is framed as being for the benefit of the dead. But the Endless aren't living there. Their time is done. Their memories are preserved, like butterflies on pins in a glass case. This isn't serving them. The attitudes of those we meet in Living Memory are no different from those of Hythlodaeus on the moon, or the Twelve, or Themis at the end of Pandaemonium. Almost every single person expresses that they are ready to go. They got the closure they wanted, and they're done. Any minute now, Alexandria. Any time you want to let them rest, they're happy with that.

I compared Sphene to Hraesvelgr, and I still think that holds true in the sense that she, alone, remembers and grieves for everything that was lost by her world.

But it might be more accurate to compare her to Shiva, actually.

Sphene is the memory that Alexandria clings to, refuses to let go, because she keeps them sane. As their world fell apart, and they lost more and more, her memory was what kept them going. She is to her shard what the Warrior of Light was to G'raha and the people of the Eighth Umbral Calamity, and that's why he has that talk on the gondola with us. Why he specifically asks how we would feel being a resident of Living Memory. Because if things had been different, WoL could have been Sphene. She is the one and only Endless that the people of Alexandria ever see. Their proof that death doesn't exist, and therefore there's nothing they need to grieve.

Otis, the memory preserved of a man who knew he had failed and lost everything, is the one character in Alexandria afraid to see Sphene. The only person who can grieve her. The only one who actually does, is the only one who can raise Gulool Ja. The only one the abandoned, unwanted, forgotten child trusts.

Her successor. Alexandria's hope of a future.

[dotterelly]

I finished it. Time to scream.

God, for once I wish there was someone there that qPhilza would let down all his walls with and just let himself be weak and let them help and protect him! He's been letting down his walls with the kids but there's still an underlying thing of he has to be the one protecting them and he feels so guilty about leaning on them at all, and honestly he's based to feel that way, he put way too much on them. It's sounding like his reasoning for not relying on the other adults is a combination of not wanting them to think of him as weak or unreliable and a desire for them not to become known weaknesses of his like his kids are already in case his enemy uses them against him. You could argue the Enderking *has* been using his kids against him already by using his desire to provide for them and his love for them to disguise the manipulation of his behavior.

I really really wish Missa was about. In fact I deeply hope Missa is recovered enough from his sickness to log in at least once this week so the kids can at least talk to him about what's happened. The most ideal would be if he got online on Friday.

It is going to be Philza's birthday on Friday. That means either he's going to come back fine and be able to have a birthday party with everyone, and have a reprieve before the Enderking finds some other way to come after him. Or he's not going to come online at all and it's going to be longer before we see him again. Our maybe he'll come on as the Enderking and use his birthday to traumatize all his friends and their eggs XD.

The kids break my heart. Chayanne is constantly getting between Tallulah and qPhilza to protect her if necessary, and he's direct about wanting promises and time frames from his dad for now long he'll be away and when he'll come back. And then there's Tallulah. Where to even begin. This is her papa. The most constant parent she's had through everything she's been through. Not always the best at helping with the problems she has but always trying and always a safe and steady presence in her life. And now she's seeing glowing purple creep down his back as his behavior changes, and I'm sure she can't help remembering someone else with black creeping over their body until it consumed them entirely and they hurt her and her siblings, shot them with a gun. And then he yells at her. The first openly aggressive behavior he's ever shown towards her, and her fears are validated. No wonder she keeps her distance. No wonder she can't trust him. And then he takes them somewhere isolated to deal with the problem and I'm sure as she hesitated getting into that boat that she was remembering the last time she and her siblings were led somewhere. But that was her brother, already in the boat, determined to help his dad any way he could. And that was her papa. She didn't want to lose him either even though he might be already gone. So she gets in anyways. And they go, and her papa tells her and her brother to keep their swords out and be ready to defend themselves. And then she has to be the one to get between him and Chayanne when it's really like her papa is gone and something else is taken control. And oh god the emotion in his voice when he wrestled back that control and tells Tallulah to go to her brother and flee. And to them, it must have seemed like they might not see him again at that point. But he comes back to the house, sounding more like himself again but seemingly there only to day goodbye, telling her he's going to leave her. And Tallulah, still unable to trust this, still crouched in the corner on the bed watching him carefully, realises this could be the last time they ever get to talk. Because no matter how much he might promise to come back, her papa can't hide in his voice that he might not be able to. So she summons all of her courage to make sure she's told him the things she would regret not telling him if he never returned. To hug him one last time at his request even though she's terrified of coming close to him right now. My heart is broken into a million tiny pieces and then ground into a fine powder.

Back to qPhilza. I really love this trait he has where the minute he has an entity to directly confront, even if it is unkillable, he will fight tooth and claw. Seriously, if the Enderking had stuck to being creepy and vague and surrounding qPhilza with blocks and hallucinations, he might still have ground our crowman down. His biggest mistake was trying to taunt qPhilza directly. Because now he has a voice, he has become something qPhilza can fight. I've said it before that qPhilza, even knowing it was a fight he could not win, would punch a creative mode enemy until his knuckles bled and then keep punching if it meant defending his precious family and friends. I honestly don't think the Enderking can win this one. Which worries me, because the next logical step would be for him to go after the kids and use them as a bargaining chip. Or another thing that did cross my mind is that the Enderking may try to use one of the other islanders as his vessel for now, maybe that was one reason that qPhilza is so anxious that none of the others involve themselves in such a dangerous situation. Ugh, I just want him to be coddled like a baby for once, and to let it happen and *feel safe* and not have to hold onto everything so tightly.

I'm gonna leave this here because it's already far too long and I'm beginning to just ramble. If you read this far, I am impressed. I myself have now bled off enough adrenaline to be eepy. I will reblog some stuff and be back to theorize some more tomorrow. Much love <3

See under the cut for my play by play live blog notes.

This little shit. "This will be a short stream I think, I'm a bit eepy." All men do is lie.

OK, so we start with some nice subtle waving corruption behavior in front of friends who don't appear to pick up on it much, and then the thing with getting no saturation which is cool, and now we're dissing on twilight? Not sure how we got here but I'm living for it.

Weird effects to get from a dungeon, aaaaaaand now the enderking is leading him by the nose by highlighting mobs for him to see. I mean, it might have been a coincidence but i chose to believe it was not. XD 

Weird noise in the orc camp. And now his shoulders glow. I was a bit in and out of focus listening to this at work, I wasn't paying attention at this point and only came back to check when he got back home.

Yeah, kiddos already talking to each other about what's going on, but pretending everything is fine to dad for now. Early cookie time. *stare*

Of course Chayanne's got all the food already. And now there's crying obsidian all over, but this is fine, it's going to be fine. It's in the house now but just get rid of it, it's going to be fine.

The way the kids stare at him. Oh God it's so awkward. Their behavior is so off, but he's not noticing. They aren't jumping around nearly as much as they usually do. It's such a stark contrast with the wholesome family banter and falling asleep cuddled up together from last stream.

Now he's getting irritable and monologing about how the money is pointless and he just wants blocks. And now he's digging straight down. And saying he's not going to give all the zinc to Bad like he promised. At least he fell into a gay cave and not something more dangerous.

Fit and Bagi are here! Pac too! The kids definitely brought them. Intervention time let's go. Ok they're asking all the careful questions, and look to be muttering amongst themselves too a bit if I'm any judge. They went to talk while Ramon and Empanada chatted with Phil. Now Fit is back to confront him and has sent the kids away. Philza trying to deflect awkwardly and Fit not falling for it at all. 

Oh. 

The line that Tallulah mentioned someone protecting them and he's activated lore mode this is bad. He's taking Tallulah to have a private talk. He doesn't want people asking questions. He's twitching and yelling. Oh sweet crowfather where art thou.

Tallulah is so brave fr fr. The last time someone got corrupt and angry they pointed a gun at her and her siblings and shot at them.

Oh god our Dadza is so soft for his kids, not even the sneaky corruption lies can break that. The moment he realised Tallulah was scared it entirely broke the trap in his mind. Tallulah keeping her distance is all it took for him to come back.

(Haha, Bagi trying not to intrude but probably also wanting to make sure Tallulah is safe. I really want to see all this from her perspective next XD)

He's back, but Tallulah is still keeping her distance. Chayanne came and immediately crouched protectively on front of Tallulah. That's our boy right there. Philza is talking normal again now, he's going to get the backpack off. We have actual communication again, no secrets promise finally being at least somewhat honored.

RICHAAAAAAS! (He thinks Phil has scoliosis XD Tallulah the angst queen was not happy with him interrupting their serious rp moment XD)

Wings! The wings are safe, it's just his back that got stuff all over. But he's taking the kids away somewhere isolated to deal with this. God I wish he'd let other adults help him. He really seems to be trying hard to look like he can handle everything himself. God I wish he had someone who he could be weak around. Where's Missa!

Telling the kids to keep their swords out, attempt one goes about as well as you might expect. He jumps in the fire to rescue the backpack. Second attempt, Chayanne got the thing and ran. Philza is being scary. Poor Tallulah. Chayanne blows the horn and he has a moment of clarity and tells her to go to him. The realization of what he just did to his kids is setting in now.

Roses, and the dawn. The night is over. But the trauma remains. And as he rejects the need for stuff, the Enderking speaks. Our Enderpookie has a voice! This is what Philza needed. The creeping about was making him anxious, but give him something or someone solid to fight against and he'll fight by any means necessary. In this case, a battle of words and philosophies. It is very cathartic to hear him call the creeping horror a lonely little shit. Interesting that the line is that he's going to keep his wings out and not hide them. He's going to prove himself, he's determined.

But first he's going to make sure his kids know what's going on. Oh god, the two of them huddled on the bed. And Tallulah just stays there in the corner nearly the whole time, she can't trust him, that hurts. He's going to go away until he's better so that they feel safer, but Chayanne insists on having a definite day set for when he'll come back by. The little "papa" and "I still love you regardless" my heart. "Please come back dad i need you" Oh God. The intrinsic understanding that this might not work. That it might be the last goodbye. I'm near certain Tallulah is remembering the time they argued and she went to bed in a huff and then that was the last conversation she had with him face to face before they disappeared. She's making sure to say the things to not have regrets even though she's scared and can't trust him rn. And he's barely holding it together. And then he tells Chayanne not to come looking for him.

And with that, he's gone into isolation. Fuck, what a ride.