#even if it fails over and over we have to keep trying

[bernardsbendystraws]

You Don’t Own Me

P1 P2 P3 P4 P5 P6 P7 P8 P9 P10 P11 P12 P13 P14 P15 P16

Chris Sturniolo lives by his own rules, refusing to be controlled. Some see him as a rebel, a troublemaker—but is that the full truth? Meanwhile, Y/N is focused on making the most of her last year of high school, determined to have a normal teenage experience. But when their worlds collide, they realize they may have more in common than they ever expected.

WARNINGS: COPYRIGHT NOTICE. Very suggestive, mentions male!receiving, possessive behavior

A/N: I want his dick in my mouth so bad, you don't understand.

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With love and big tits, Rose

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P16: Please Me

I can’t look at him. Those dirty thoughts keep running through my head. All I can think about is how good he’d look, what sounds he’d make, how he’d touch me. 

Last night was a lot. I keep having the same dream, the exact imagery that feels so real. 

He’s laying on his back, the mattress dipping with his weight. I feel his hands swarm into my hair. His teeth lightly bite into mine, my hand palming over his hard bulge as I smirk against his lips. 

“Fuck, baby,” he husks, his hazy eyes staring into mine as we pull away for a quick breath. I lick over my lips, smiling wider as his eyes roll back. My palm caresses up and down, his grip in my hair tightening as his hips lift into my hand. He throws his head back, a rough groan erupting from the back of his throat as I reach my into the hem of his pants, feeling him through the thin material of his—

“What’re you thinking about?” 

My eyes bulge, my face cringing with a wave of heat crawling over the back of my shoulders, spreading onto my cheeks. Chris stares at me with curiosity. His hand rests lazily on my thigh that’s thrown across his lap, the TV in front of us echoing with mumbled dialogue as my ears begin to ring. 

“I, um, nothing, just—” I wince as he smirks at me. His eyes gleam with pride, his hand squeezing my thigh lightly. 

“Nothing, hm? You’re just…squirming, ya know?” 

My lips smack together in a tight line. I relax my legs sprawled across his lap, mentally cursing to myself as I realize I’ve been shifting my legs together to try and relieve the growing ache. 

Silence consumes the room as he turns off the TV, running his hands over my legs as he turns his gaze towards me. My chest starts to burn with an electric warmth. I feel my stomach churn with butterflies, my skirt riding up as his fingers hesitantly trace the hem. 

Chris opens his mouth, about to say something. However, his eyes float behind me, his brows twitching with a slight furrow. “What?” he gruffs, his hands unmoving. 

I hear a shuffle of steps behind me. I go to remove my legs from his lap, blushing as he holds them a little bit tighter, shooting me a warning glare. 

“Could you not grope my friend in front of me?” Matt sighs, walking in front of us as he holds his phone to his chest with a tight grip. I try to remove my legs once again, my cheeks burning as Chris pulls them even further into his lap, shaking his head as he squints his eyes at me. 

My lips purse together as I watch him gaze up towards Matt. “What do you want, Matt?” he asks, licking over his teeth with annoyance. 

Matt huffs, turning his gaze towards me. “I wanted to talk with you.” he grumbles. 

I shift in Chris’ lap, trying and failing to stand up. I look over at him, cocking an eyebrow at him as I wait for his grip to fall from my legs.

Tension builds as Chris remains still. He keeps his eyes glaring onto me with displeasure, silence speaking volumes as his hands remain on my thighs. 

“Chris, can I—”

My lips smack shut as he shifts his head left to right, a firm sign of disapproval. 

Matt sighs, sitting on the other side of me as he holds his phone out. I gander down at the screen, my eyes squinting as I analyze the illuminated screen. 

It’s a text from Mia. 

“I’m confused.” I state, my eyes narrowing even more as I read over the text. She wants to hang out, suggesting another double date, and that’s definitely not happening. 

“Well, she, um—she thinks you’re nice and wants to be friends. Mia’s…” he licks over his teeth as a blush crawls onto his face, “-she’s too shy to actually ask—don’t tell her I told you, but I was wondering if, uh, if maybe you’d hang out with us?” 

My head tilts to the side. I feel Chris’ grip on my leg get a little too tight, looking over to see a scowl painted on his face. 

“Not a double date, just…I don’t know, hanging out? I can invite her over here and stay with you guys until she’s comfortable enough or—”

A flourishing warmth in my chest makes my lips move before I can think twice. “Yes! I mean,” I clear my throat, swallowing as I feel Chris clutch onto my leg even tighter, “Yeah, yes—that’s…that’s perfect,” I announce. 

Matt gleams at the statement. “Okay, I, um, I’ll text her and maybe she could come over later today?” he questions. I nod, smiling as I watch him practically skip down the hallway, typing furiously onto his phone. 

A friend. And this time—a girl friend. Not that Matt, Jimmy, and Chris aren’t enough, but I want a girl friend. One that could make me feel like I’m in a movie, gossiping and venting about anything and everything. 

The slight pinch of Chris’ nails pulls me back to reality. My eyes flicker over to him. I watch his jaw tighten, his eyes glaring into the ground as his nose flares. The fluttering warmth in my chest fades to a heavy weight, confusion pulling on my features as I place my hand over his. 

“What’s wrong? It’s not a double date, it’s just me, Matt, and Mia,” I explain. 

Chris loosens his grip, pulling his hands to rest on my knees as he stares towards his fingers twisting together. He shakes his head, licking over his lips. My stomach churns as the silence continues. 

“It’s nothing, it’s fine, just—whatever.”

His tone tells me it’s not just whatever. My teeth clench into the inside of my cheek, my eyes blinking rapidly as I struggle to take a deep breath. 

He’s upset. I’m not sure why, but he’s obviously upset. 

“Chris, tell me what’s—”

“Do you have to?” he asks, interrupting me. 

My eyes narrow as he stares towards me, my lips twitching as I let out a stuttered breath. “What—what do you mean?” I say. 

He shrugs, his hands fiddling on top of my calves as I slowly start to sit up more. A loud sigh escapes his mouth. I cringe as his eyes drift over my face, pausing on my lips as I anxiously gnaw on the muscle. 

“Like…do you have to hang out with Mia? I was thinkin—”

I don’t let him finish. 

“Chris, what?” I stammer, my lips twinging with distaste as he stares back towards the ground. My mouth waters, the sound of me swallowing the only interruption in the room. 

“You don’t want me to hang out and have friends...” I clarify, swinging my legs off of his lap as I cross my arms over my chest. 

Chris stiffens. He tries to scoot closer to me, but the second the side of his thigh brushes my own, I stand up. My hands clench into my arms, my lips twitching as I inhale a shaky breath. 

“You don’t own me. You can’t tell me what to do, Chris. You should want me to have friends, you should—you should want me to be happy.” I remark. 

He shakes his head, his lips parting and smacking shut, almost as if he’s fighting something on the tip of his tongue. My eyes narrow as he gazes up towards me. The distress on his face makes my chest tighten with knots, an uncomfortable pressure sliding up as my cheeks grow warm. 

“Do I not make you happy?” he asks.

A sound of disbelief falls from my mouth as my jaw drops. It’s not that he doesn’t make me happy, he does, he really fucking does. I just want more. A normal life, with normal friends, and experiences that will make me feel like I’m actually living in the present instead of mourning the past. 

My lips tighten into a straight line. I stare down at Chris, blinking back tears of frustration as he stares up at me with a scowl. 

“You’re unbelievable.” I announce, stalking off towards Matt’s room, my eyes fluttering rapidly as my vision starts to blur with hot tears. 

Just why. Why did he have to be like this? It’s just like my ex, the same controlling behavior that made me feel like I only existed to please him. 

And I don’t. I don’t exist to please anyone, not anymore at least. I’m tired of being something for everyone else, that’s why I liked Chris. I thought he actually understood, but maybe I was wrong. 

The cold metal of Matt’s bedroom door knob shocks my senses. I hear a gentle affirmation from him as I knock, pushing open the door as I waltz into the room. Matt spares me a glance. He pats on the edge of the bed next to him, urging me to sit. 

“Ugh,” I gruff, sitting down as I peek over his shoulder, his thumb furiously typing on his screen as I see a plethora of text illuminating the pixels. A smile crawls onto my face. She seems sweet, sending panicked questions of what outfit she should wear, what I like to talk about, anything and everything rolling in rushed and worried. 

“You good?” Matt asks, giving me a quick glance before gazing back towards his screen. 

“Yeah,” I feel my face scrunch, the thought of being surrounded by a happy couple making me a little sad.

___

I really like her. 

Matt had left a while ago, leaving us in his room as we continued yapping, barely taking breaks to breathe, eager to tell each other everything and anything. 

“-and he even made me a paper rose from my favorite book, asking me to be his girlfriend—”

My lips curl into a painful smile. I slap on her arm playfully, my eyes wide with excitement. “I know, I know! He showed me before—”

“Did he really?!” she exclaims, biting on her lip as her eyes soften with adoration. I nod enthusiastically, biting on my lip as I watch her lip pout into a subtle frown. 

I’m really happy for her, but I’m also jealous. Matt set this up for her, helping her make friends because he wanted to make her happy. 

Why couldn’t Chris be like that? 

Does he even really like me if he doesn’t want me to be happy? 

Does he like me if he doesn’t actually understand me?

“What about you?” Mia asks, pulling my eyes back to train on her face as she stares at me intently. I cock my brow at her. “You and Chris,” she explains, urging me to divulge. 

His name hurts to hear. My lips plump together as I bite lightly on my tongue. A deep sigh falls from my lips. Her face falls as she notices my change of behavior. 

“It’s just…he didn’t want me to do this,” I mention, looking over to see her face scrunched with confusion. My lips roll together, my hands twisting together in my lap as I try to find the right words. “This,” I motion between us, “-he…he didn’t want me to hang out with you and…I don’t know…that kinda…stung.”

Her eyes narrow, her lips twinging at the corner with distaste. “But…shouldn’t he want you to make friends and—” 

“Be happy?” I fill in, sighing as she nods affirmatively. My teeth gnaw into the side of my cheek, my neck crawling with an uncomfortable wave of shivers as I sit up straight on the bed. 

“That’s what I thought,” I say, moving my hands downwards to fiddle with the duvet below me. “But…he, um, he…he asked if he doesn’t make me happy.”

Silence. 

Mia looks at me, her face cringing with displeasure. I look back down towards my lap, shame rolling over as I hear the echoes of my words through my mind. 

It sounds bad. Very bad. 

“That’s…” Mia breathes, reaching out as she places her hand over mine, “-that’s really not okay.” she says. 

I nod in agreement, chewing on my lip as I shrink under the tension in the air. A quiet knock on the door erupts. Matt peeks his head in, walking in and shutting the door behind him. He strides over towards us on the bed, standing and placing a hand on Mia’s shoulder while looking over at me. 

“How’s replacing me?” he jokes, gently ruffling her hair. My eyes soften at the sight of a light blush covering her cheeks, I find my hands clutching onto my knees as I sit criss-cross on the duvet across from them. 

Matt looks so excited, so proud. He’s only joking, he’s not actually jealous, he wants her to make friends. 

He wants her to be happy. 

“Oh,” Matt remarks, his eyes twinkling with a smirk as he stares towards me, “I heard—well, I saw that you got one of Chris’ mini pizzas…that’s a big step, huh?” 

The taunting remark makes my face fall with disappointment. Matt notices, his brows furrowing as he dials back the laughter falling from his lips. 

He looks down at Mia. She gives a subtle shake of her head, sparing me a sympathetic frown that makes my heart feel heavy. 

“Uh, Chris wanted to steal you back,” Matt says, licking over his lips as he nervously lets his hand tangle into Mia’s hair, gently twirling the ends, “-but you can stay and hang out with us if you don’t want to—”

Matt’s words are silenced by the door creaking open more. I look over, my eyes foggy with blurry tears as I see Chris peeking his head in the room. 

Mia taps on my leg. I look over, watching her give me a certain stare that’s asking me wordlessly if I want help. I give her a shrug, huffing as I get up and walk towards the door. 

Chris’ lips are sucked into a tight line. His eyes plunder onto my face, wincing as he watches me swallow a lump in my throat. 

“Can we, um,” he stutters, closing Matt’s bedroom door as he reaches out for my hand, clasping gently. “-can we…talk?”

[nina-ya]

OK we've seen a lotta romantic stuff BUT... what about something more casual? Got any fwb/fuckbuddies hcs for any of Luffy/Law/Kid/Zoro?

Friends With Benefits Headcanons with Luffy, Zoro, Law and Kid

Synopsis: just like the title says! Pairing: Luffy x reader, Zoro x reader, Law x reader, Kid x reader (separately) CW: NSFW MINORS DNI, vague mention of feelings in laws, besides that just fwb stuffs

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It started with Luffy being as blunt as ever, dropping his casual indifference about sex into a conversation that left you floored. “It’s not that different, right? Just feels like using your hand,” he said with a shrug as if the entire concept was nothing more than a passing thought. You couldn’t stop the sigh that left your lips. “Oh, you have no idea,” you murmured, already scheming. 

The first encounter happened late at night in the empty kitchen when you finally decided to prove your point. His curiosity got the better of him as you knelt between his legs, tugging down his shorts slowly. “Just let me show you,” you murmured, your voice full of promise. The moment your fingers wrapped around his cock, his entire body tensed, a sharp intake of breath the only sound before his lips parted in an unrestrained groan. “Shit,” he hissed, his hips jerking involuntarily as you began to stroke him.

And when your mouth replaced your hand, the realization hit him like a freight train. The wet heat of your tongue gliding along his shaft, the way your lips sealed around him, sucking with the right amount of pressure- it had his head tipped back, his eyes squeezing shut, and a growl ripping from his throat. “What the hell– oh fuck, that’s–” Words failed him, his hands flying to your hair, gripping tight as he lost himself in the sensation. The sheer desperation in his moans was intoxicating, loud and shameless as if he didn’t care if he woke up the entire crew. 

By the time you let him fuck you for the first time, Luffy was insatiable. He’d been begging for it for days, his cock hard and throbbing in his shorts every time he so much as looked at you. “Come on, please,” he panted, his hands already slipping under your shirt, grabbing greedily at your skin. “I wanna know what it feels like. I need to.” His voice was raw and desperate, as if his entire world hinged on you giving in

The moment he pushed inside you, an almost feral sound tore from his throat. “So warm, so wet, so…” he groaned, his hips snapping forward instinctively as he buried himself to the hilt. He didn’t even try to take it slow; he couldn’t if he wanted to. The way your hole clenched around him, wet and hot and perfect, drove him absolutely wild. His pace was frantic and erratic, every thrust hitting deep as his moans grew louder, filthier, until you had to slap a hand over his mouth to keep the entire ship from hearing. He didn’t care, though. If anything, it spurred him on, his teeth grazing your palm as he muffled a growled, “Fuck, you feel so good.” 

After that, Luffy was a man obsessed. He wanted to fuck you every chance we got– in the kitchen, in the crows' nest, on the head of the Sunny, wherever he could get you alone for more than five seconds. Subtlety wasn’t his strong suit, and he didn’t even bother trying to hide it. His neck was littered with your bite marks, his chest and back decorated with scratches that he proudly showed off, oblivious to the crew's exasperated stares. 

With every encounter, his insatiable curiosity drove him to try anything and everything. “Can we do it upside down?” he once asked, completely serious, his head tilted as he waited for an answer. He wanted to explore every inch of you, every reaction he could wring out of you, and he was shameless about it. The moment he found something that made you moan even just a little louder, shudder harder, he’d latch onto it, repeating until you were trembling, begging for more.

It didn’t take long for this fuck buddy relationship to leave him with an insatiable appetite. He grew bold enough to grab you whenever and wherever the urge struck. Leaning over the railing, half-asleep in a hammock, hell, he once tried in the kitchen while Sanji’s back was turned. 

It didn’t matter if the crew gave him shit for the marks littering his skin or the way he’d disappear with you for hours at a time. Luffy wasn’t one to hide what he wanted, and what he wanted was sex with you, and you wouldn’t trade this for anything else. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The crow’s nest was where it all began. You were silently watching Zoro work out until just watching wasn’t enough. “C’mon, how hard could it be?” you quipped, laughing at the way his muscles trained as he hefted one of his absurdly heavy weights. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got,” he challenged, dragging you into his workout routine with a predatory glint in his eye. 

You took the challenge, standing beside him as you began mimicking his movements, your body quickly heating up under the strain. What you didn’t notice was how Zoro’s gaze raked over the sheen of sweat on your skin, the way your chest rose and fell, and the soft, involuntary noises you made when you pushed yourself a little too hard. 

He didn’t even realize he was staring until you caught him, your breathless laugh snapping him out of whatever daze he’d fallen into. “What? Didn’t think I had it in me?” you asked, voice light and playful. Zoro didn’t answer. Instead, he closed the distance between you in a few quick strides, his hands grabbing your waist as his mouth crashed into yours with a force that stole your breath. 

It was raw, messy, and absolutely unplanned. He had you bent over one of the training benches, your hands braced against it as he pounded into you from behind, his low grunts and the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the small space. 

Afterward, Zoro was uncharacteristically quiet. He avoided your gaze as you got dressed, his confidence replaced with a rare hint of awkwardness. You both figured that was the end of it, a one-time lapse in judgment. 

But then it happened again. And again. 

The second time, he didn’t even try to play coy. The moment you walked into the crow's nest, he had you against the wall, his mouth on yours, and his hands already slipping beneath your shirt. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he would admit gruffly, lips brushing against your ear before dragging you to the floor. 

It became your thing– a dirty, addictive routine that neither of you bothered to question. Zoro would have you on your knees, your mouth working over him as he cursed and growled, his finger tangling into your hair as he fucked into your throat. Or he’d have you bent over various equipment, his pace merciless, leaving you shaking and spent while he smirked down at you like the smug bastard he is. 

By the time you’d found yourself tangled in Zoro’s limbs for the fifth or sixth time– not that you were counting– you’d all but accepted that no one else would compare. He was a man of focus and discipline in every aspect of life, and that extended to the way he fucked. There was no half-measure, no hesitation. Every thrust, every touch, every kiss was designed to leave you breathless, shaking, and so completely ruined that the mere idea of someone else trying felt laughable. 

Zoro was a fast learner. What started off as clumsy, heated desperation quickly evolved into him paying attention to everything. When your body tensed, the sounds you made, the way you trembled under his touch. He made sure to take mental note of that for the next time you were with him. 

The man had stamina for days, and his endurance translated perfectly into this. It was never just a one-and-done for him- both of you came undone over and over again until you were overstimulated, tears pricking your eyes as you gasped for breath. “Come on,” he’d taunt as his fingers delved between your legs, spreading you open for him again. “You can take it. Don’t act like you don’t love it.”

Cleanup was an afterthought at best. Zoro never stuck around to cuddle or chat, he wasn't the biggest fan of pillow talk. He’d pull his pants back on, toss a towel at you, and call it a day as he resumed his previous activities. 

It wasn’t romantic, but it was addictively good. The way he fills you, the way he growls your name, the way he pushes you to your limits and beyond until your body nearly gives out. Zoro wasn’t the type to hold back, and you weren’t about to complain, not when he left you a shaking, satisfied mess every single time.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It started off innocently enough– or at least that's the lie you tell yourself every time you feel Law's hands on your body, coaxing sounds from you that would make the devil blush. It had been late at night, the two of you in his quarters with the moonlight streaming in through the window. He was hunched over his desk looking over case studies, his jaw tight with sections, dark circles just a bit more prominent than usual.

You murmured a simple, “You should take a break,” as you watched him rub an exhausted hand over his face. Of course, he snorted in response, lips pulled into a thin, humorless line as he muttered something about not needing a break.

You don’t quite remember how it escalated, but one moment you were standing there, and the next, his fingers were curling around your wrist, pulling you to him. His lips crashed against yours with an intense hunger, teeth scraping your bottom lip as his hands roamed, tugging at your clothes. Fabrics hit the floor in a frenzied blur, and before you could process the shift, the air was filled with your moans and the sinful sound of skin against skin.

Law treats the whole thing like an arrangement, nothing more than a mutual understanding- a transactional escape from the grind of life as a pirate. There’s no romance, no sweet nothings whispered in the dark. Just the bruising press of his body against yours, the deep growl of his voice commanding you to spread your legs wider or hold still while he takes what he needs.

His kisses are demanding– teeth biting at your lips, tongue delving into your mouth, and leaving you gasping for air. His inked fingertips from whatever part of you they can reach– your thighs, your neck, the curve of your waist– digging into you and leaving their mark behind.

Law pays attention to every gasp, every shiver, every time your voice cracks when you beg him for more. He files it all away, exploiting your weaknesses until you’re writing beneath him, your nails clawing streaks of red down his back as you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, desperate not to let anyone hear the depravity unfolding behind doors.

The infirmary quickly became your playground. It was practical, as no one thought twice about seeing you leave together– a crew member seeking the doctor out for medical attention, they’d assume. But the truth was far filthier. 

Late nights became your undoing, the two of you barely remembering to lock the door before he had you pinned to the nearest surface. The cold metal of an examination table was a constant companion, pressing into your bare skin as he shoved your panties down your legs and into his pocket. He’d spread you open slowly, inked fingers teasing over slick folds before his mouth descended, devouring you like a man starved, as if your pleasure was the only thing that could satisfy him in that moment.

“Stay quiet,” he’d growl against your ear, the head of his cock dragging against your entrance before slamming into you, stealing whatever defiance you might’ve had. His voice was a hypnotic blend of filth and control, whispering all the things he was going to do to you, each word leaving your head spinning and your body arching against him as he fucks you toward your first orgasm of the night. 

You’d always leave the infirmary looking wrecked– hair tousled, lips swollen, legs wobbly as you tried, and failed, to regain some semblance of composure. Law, of course, looked immaculate; no one could even tell that he was balls deep inside of you just moments prior, though that smugness in his expression is always there to remind you just how thoroughly he’d ruined you.

And if you looked closely, you’d start to notice the subtle cracks in the walls he’d built around himself. Moments where this simple exchange of pleasure felt like something more. Like the time his breath hitched, and his voice came low and rough as he murmured, “You’re too good at this.” His forehead pressed against yours, honeyed eyes boring into yours in a way that made your stomach flip, as he continued with, “Too good at making me forget everything else.” 

You could pretend it didn’t matter, that it was just an offhand comment in the heat of the moment. But other signs were there if you dared to look. The way his hands lingered, mapping your body like he wanted to memorize every inch of you. The way his fingers didn’t just grip but caressed, a softness in his touch that hadn’t been there before. The way he held you close afterward, his chest rising and falling against yours as if he was reluctant to let go.

You could tell yourself not to overthink it. You could pretend the shift in him didn’t make your chest ache with confusion. But how could you ignore the way he slowed down, how he rolled his hips into you in a way that wasn’t just about chasing release, but about making you feel every damn inch of him? His forehead pressed into yours, his lips brushing over your jaw, and there it was– your name, murmured like a prayer on the edge of a moan.

His kisses grew less frantic, less possessive- more lingering, savoring, as if he were trying to communicate something he couldn’t quite put into words. His voice softened when he guided you through the pleasure, no longer barking commands at you, but soothing encouragements, spoken with a tenderness that left you reeling. He wasn’t just fucking you anymore. He was making love to you in every way but name, the shift so slow and gradual that it felt like you’d accidentally stumbled into it. 

You could ignore the way he was treating you, the way his actions betrayed the very ideal of casual detachment. You could let yourself believe this was just temporary, destined to burn out the way all things do.

And you had a choice to make. You could stay on this path, let him end it when the time came, and pick up the pieces of yourself when it was over. Or you could give in– to him, to this- and let it all become something far messier, far scarier, but infinitely more real. You could let the walls come crashing down and see where it led, knowing full well there might be no going back.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

One too many drinks at a rowdy tavern in some seedy little port town started this relationship. It was the kind of place that smelled of spilled ale and bad decisions. You and Kid were seated side by side, tipsy from cheap booze and a long week that had worn down the two of you. Half-hearted threats and teasing insults transitioned into touches that lingered way too long. 

When his large hand landed on your thigh under the table, squeezing firmly with no shame, no subtly, you leaned into it, your fingers trailing up his arm as you met his challenge with one of your own. “You talk a big game,” you murmured, your voice low and taunting. “Think you can back it up?”

And then came the bathroom. Not the most romantic spot for a first time, the broken blinking lights and the smell of piss certainly added to the ambiance, but neither of you gave a damn. He locked the door with a click, spun you around, and had your face pressed against the cold wall in an instant. 

Clothes barely came off; his hands were too impatient for that. He yanked your pants down just enough to get where he needed, his fingers rough and greedy as they spread you open. The stretch when he finally shoved inside was brutal, the angle unforgiving, and he groaned like a man who’d just found his favorite kind of trouble as he shoved you harder against the wall with every thrust.

By the time he was done, your legs felt like jelly, and the mirrors were fogged up from the heat of it all. Kid looked at you like he wanted to go another round right there, a cocky grin plastered on his face as he zipped up his pants. “You clean up nice,” he said with a smirk, slapping your ass as he turned to leave. 

That set the tone for every time after. No strings attached, no romance, just raw, shameless fucking whenever the need hit. It was about the release, about indulging in the kind of pleasure that left bruises and scratch marks behind.

One of his favorite things was seeing you struggle to keep quiet when he was fucking you in the dead of the night, in a place where anyone could walk in. The way your body would tense, trying to hold in your noises, but failing miserably as his cock hit that one spot inside of you that had you wailing out. He’d of course, laugh at you, a taunting sound that made your stomach flip. “Do you want everyone to hear us?” as for him, he didn’t particularly care if the whole damn world heard.

The best part was that there was no pressure. You could still flirt, still enjoy the random hookups with others on the ship or wherever you went. There was freedom in it. But more often than not, you found yourself seeking him out. He was convenient. He knew exactly what to do to make you feel good, how to touch you without overdoing it. And honestly, his body was just the right fit for yours every damn time. 

You swear that filthy mouth of his could single-handedly unravel you. He’d growl obvious comments like “Fuck, you’re so wet for me,” as he dragged his thick fingers through your slick before shoving them into you saying some shit like, “You like being use like this, dont you? You’re made for this.” 

The crew knew; of course, they did. It was impossible not to, with how loud you sometimes would get or the way you left his quarters a stumbling mess with marks blooming across your skin. If anyone dared to stare too long or judge, he would bark at them to mind their own business.

This arrangement works because neither of you tried to make it more than just sex. There was never any pressure, no awkward conversations after he had just busted inside of you, just a shared understanding that you would be there to scratch each other's itch without hesitation. You could, of course, try to make it into something more if you so desired, but you don’t ever have to if you don’t want to, which is such a beautiful thing in all honesty. What you have with him is chaotic, messy, and thrilling, and that was more than enough for both of you. 

[lexiputellas]

"Negative," from the Broken Vows series.

You stare at the test.

Negative.

The word feels like a slap, even though it’s the third time you’ve seen it. The third time you’ve felt the slow unraveling of hope inside you, piece by piece, like something delicate being torn apart with careful hands.

You sit on the edge of the bathtub, the test still in your grasp, as if holding onto it will change something. Your fingers tighten around the plastic until your knuckles turn white. The silence in the bathroom is suffocating, thick with the weight of another failed attempt.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

You and Alexia had talked about it late at night, wrapped up in blankets, your voices quiet with sleep. The conversation had started with Nora, with her birthday, with how fast she was growing.

"Would you have more?" she had asked suddenly.

"More what?" you said, kind of oblivious.

"A baby."

You had blinked at her, surprised. "I don’t know. Do you want one?"

"Seeing Nora grow… it makes me miss when she was a baby. It gave me baby fever."

"Oh, and you’re the one carrying this time?"

She had laughed. "I wouldn’t be as successful as you were with Nora. Five hours and a normal birth? You’re a pro."

You had smiled, entertained by the thought. "We could try for one."

And just like that, it began.

Endless appointments. The careful planning. The nervous excitement. It was her embryo in you, a perfect mix of both of you. You would have a mini Alexia again. The thought had made you dizzy with happiness, more than you ever expected.

Until it started to go wrong.

You tried once. Negative.

A second time. Negative.

The third? Today.

Apparently, no baby for you.

You really thought this was supposed to be it. You didn’t even know you wanted another one until you couldn’t have it. The pregnancy test looks at you like it has betrayed you, and that’s when you start to sink.

The grief is quiet at first. It starts in your chest, a dull ache, then spreads through your ribs, your throat, your stomach. You feel empty—physically, emotionally.

Alexia’s voice pulls you out of it.

"Amor?"

She’s standing at the door, already dressed for the day, her hair still damp from the shower. Her eyes land on the test in your hands, and for a second, she doesn’t say anything. Just watches you.

And that’s worse.

Because if she were oblivious, if she made a joke, if she brushed past it, maybe you could swallow this down. Maybe you could get up, throw the test away, and pretend it doesn’t hurt as much as it does.

But she’s looking at you like she knows.

Like she feels it too.

Alexia kneels in front of you, her hands gentle as they reach for yours, prying the test from your fingers and setting it aside. She cups your face, her thumbs brushing over your cheeks, and only then do you realize you’re crying.

"I’m sorry," you whisper.

Alexia frowns. "Why are you sorry?"

"Because I thought this time—" Your voice breaks, and the words die in your throat.

She doesn’t let you finish.

Instead, she pulls you against her, wrapping her arms around you, holding you like she’s trying to keep you from shattering completely.

"It’s not your fault," she murmurs into your hair. "It’s not your fault."

You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your face into her shoulder. She’s warm. Solid. Safe. And for a moment, you let yourself fall apart in her arms.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours.

At some point, Alexia moves, tilting your chin up so she can look at you. "We’ll keep trying."

You shake your head. "I don’t know if I can do this again."

She exhales softly, nodding. "Okay. Then we won’t. Not until you’re ready. Or maybe not at all."

You don’t know if you’ll ever be ready.

Alexia your kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your tear-stained lips. She doesn’t rush you, doesn’t tell you to move on, doesn’t try to fix it with empty words.

She just holds you.

Eventually, she shifts, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead before standing. She reaches for your hands, tugging you up with her. Your legs feel unsteady, but she doesn’t let you go.

"Come on," she says softly. "Let’s go to bed."

You hesitate, glancing toward the bathroom sink, toward the test that still feels like it’s staring at you. Alexia follows your gaze before gently nudging your chin so you’re looking at her again.

"Leave it," she says. "Come with me."

You let her lead you back to bed, let her pull the covers up around you, let her wrap herself around you like a shield against the world. She doesn’t ask if you’re okay. She doesn’t try to make you talk. She just stays.

And as you lie there, curled into the warmth of her body, feeling her fingers tracing slow patterns against your skin, you realize something—

You don’t know what’s going to happen next. You don’t know if you’ll try again, or if you’ll ever be ready.

But Alexia is here. She’s always here. Or so you thought.

[vivitalks]

i need to talk about the bad kids and the weight they carry from their parents. because all of them have baggage, whether they know it or not, and it's high time we had a conversation about it.

we all know kristen and adaine's parents fucked them up, but the truth, and maybe this is an immutable truth about the world and all worlds in general, is that every kid bears the weight of their parents' expectations on their shoulders. sometimes the burden is well-disguised; sometimes the pressure is mitigated by a loving relationship — but there's always baggage, and the bad kids are all so used to dragging it along that they don't even realize they're carrying it.

fabian's is easy to recognize. not a day goes by that fabian doesn't think of his father. of what his dad, his treasured papa, not only wanted but expected of him. fabian grew up under the pressure to write your name on the face of the world, to become not just good but Great, to be more than a man — to become a legend, maximum legend, to get it tattooed onto your neck so you never forget your goal, because this is the only way to make your father proud and maybe if you're just like him then your mother will decide to be your mother again. she promised to be better and then she abandoned you. she failed you completely in every way imaginable and her solution was to try again. maybe this child will grow up with a loving mother. maybe she'll get it right this time. but not fabian. fabian doesn't get love, he gets pride, and there's only one way to ensure that his parents are proud.

fig is staggering under the immutable knowledge that she was the catalyst to her parents' divorce. that all of this could have been avoided if she had just never been born. she has so much anger, and it started out directed towards sandra lynn, but now she knows it's anger towards herself, for daring to exist, for ruining a marriage and a life by the crime of being born. poor gilear, saddled with the knowledge that his only daughter isn't even his. and yeah, her mom is a fuckup, but at least that's because of choices she made. fig would have to be in control of her actions to be a fuckup - instead she keeps BEING controlled, from the Dominate Person that led her to nearly sacrifice riz down to the very simple act of being the unplanned child of an affair. she's worse than a fuckup: she's a curse. a plague. and all three of her parents would have been better off if she'd never existed.

wilma and digby thistlespring tried so hard to raise a happy kid. they didn't believe in the stereotypes about half-orcs. not our kid, they said. how could a child of ours be angry? but gorgug is so angry sometimes, and he barely has the language to explain that, much less the skills to manage those emotions. he was so loved, so doted upon, and he tried his best to be the gentle giant, but somewhere along the way he failed, and his parents had no plan for a system malfunction. why would they? wilma and digby never met a bad feeling they couldn't sing their way out of. gorgug could be like that, too, if he tried. if he put his mind to it. it's his fault that he can't keep his rage under wraps. and his parents love him, but they don't understand him, and that hurts them. gorgug is hurting them. the very nature of his being hurts them. he tries to mold himself into the shape of a perfect son, but like everything else in his life, it doesn't fit - he can't give them what they want; he can't become what they devoted all this time to nurturing. he is big and brash and bubbling over with rage sometimes, despite all of his parents' best efforts to teach him temperance and good-naturedness and how to be small, smaller than your body can be, how to tuck in your limbs and take shallow breaths so your bed doesn't break again (again, again, again) and he tries and he tries. it's never enough. he will never be the perfect son, so maybe there's no point in trying at all.

and riz. sklonda. look, how could he not be just like his dad? dad was a badass secret agent, the kind of person riz could only dream of being. he doesn't want to scare mom, but why shouldn't he want to be like dad? except sklonda is scared. she raised him, terrified of what would happen when he learned the truth. his rock, his confidant, his second-best friend (let's be honest, maybe first) — he can't worry her. she has enough on her plate; he can't be a problem for mom. so riz gets really good at taking care of himself. when she can't make it home for dinner, riz knows how many minutes the freezer dinner needs in the microwave. when she can't pick him up from school, riz knows where the nearest bus stop is. and he can't stop solving mysteries, but he can reassure her that he's safe, whether or not it's true — because she needs him to be safe, and riz can't be a problem. he has to be fine. he makes a living being fine. sure, he's in jail for months for a crime he didn't commit, but he's fine. he got kidnapped and almost ritually sacrificed, but he's fine now, mom. i saw dad and he was tortured within an inch of his celestial life and i was almost killed in Hell, but it's fine, mom, because dad is an angel, how cool is that? the important thing is that sklonda can always count on her boy. she can trust him to understand adult things, like the fact that they're poor, and that her demotion might spell bad things for riz's future, and his only shot now is to have a really beefed up transcript so he can maybe get good scholarships, and yeah, that's a lot — god, that's a lot, on top of the harrowing mystery unfolding this year — but. riz is fine.

there's a freedom in hating your parents, in knowing unequivocally that they were bad at being parents, perhaps bad at being people at all. everyone agrees that the abernants were vile, disgusting examples of people at all, much less parental figures. nobody is leaping to the applebees' defense. they failed their children, and their children owe them nothing.

but fabian, fig, gorgug, riz — it's harder when you love the people who raised you. it gets to feeling like the problem is you. like if you were different, if you were better, if you tried a little harder or did something a little differently, then things would be perfect, and that weight you stagger under would go away. if fabian weren't so sentimental. if fig weren't a tiefling. if gorgug weren't so angry. if riz weren't so reckless. you love your parents, and you owe them everything, and this is the least you could do. so why aren't you doing it? why can't you? why are you carrying this weight in the first place?

these four have parents who love them. but that doesn't mean their parents can't also have hurt them. it's inevitable; you grow past the expectations of your parents, and then into something new, something entirely your own, but the bad kids are still growing. they are loved. but they are burdened. both things can be true.

[cillianmurphysdimples]

A Female Y/N / Cillian fanfic (Part Seventy One)

Absolutely not based on anything real at all, all totally fictional, fanciful and is all total bollocks.

Warnings for sexual references and language. Adult themes. Not suitable for under 18s.

We Got Issues

Part Seventy One: Y/N anxiety is at an all time high as she fears for Clíodhna in the wake of her struggles, but Cillian's fears and anxieties for his daughter seem to consume him more viciously than anyone anticipated they would. [Emotional/Angst/Medical fears surrounding care of preemie babies]

@cherrycilly @aesthetic0cherryblossom @meister95 @vivianleighwishesshewasme @watermeezer @meadowshelby @strangeions @borntodiemp3 @lavender-haze-01

Swiftly proofread, sorry for the obvious typos (I know I always have silly ones but please forgive the ridiculous ones!)

“Y/N?” You startle as Imelda lays her hand against your shoulder, calling your name softly as she crouches close to your ear. “Sorry love,” she apologises quickly. You're not sure if you had dozed off for a moment or if you were just staring blankly at Clíodhna's incubator and had tuned everything out. “I didn't mean to make you jump.” She looks mortified to have frightened you. She crouches down fully, balancing on the balls of her feet, and rests her arms on the arm of the chair you're in. “Has Cillian gone to the loo?” She asks.

You glance back at Clíodhna for a second then give Imelda your full attention, focusing as much as you can on holding a conversation with her. “Um, no,” you shake your head, “I mean, maybe, but he - he went to call his sons, just to let them know what's happened.” You explain. You realise you're not sure how long Cillian's been gone now, so deep was whatever had come over you to take away your awareness of anything outside of keeping your eyes on your daughter. You frown, trying to read Imelda's expression. “What's wrong?” You quiz her.

Imelda takes a slow, deep breath in. “We've increased her oxygen slightly.” She says, and you know by her tone and the slightly sad frown that that isn't a good thing. Not that you need those cues - she'd been fighting against the breathing support before, and now the tube was more important than ever. Your heart thuds too hard in your chest. Imelda wets her lips and continues. “There's been a small spike in her temperature, too.”

You feel your eyes heat up as tears flood in immediately. “So she has…pneumonia?” You ask, “Even with the antibiotics?”

“The consultant is going to give her a full MOT, and listen into her lungs. But it's likely,” Imelda nods her head gently. “We can and we will adjust her antibiotics as needed, and continue to provide her all the support she needs to fight this off.”

You shake your head, “She's so small, she can't…” you purse your lips as your chin shakes uncontrollably. Imelda reaches her hand out and rests it against your shoulder once again. “Give me…odds. Statistics. Something!” You look directly at the young nurse. “She's three pounds, she's too small, she's too young… what are the fucking odds of her being able to fight this off?”

Imelda takes a steady breath in, “Y/N, each baby is different. She's shown her strength, and she is still doing that. Let's wait and see what Doctor O’Mahoney says, okay? When we know what the full details are, we can talk about what steps we take next and how we can help her the best. Doctor O’Mahoney is on her way, okay? And she'll give Clíodhna a head to toe exam and we'll map out a plan for her.” She squeezes against your shoulder then draws her hand back..she grips the arm of the chair as she stands back up to her full height.

“I need to find Cill…” you look back at Clíodhna's tiny, motionless body in the incubator. “I'll fucking kill him if he's out having a fucking…” you screw your eyes closed and cover your face with both hands as you fail to control the body-wracking sobs that seems to have every muscle. Imelda crouches down beside you again and rests her hand on your right thigh.

“I'll send Lucy, the HCA, to see if she can find him, okay? And I'll get you a cuppa and some tissues, okay, love?” She says in a gentle voice, then slowly stands again. “As soon as Doctor O’Mahoney, she'll be over Clíodhna.” You drop your hands and take deep breaths, trying to calm yourself down.

She has a point - you need to know the facts - but she also wouldn't have approached with the concerns she had prior to confirming them with a doctor if she didn't believe you were about to be told your premature baby was fighting an infection now, too. As Imelda walks away you get to your feet, drying your cheeks with your hands as you stand. You dry your palms against the backside of your trousers as you walk closer to Clíodhna's incubator. You draw open the small porthole by her foot and place your hand inside slowly. You wrap your fingers gently around her tiny foot and smooth your thumb up and down the velvety soft pad, rubbing gently against her toes with each swipe upwards. Her skin is warm, and she is a little more pink than she had been when you'd arrived, but she still looks pale, and the disappearance of those little movements of her eyes and hands feels like a theft.

“Come on, tiny girl. Hey? My tiny, tiny girl. Listen to what Daddy said, yeah? Don't stop fighting now. I know it's hard, and I know you probably feel so poorly, but you can't throw the towel in, okay? You haven't met your brothers yet - you haven't met your Granny and Granddad, or your silly Uncle Páidi! And your beautiful aunties, and… and there's so many of Mammy and Daddy's friends who are so excited about you. Daddy's special friend Eileen - she was so happy when we told her about you. She has some stories to tell you about Daddy! And when you're bigger, and it's the right time, I'll tell you about my family and why you'll always be the most important girl and never see them. But your big brothers, Malachy and Aran, they really, really want to meet you soon. You'll love them - they're just your Daddy, and they're so funny and they're sweet, and kind. You need to tell them you don't have a penis!” You choke a sad laugh in your throat. “Daddy wants to take you to Cork - they talk funny down there, they practically sing at you! But your grandparents and your aunts and uncles are wonderful people. They have family dinners, and silly Christmas transitions. Your Daddy, he taught me so much about what it's like to have a good family; you're going to get that.” You whisper, and slowly swipe your thumb over her footpad again. “A good family, Clíodhna. A house filled with love and laughter, and music. And when you're old enough, we'll embarrass the life out of you with how I got pregnant with you. Daddy is one fertile man.” You sniff and shake your head. “There's so many stories, Clíodhna. Your Daddy is a film star - he's a wonderful actor, producer, an amazing spokesman, and writer, and he believes in people, Clíodhna. He's so beautiful. He sees people, for who they are. He believes in me for some reason. And I, little one, I believe you - I do. You're here against the odd, tiny girl, and I know you want to be here. So don't you dare stop kicking and screaming. Okay? I know it's probably hard, and you're tired, and it's so tough. But don't stop, okay? I need you, baby girl.”

You draw back your hand and bring it to your lips, placing a kiss against the pads of your index and middle fingers before placing your hand back inside and touching your kiss to her warm shin. You bring your hand back out and close the porthole back up. You steady yourself with another deep breath and then your head as the double doors swing open down the far end of the room. Cillian steps in, looking a little warm and flustered, with the middle aged HCA, Lucy, a step or two behind him. He looks around a moment and before he can walk towards you he is stopped in his tracks as Imelda approaches him. You stand rooted to the spot - you can't budge and you're not sure why. You watch his face intently as Imelda talks to him, and you clearly read each emotion that flutters over it. He's an open book, in private, at the best of times, but he's even more readable right now. He nods his head, touches his hand against Imelda's arm, and walks towards you with slow and heavy steps. He shakes his head as he halta beside the chairs beside the incubator and sighs heavily and noisily through pursed lips. He's silent for a moment, running his tongue over his back-set lower tooth idily. Anxiety is bubbling under the surface and it'll come out sooner or later, but for now he stims orally and moves his eyes over Clíodhna, then to you. He stills his tongue.

“There was a woman near the, eh..” he waves his hands as he grapples for the words, “The yokes…fuck sake, the doors. At the doors, when I was on the phone with Malachy.” He sniffs. “When I hung up from Mal, she said…” he scoffs, “She said, eh, ‘God bless your wee girl - may He keep her’.” He recounts. “What kinda God puts wee ones under this kinda stress? Eh?” He frowns at you. “What kind of God allows babies to be born too fucking early and then makes them sick? What kind of sick, fucking joke is that?” He shakes his head sharply. He thrusts his hands into the pockets of his jeans and sighs heavily again. He sniffs, and the oral stims begin again. He licks his bottom lip fiercely before assaulting his tooth with the tip of his tongue once again. He licks his lips once against and presses his lips shut firmly. He blinks slowly, and sort of half rolls his eyes in time with another heavy sigh. He wants to cry, but he's skirting around anger to avoid it. “Where's this fucking doctor?” He huffs.

You swallow against a painful lump in your throat. “Imelda said she's on her way.” You mumble, and cough to clear your throat.

“From where? Fucking France?” He snaps, and immediately huffa at himself knowing he's being arsey. He draws his hands free of his pockets and scrubs both palms over his face roughly before dropping his arms back down. He looks at you, looking totally hopeless, and shakes his head with another half roll of his eyes. “She didn't ask to be here, and now she's fighting against her own birth and fucking pneumonia…” he purses his lips tightly. He moves his lips, likes he's got more words to say but he doesn't know how. He huffs another breath and shakes his head again. He's lost, scared, absolutely consumed with anger and sadness, and his comparatively small body doesn't know what to do with all of the energy everything builds up inside of it. If he felt a heavy emotion at home, he might put music on and vacuum, or he would throw on his trainers and shove his earbuds in and go for a run, but here he's stuck with all of those feelings, no outlet, and the inability to do a thing beyond overthinking it all. He closes his eyes for a moment and, when he opens them again, his lashes are wet. He draws his bottom lip in between his teeth for a moment and looks back at you. The glassy blue of his eyes is shining under the dim lights on the ceiling tiles above, and the sadness is intoxicating in the worst way. “It's not fair to her.” His voice catches as he whispers.

You shake your head, and your own eyes blur as your tears restart. “No, I know it's not.” Your voice strangles in your throat.

He holds open his arms - he can't deal with his feelings alone anymore, and co-regulation and his much needed physical intimacy is his next attempt for making himself feel even a little bit better. You grant the hug immediately; you wrap your arms around him, under his arms, and place the flats of your palms against his back as he squeezes his arms tightly around your shoulders. He inhales deeply at the side of your face, and you sigh softly as she squeezes you tightly again. “All the fucking wires and tubes, and fucking…oth-other people touching her, I-I-I…” he stammers.

You shush him gently, “Shhh, I know love.” You tighten your arms, hearing the moment his tearfulness becomes open crying. “She's a fighter, Cill. A little warrior. And so are we. Yeah? We're going to fight it with her.” You sniffle over your own tears. His arms squeeze you once again by way of response. You slide your right hand up and turn your fingers through the waves at the nape of his neck. “Keep hold of your words to me, okay? Whatever happens.”

He nods his head and clears his throat, a macho way of attempting to stop himself from crying. He taps his left hand against your back, his silent end of intimacy, but he doesn't loosen his arms for a moment. You keep holding him. He sighs against your neck and taps his hand against your back again, then loosens his arms. As he lets go, you drop your arms down slowly. You stand face to face, breathing the same air for a second or two. “I love you.” He whispers, barely audible.

You smile sadly, “I love you, too.”

When she finally arrives, Doctor O’Mahoney isn't what you expected, though you're not really sure what it was you were expecting. She's in her forties at least, short and slim, with an angular face and short, auburn hair. She's pretty, with large brown eyes, and despite her surname she doesn't sound even the least bit Irish. Her accent is broadly American, though you wouldn't have a hope at naming a region. She gives amazing eye contact, and while she doesn't speak to you in doctor-speak, she also doesn't dumb things down or presume you're too stupid to catch her drift as she discusses her findings after assessing Clíodhna and reviewing the nursing notes. After washing her hands once she's finished her exam, she approaches you and Cillian - you'd been herded back just far enough that you were slightly in the dark about what was happening without being completely removed from your daughter. She eyes Cillian for a moment, and you know she's placing him in her mind without trying to be unprofessional. She smiles and brings her eyes to you for a second.

“I'm Charlie O’Mahoney. I know you've spoken with the nursing staff about the aspiration that your daughter had this morning.” She says, and looks at you both for a moment for confirmation. You nod as she speaks. “And they explained that a complication of aspirations is that it causes pneumonia?” You nod again, and Cillian inhales his whispered yes. “By the sounds of Clíodhna's left lung, there is some fluid build up there, and her blood work and pyrexia would also corroborate the concerns. She has already been started on antibiotics, and we'll adjust those to better compensate for the change in her presentation.” She explains clearly.

Cillian clears his throat. “What, um, what is the lookout here?” He asks.

“How do you mean?” Doctor O'Mahoney asks him, frowning a little.

“She's fucking tiny,” Cillian gestures his hand towards Clíodhna's incubator behind the doctor. “Pneumonia isn't.” He shrugs, and he's short tempered and quick mouthed. “What's the likelihood she's going to be able to fight this off?”

Doctor O'Mahoney softens her expression, “Premature babies are not predictable, Mister Murphy. I cannot promise you sunshine, nor can I tell you to prepare for the worst. Truly, all we can do is apply all measures we have to best treat her and support her, and hope for the best possible outcome.”

Cillian takes a deep breath and turns his head to you. “Degrees and-and fucking years of school, and I can't get a straight fucking answer about my daughter.” He grumbles towards you, teeth gritted. “I'm going for a fag.” His temper is piqued, solely in fear and anxiety, but he doesn't fire it at you. He touches his hand to your back for a moment before giving the doctor another glare as he stalks away, taking his hoodie with him. You watch him storm away, and you know it's all nervous energy - it's all the feelings he can't work through and the uncertainty he cannot stand - but you don't blame him nor do you feel compelled to offer the doctor an apology on his behalf.

“I appreciate that this is a very tense and upsetting time. A traumatic arrival into the world followed by a frightening setback.” Doctor O'Mahoney outlines your own feelings alarmingly clearly. “We really are doing everything for her, and we will continue to monitor and make any amendments she needs.”

You nod your head, “Thank you.” You say, and you wonder why you've managed to hang onto yourself a lot tighter than Cillian has. Doctor O'Mahoney offers you a small smile before she walks away, and you watch her disappear in the same direction Cillian had. You like her - you're not sure why, but you feel like you can trust her and you rarely feel that for anyone. You move slowly around the chairs and approach Clíodhna's incubator silently. You watch her tiny body for a moment, still not making the little movements you'd delighted in the day before, and wish to God you'd taken photos or videos of those little fingers, of her fluttering eyes. “Listen to me, little one,” you whisper. “Your Daddy can't take much more. I don't think I can either. I can't do Daddy's accent so well, but I know his words. I know his words for you. So come on, leanbh - our little fighter, don't stop fighting now, okay?” You take a deep breath. “He hasn't left you, I promise you. He just needs time. He's scared, and Daddy doesn't do well when he's scared. Too much for his little body to cope with.” You smirk, but you're not amused. “He used to say a baby would change everything and he didn't want that, but as soon as he knew you were coming he was so happy. He wanted you all along, and he wants you even more now. He doesn't want to lose you, Clíodhna. And because he's so scared of that happening, he's going to be absolutely unbearable to be near. But it's because he loves you so, so much and he doesn't know how to help you. He'll come back when he gets a little of himself back again, and he'll be here for you. He'll always be here for you. He's been the best Daddy already and you've only just got here. You've got a whole lifetime ahead to have him right by your side every time you want or need him, and even when you don't. You ever need a cuddle, you'll always get one from your Daddy. He loves cuddles! You want to make your Daddy happy, just give him a big hug - that's the one of the best ways Daddy can tell you he loves you, and when you give Daddy loves like that, it tells him the same.” You frown, and wonder why you're rambling on like this. You wet your lips and swallow against the aching lump in your throat. “Keep strong, Clíodhna, okay? Daddy needs a cuddle.”

.

[whereispearlescentmoon]

Man Gross by Penelope Scott is such a Life Series Shiny Duo Song, specifically from a Gem point of view.

Analysis under the cut, warning this song has a lot of cursing:

“It was so easy with you, so salty and gross

Made me feel clean by comparison”

Gem in Secret Life telling Pearl she’s scared of her when she’s red. Her saying Pearl and Scar’s 2v1 was gross. To Gem, Pearl makes Gem look good next to her.

“I'm never gonna feel good again

I've played this game all the way to the end

Look at this stupid little song for you

You're pretty good at this game, too”

Objectively Gem knows Pearl is good at the Life games. She’s won one after all. And she knows she’ll be good at it too, it’s why there’s such a target on her. But both times she has failed to anticipate that Pearl is better than her at playing the game. Not at fighting or killing, but at the game. Because unlike Gem, Pearl isn’t playing offensively, she isn’t challenging people to 1v1s, she isn’t jumping into fights. And that’s frustrating.

“I wish I didn't miss you

Or that I liked you at all

I wish I had the guts to fuck my own life up

I wish I had your set of balls”

Gem is only egging Pearl on because she misses her. She misses that brief moment of connection in Secret Life. She also knows that she’s a target and that makes her allies targets too. It’s why she literally wore one in WL.

“But I'm a chemical compound

I'm just the ring you take off

I'm just the next little girl you fake it with

Before you go, make it work with the one that you love”

Gem was, in her eyes, discarded by Pearl in SL. Sure, they didn’t have a formal alliance, but Pearl and Gem and the Scotts had a friendship. Gem and Pearl had the murder camel. Gem calls Pearl over to her side and Pearl does the same, neither willing to budge. Pearl attacks Gem and says she doesn’t know why she’s doing it. And Pearl makes Scar a Mounder, takes his side, lands a blow on Gem to solidify it. She chooses her team over Gem.

“I wish I never met you

Or that I wanted you still”

Gem doesn’t want to be Pearl’s ally in Wild Life, she makes that clear. She taunts her and threatens her and tells Scott to keep her in line. At every chance that Pearl reaches out, Gem slaps her hand down. But she still remembers their red life spree in Secret Life. She tells Pearl they can be friends when they’re both red. She’s grasping at memories of a dynamic they no longer have.

“I wish I had the guts to fuck my own life up

I wish you'd just come over and kill me”

This one is quite literal. Gem in Wild Life told Pearl she wanted a 1v1 over and over. She doesn’t care if Pearl wins. In fact, she knows Pearl might. She just wants what she believes is a fair fight. She literally stands still and lets Pearl try to kill her in the final session.

“And I don't even resent that

Do you get that I don't even object

I don't mind what you meant

But then how dare you express

Whatever brand of respect this is

When I made sure that we both know I'm a mess”

Pearl may see the fact that she doesn’t do 1v1s as a sign of respect. She’s intimidated by Gem, that’s why she wants to catch her in traps or kill her in a group. But to Gem it’s frustrating. It’s cheap. Pearl is good at PvP, Gem keeps repeating that when they fight on other servers it tends to be 50/50 who wins. Whatever kind of respect Pearl is showing, Gem doesn’t want it.

“I hate it most when they're kind

When they have meaningful lives

And I'm the awful one standing next to them

It was an earnest suggestion, a real connection

Every part of me poses a threat to them”

Pearl does reach out to Gem over and over in Wild Life. Gem knows she’s being unreasonable, that she’s causing drama on purpose. She literally says to Pearl that’s she’s not even that mad about the 2v1, she just wants to make drama (which I think is her trying to look more unaffected than she is). She knows it doesn’t make her look good. That losing that moral high ground means losing her whole argument against Pearl. But she also can’t lose her emotional high ground. It doesn’t make her look good to keep rejecting someone who approaches with open arms. But it does make her look like she’s in control.

“And if you're mean, then they'll laugh

Like they don't understand

If you got it, you would fucking go home, well

Say that you want me still, say I'm just mentally ill

Or I'm just a bitch, but, you'll never know”

This bit makes me think of the RoboPearl conversation. Gem and Joel were literally mocking Pearl to her face and treating her like a dog to be ordered around and Pearl just sat there and beep booped pathetically. It wasn’t until that moment that Gem told Pearl that when they were both red they could have fun again. She needed Pearl beneath her to make the offer.

“But I'm a chemical compound

You're just the gun in my mouth

If you'd stop romanticizing who I am at parties

You'd find your way out”

If Pearl stopped thinking about Gem as the Gem from Secret Life, she wouldn’t keep coming back in Wild Life. If she could see Gem for who Gem is at the moment, someone who doesn’t want her, then she would walk away. But if there’s anything know from Double Life, it’s that Pearl doesn’t give up on her friends that easily.

“I wish I weren't a liar

I wish that I could be kind”

Gem isn’t kind in Secret Life. No one is, but she has a reputation. She’s responsible for most of the server dying because of her Boogey task. It’s why she spends so much of Wild Life trying to make friends. She needs to prove that she can be kind.

“I wish that I could trust you

That things would turn out fine”

And how can Gem trust Pearl again? She thought they had a bond in Secret Life, she thought that being friends was enough. So instead, she pushes her away and tells her to go back to her allies. She won’t be hurt like that again.

“But I'm a chemical compound

I'm just a flash in your hand

And if you don't wanna play, just say so

And you'll never ever see me again”

If Pearl didn’t keep approaching Gem, they probably would have barely talked in Wild Life. She stuck to her little island with Joel and made friends with everyone but the Gs.

[sreabhadh]

Would love to see this concept in more depth, in more places, and just in general. Very yummy, delicious even.

Also when I read this my brain just went: Cosmere. Brandon Sanderson. *Starts listing mini instances of this*

Major Spoilers for Warbreaker, Stormlight Archive, Elantris, and Mistborn

Warbreaker. The lore is that the God-King is the ruler of Hallandren and the most powerful person alive? Psyche, he's a puppet head that's only a VESSEL for the most amount of power held by (probably) anyone else on the planet. He doesn't even have a tongue. Also he's a bean and precious and very much on the protect-at-all-costs list

Stormlight Archive. The lore is that in times of old during the desolations, there were monsters called Voidbringers. Oh. Wait. Based on this character's research, those monsters are actually the commonplace mindless slaves everyone uses and if they ever somehow regain their minds they'll be able to start killing everyone everywhere. Oh. Oh wait no oh wait, HOW- the humans were the Voidbringers? They're not even from this planet?? They DESTROYED the first one???

Shardblades, Shardplate. Initial lore? They're magical weapons from times of old when monsters had stone skin and thus our ancestors had swords that could cut through stone. How do they work? We don't know, we're still trying to figure that out, but hey we've invented some pretty cool stuff that works kind of like them so we'll get there eventually. :D Nope. Nope the magic weapons and armor are the literal corpses of old spren dead from broken oaths. If you are a character who has now spoken oaths and you try to wield one of those old magic weapons, you will hear it screaming in your head.

Gavilar. Initial lore? Oh, he was a great king who founded Alethkar, united the nation. A brother, a father, an uncle, husband and king who cared about doing things the right way and had big aspirations, a life unfortunately cut short by assassination, a huge loss for the kingdom. Um. No. No. There is a reason everyone who's ready the books revel in his death. He was manipulative, toxic, beyond power hungry, a cruel scheming heartless warmonger that used everyone around him like the tools he saw them as. He was the worst and a horrible brother, father, husband, king and uncle and his death was an absolute blessing.

The Heralds, holy beings second only to the Almighty himself. Actually, yes they are immortal but also every single one of them are categorically insane and broken and they gave up the fight centuries ago and have been living among mortals this whole time. One of them defaces every image and depiction she comes across of herself, one runs around killing people who become Radiants to stop the Desolation from coming again (it's already here but he's firmly in denial), another is trying to become a god and has been tainted by the voice of an actual (evil) god and, uh, you remember that guy in the psych ward that just keeps saying the same thing over and over again? Yeah him too. Also. Remember that homeless drunk guy you were buddies with and was there the night your brother got assassinated? Yeah him too. Oh, also the Almighty, (god) is dead. Straight up dead. Sort of. Mostly. It's complicated.

Elantris. Hrathen lore. He's a big important religious leader from an enemy kingdom where the government and religion are one and the same and he's here to do missionary work to convert the people so they can join the kingdom peacefully without dying and stuff because if he fails then they are going to attack, also he wears this fancy fake armor everywhere cause he's pretentious and crap and- .... -and he was straight up lied to, he wasn't sent there to convert people, save their souls, or give them a chance for peace. He was sent there. As a distraction. For the already invading army there to decimate the entire city and every single living inhabitant regardless of any religious or political affiliations. Oh also the armor he was wearing (literally) everywhere that was obviously fake because what nutjob willingly walks around in real, super heavy, great for overheating, cumbersome and restricting armor LITERALLY everywhere- Hrathen. Hrathen does.

Mistborn. Oh my GOSH Mistborn. So THIS is the legend, this is the story, the lore, behind ALL these things PSYCHE the story is a FABRICATION because the dang inscription said to "Only trust words written in metal" for a ding dang REASON Sazed and Sazed only took a rubbing of it instead of writing it in metal which meant Ruin was able to alter the words and EVERYTHING was a lie and that great heroic sacrifice of Vin's is ACTUALLY going to destroy the world and everyone on it. Among other things but this is already getting unintentionally lengthy, so~

Brandon. Storming. Sanderson. Cosmere. Skyward series (not Cosmere) and others I didn't mention fit this, but YEAH. It's good lol.

I would love to see a fantasy novel where the lore that the reader / protagonist learns at first is not true

[1-800-local-slut]

Before and After (Part 1)

The bullet that went through his brain knocked all the part of Rex that sucked clean out of him. But he still existed before that.

Rex 'Splode' Sloan x Black! Alien! Reader

Warnings: really hard pregnancy, vomit, smut mentions, Rex doubts his parenting abilities, also Rex and reader are young parents trying to figure it out, Rex being a cunt but this was before he got his brains blasted out lol, woke!Mark, I tried to make the characters talk like teenagers because I feel like we don't see enough of it in the show, Rex and Eve broke up WAY before he hooked up with reader because man stealing is never the move

Note: you're from a planet called Moraya and your parents sent you to Earth to stay with your uncle due to a disease sweeping the planet. They couldn't leave because your mother is the head of medicine, and your father is a high-ranking member of the government. By the time the crisis was dealt with you were a teenager and had adjusted to life on Earth, your parents understood your choice to stay. Your powers are mostly mental. You can control minds, have telekinesis, take over people's bodies, manipulate people's emotional states, and sometimes see the future in your dreams. Your body functions like a human, so your vulnerable to injures and human deaths but not illnesses (like car accidents, falling and breaking your neck, choking, drowning). You can fly, but not everyone on your planet can. It's more of a recessive gene since overtime your people didn't need to do it as often. That's all y'all!

༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺

If Rex finished high school, he might've remembered to use a condom that night. Nah. He still wouldn't have done it. He was twenty years old, with a three year old and his nineteen year old fiancé. You two were broke as two jokes. You were trying to get through med school, he was trying to save the world, but you two still found the time to be the best parents possible. He was stressed all the time, a few gray hairs were growing and the bags under his eyes were never leaving.

But Rex hasn't stopped smiling since the moment you agreed to marry him. Not when your baby woke up screaming in the middle of the night, not when your baby threw up on him four times in a day, not when you broke his hand during labor. Not even when he was woken up by you struggling to put on your crocs to go to get food in the middle of the night.

At first, Rex spent so much time wishing he just pulled out. Of course Plan B wasn't enough, you were an alien. But no matter how much you reassured him that it would've worked and that the Plan B just failed, he still didn't believe you. To this day he's ashamed to admit that he didn't want his baby at first.

Even suggested it wasn't his, to which he got a firm slap.

"Pregnant?!"

"I just thought I'd let you know-"

"So what, you like need a ride to the place? Because I kind of don't have my car right now."

Silence settled over the HQ and disgust filled your face.

"No, Rex, I don't need a ride. I just wanted to let you have a choice-"

"What, you wanna keep it?! Listen, you're cool but I'm not gonna have a kid. I mean how do you know its even mine?" Just then Mark came in and let out a soft 'oooo'. Even Invincible, as clueless as he was sometimes knew that was definitely the worst thing to say to you.

You let out an offended gasp before anger replaced disgust.

"Are you calling me a slut?!" The slap that followed honestly left him reeling. To this day he could still feel your handprint on his face sometimes and it's almost been four years since you slapped the taste out of his mouth.

"I was OFFERING you a chance to know it. I have family on my home planet. Seeing as it's your child too I thought you might've wanted a chance to raise it but you've answered the question before I asked. I will be taking it home with me when it's old enough to make the journey with me."

"Oh. Okay, cool. So you aren't asking me for money?"

"I wouldn't wipe my ass with the crumpled two dollars you have in your pocket. Me and MY CHILD will be good without you, trust." Then you were gone, and only Rexsplode and Invincible remained in the room. But Invincible decided to be Mark for a second and talk to his friend.

"Dude...she's having your baby." It was the first thing he said when Rex sat down on his bed as the two teenagers sat down in his room in the Gaurdian's HQ.

"Yeah, I'm doing okay after that slap." He scoffed while he grabbed a shirt that smelt clean off his bed and removed his costume.

"Did you want me to be on your side here...?"

"Okay yeah, maybe I wasn't the most sensitive but what did I really say wrong?"

"Are we being deadass???" Now in his own regular clothes (where he got them from Rex still doesn't know), Mark made a face of disgust. The type of face you make when you're truly questioning your homie.

Rex gave an indignant shrug. He knew but his pride hurt more than his face at that point.

"We'll do a play by play, maybe it'll help you. Okay, she comes in, tells you she's pregnant. This is the same girl who had to leave her home and adjust to living in a strange place and only has one other person on Earth who understands her. She's going through something emotionally heavy, away from her own people who probably have customs that she can't partake in, because she's probably unable to fly back while pregnant.

Also we're teenagers, she's a year younger than us so there's also the fact that she has to kiss young adulthood and the rest of her life goodbye because she's choosing to keep YOUR BABY, and she didn't even just take the kid and dip. I don't know man, maybe you shouldn't have accused her of sleeping around and then instead of being any type of understanding you told her you couldn't even give her a ride to Planned Parenthood."

Awkward silence settled through the room.

"Also why did you call her 'cool' like you haven't known her for years?"

"Don't make me sound like a loser."

"Hey man I hate to break it to you but you're doing that on your own."

"I don't even know it's mine!" Arms thrown out to the side, he grunted in exhaustion. It felt like you knocked a tooth lose, damn.

"We know she isn't sleeping around because she hasn't been in my bed." With a dramatic rub of his hands Mark lifted both of his eyebrows and made a dumbass face. Rex's own face crinkled in disgust and he looked at Mark while he leaned back on his palms.

"What if you're not her type?"

And Mark had the audacity to snort, and motion towards himself.

"Have you SEEN me? I would sleep with me too."

"...Would that count as masturbation or selfcest? Or twincest?"

"No because it's me not a twin."

"What if the other you becomes sentient and wants its own life."

"Yeah but...no...wait."

And as time went by, you went through pregnancy. Alone. You went through four months of what from a distance looked like a horrible experience, and while it tugged at his heart strings you told Eve who told Mark, who told Rex that you would die before you spoke to Rex again. Especially about your baby. It got to the point where you struggled to control your powers and had to fess up to Cecil. Who even expressed his disgust with Rex's behavior in a subtle way.

"You're the first reason I've ever had to figure out maternity leave for a pregnant alien teenager." Was all he said after Rex denied paternity leave.

It took one night for Rex to actually start growing a pair. They fully grew in after he caught a bullet to the cranium.

It was one night after a mission, two weeks before you had to start maternity leave, and the Guardians just returned from a pretty mid battle while Mark was on a little vacation according to Cecil.

While everyone celebrated, Rex left to use the bathroom when he heard it. You cried alone, in your spare bedroom that you sometimes crashed in. You were laying in your bed, attempting to muffle your cries, clutching your stomach and head. A sliver of light from the door widened until you realized Rex was standing in your door way.

You turned, looking over at him and scowled.

"You-" A gag cut you off. Were you trying not to vomit? Boxes of some of your things, you were clearing out for your maternity leave but it looked like you were getting ready to never come back. Then he remembered what you said. When it was old enough, you'd be flying back home with the rugrat.

"You are the last person I want to see. Piss off." And it would've worked better if you didn't immediately throw up in your hand and make a mad dash to the toilet before the rest of your vomit got all over you. He was a dick, not a monster so he followed.

While you threw up the contents of your stomach into the toilet, he couldn't just let the team hear. You'd clearly gone out of your way to avoid them seeing you crying and suffering already. He slid into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

When you finally did stop, you slumped against the bathtub. You sat, staring blankly at the floor before your face crumpled and you buried your face into your hands. You began to sob, with vomit on your shirt and your shoulders shook violently.

After a moment of Rex drowning in guilt you let out a shaky breath and hugged yourself.

"I miss my mom."

You staggered to your feet before you shoved him roughly out of your way into the sink, then left the bathroom. He heard wind from your room, realizing you were flying home and for the first time in a long time Rex began to think. He began to think real long and real hard.

It took the two of you to make it. You chose to keep it. You didn't even try to force him into fatherhood. The least he could do was loan you a hand until it was time for you to go. Without realizing it, he was cleaning the toilet. Everyone else was downstairs partying, celebrating their newfound strength as a team and winning the fight. And Rex was cleaning your vomit off the toilet, because without him you wouldn't be throwing up in the first place.

It wasn't a total 180 from there. He was still Rex, you still didn't even want to talk to him, but he tried. He left little treats he remembered you like only for them to be left untouched completely where he left them. Except for the time you stormed down the metal steps of HQ and threw the box of strawberry waffers at his face.

"Fuck, ow!"

"We didn't need shit from you then. We don't need a fucking thing from you now."

As you turned to storm back up the steps he grabbed your arm and narrowly avoided a swift slap.

"Listen, listen. You're right. You're right to be mad at me. I was being a dick."

"You still are."

Wrestling your arm free, he remembered that fire that attracted him to you in the first place. He caught you by your shoulders before he realized you could just kick him in the balls and settled for just grabbing one of your arms. Your back turned to him, he wasn't even sure if you were listening, but he had to speak now.

"You're uncomfortable, I know you are. And I know it's partially my fault. At least tell me what I can do to ease your discomfort just a little. You hate me, it's my fault. But let me help. Just a little." The tension in your shoulders dropped just a bit.

"...I'm having really strong cravings for hot chocolate."

He didn't start falling in love with you for a while afterwards. You were on maternity leave now, but he climbed through your bedroom window with the bacon wrapped shrimp you had requested when he texted you, he was out if you were hungry. He spun around on your desk chair when he realized. You've been pregnant for a while now. While you devoured the shrimp he noticed.

At six months you didn't look three months from giving birth. You seemed to be enjoying his presence just a bit now. Sure, there where changes but those were more so personality wise. You no longer snatched the food from his hands anymore and sent him away, you even let him sit less than ten feet away from you sometimes. Infact, you had the bump of a three-month pregnancy. Did you just have a small baby growing in there?

"It'll be a big one." You said, wiping your fingers as you watched Annie on your laptop.

"Really? It doesn't look like it."

"I'm not far along yet. But-"

"You're six months pregnant."

"Oh. Because my planet is so far away from my own solar systems Sun, my planet rotates slow. Time is different. Years are longer. I did some math; I'll be pregnant for about a year and a half.

"A YEAR AND A HALF?!"

"Shut the fuck up! Yes Rex, on my planet it wouldn't be so long. But the time is weird here, everything moves so fast." You stifled a yawn as you sipped your milkshake.

"...Do you think it's gonna tear you in two?"

You giggled. And his diversion worked. You spoke about home before, but since you got pregnant it seemed like you were plauged with constant home sickness. It had to be hard for you to be away from home this way. When you were going through something so momentous, and your planet was a weeklong flight. That was if you flew without sleeping and pee breaks.

"I don't want to think about that. I already know the birth is gonna hurt."

As you laughed, the light shifted around you. He noticed things on your face he never noticed before. The way your mouth curved when you smiled, the way you covered your mouth when you laughed, the small crinkles around your eyes. You were hot before, he knew that. It's why he fucked you. But he never noticed that you were more than that. You were beautiful. Genuinely beautiful.

And after that night he tried to fight it. He didn't want to be a parent. But he couldn't date you without being a part of his own kid's life. That would be low even for him. As your stomach grew so did his feelings for you. Infact, when the Lizard League put a hole in his skull, he woke up to keep fighting because he pictured you.

He was being dragged down into death, seeing his life flash before his eyes, and then finally he saw you. But it wasn't a memory. It was a prophecy.

His head laid on your lap, you smiled down at him while you squished his face in your hands. Next to him, a small bundle wrapped in a blanket slept soundly. He heard birds singing sweet songs, the Sun casted warm light on his skin and gave you a radiant glow, and you were brighter than all of it. You leaned down and planted a kiss on his forehead, telling him he had to get up and go. There was an emergency. He had to go, he had to fight, had to blow shit up.

He did and from there, the rest was history.

[rmytears]

RESERVATION FOR DISASTER. calex one-shot.

Summary: Alex and Casey have been trying (and failing) to have a proper date night for weeks. Between their insane caseloads, Olivia Benson’s tendency to call them in at all hours, and their own competitive natures, every attempt has ended in chaos.

Tonight, Alex has finally made dinner reservations at an exclusive restaurant, and Casey has sworn she won’t let anything interfere. But, of course, things don’t go as planned.

6:30 PM

Alex's apartment was a study in controlled chaos. Steam billowed from the bathroom, carrying the scent of her jasmine shampoo through the hallway as she meticulously applied her makeup. Every detail had been planned with the precision she usually reserved for closing arguments.

The reservation at Lumière hadn't just been made three weeks in advance – it had been strategically timed for a Wednesday evening when the restaurant was slightly less crowded, specifically requested to be in the quieter back section, and confirmed not twice but three times. The last confirmation had been accompanied by a subtle name-drop of a judge who owed her a favor, just to ensure everything would be perfect.

Her navy blue Guy Laroche dress hung on the closet door like a promise of elegance, and she'd even gone so far as to have it professionally pressed. This wasn't just dinner – this was a tactical operation, and Alexandra Cabot never lost a tactical operation.

At least, that's what she kept telling herself.

"You know," Casey's voice drifted in from the bedroom, accompanied by the sound of drawers opening and closing with increasing urgency, "some people just call their favorite restaurant and show up."

Alex applied her mascara with surgical precision. "Some people also think pleather is acceptable courtroom attire."

"That was one time," Casey protested. "And in my defense, I was first chair on the Matthews case and my dry cleaning hadn't—" A loud thud followed by muttered cursing interrupted her justification.

Alex closed her eyes, counted to three, and stepped into the bedroom. "What are you doing?"

Casey was on her knees, half-buried in their shared closet, one earring already in place and the other clutched between her teeth. Her red hair was falling out of its careful updo, and she'd somehow managed to put her dress on backwards. "I can't find my other shoe," she mumbled around the earring.

"The black Louboutins?"

"No, the—"

"The navy pumps?"

"No, I—"

"Please tell me you're not looking for those horrific comfort sandals you tried to wear to the DA's dinner."

Casey emerged from the closet, hair thoroughly disheveled, to fix Alex with an indignant look. "Those sandals are orthopedically approved and—"

"Are banned from any restaurant that requires a reservation," Alex finished, already moving to her side of the closet. She reached up to the top shelf, pulled down a dust bag, and extracted a pair of elegant silver heels. "Here. These will match your dress, assuming you put it on correctly at some point."

Casey glanced down at her backwards dress and grinned. "I was wondering why the neckline felt weird." She stood, pressing a quick kiss to Alex's cheek. "This is why I keep you around. Well, this and your exceptional cross-examination skills."

"Flattery will not excuse tardiness," Alex replied, but she was fighting a smile. "Now, about tonight..."

Casey groaned, flopping dramatically onto their bed. "Please tell me this isn't another detailed itinerary."

"This is a simple request for one normal, uninterrupted date night." Alex perched on the edge of the bed, careful not to wrinkle her dress. "Just one evening where we don't get called away for work, or run into opposing counsel, or end up discussing case law over appetizers."

"That last one is entirely your fault. You're the one who brought up Miranda during the soup course."

"The waiter misquoted it! I couldn't just let that stand."

Casey sat up, laughing. "Only you would fact-check a waiter's legal knowledge." She reached for her other earring, her expression turning suspicious. "Wait a minute. Is this why you promised me chocolate soufflé? Are you bribing me?"

"I prefer to think of it as incentivizing good behavior," Alex replied primly, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from her dress. "We are going to have one uninterrupted, romantic date night. Just one. No distractions, no emergencies, no—"

The opening notes of "Bad Boys" – Casey's ringtone for work calls – filled the room.

Alex closed her eyes and exhaled slowly through her nose, wondering if it was possible to sue the universe for intentional infliction of emotional distress.

7:00 PM.

"You manifested that," Casey said, pointing at her with mock seriousness. Her silver dress – now properly oriented – caught the light as she moved, and Alex was momentarily distracted by how beautiful she looked, even with her hair still slightly askew.

"Answer it, Novak. But if it's work—"

Casey held up a finger as she answered, her face shifting into what Alex privately called her "ADA mode." "Hey, Liv. What's up?"

Alex crossed her arms, deploying the look that had once made a mob enforcer cry on the witness stand. Casey, predictably, just winked at her.

"Uh-huh," Casey said into the phone, pacing their bedroom in her stocking feet, the borrowed silver heels still waiting by the bed. "Uh-huh. Liv, I—" She glanced at Alex, winced, then tried again. "Okay, I really can't right now, but—"

Alex tapped her watch, which she'd specifically coordinated with her outfit. She'd learned early in their relationship that Casey operated on what she called "Novak Time," which was consistently twenty minutes behind the rest of the world.

Casey mouthed, One minute, while making the puppy dog eyes that had gotten her out of trouble more times than Alex cared to admit.

"That's a lie, and you know it," Alex muttered, walking to their dresser where she'd left a glass of wine for exactly this type of situation. She took a slow sip, glaring at Casey over the rim.

Casey, demonstrating the selective hearing that made her both an excellent prosecutor and an infuriating girlfriend, ignored her. "Look, just email me the details, and I'll—" She stopped, sighed, then rolled her eyes toward the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention. "Fine. But you owe Alex a very expensive bottle of wine."

Alex arched an eyebrow, already mentally upgrading her wine requirements from "expensive" to "requires a separate insurance policy."

Casey hung up and turned to her with the smile that usually preceded either brilliant legal strategy or complete chaos. "Small favor. I swear, it won't interfere with dinner."

Alex took another long sip of wine, letting the silence speak for her.

"It's tiny," Casey insisted, finally stepping into the heels. "Microscopic. Barely worth mentioning. Liv just needs me to stop by the precinct for two minutes to sign something."

"The precinct," Alex repeated flatly, "which is in the opposite direction of the restaurant."

"Yes, but—"

"During rush hour."

"Well—"

"On the night I specifically asked for no work interruptions."

Casey approached her with the careful steps of someone approaching a particularly irritated judge. "I will make it up to you," she promised, wrapping her arms around Alex's waist. "And I already have a plan."

"Does this plan involve being on time to our reservation?"

"It involves calling a cab right now, stopping at the precinct for exactly two minutes, and then taking the shortcut I know through Little Italy to get to the restaurant." She pressed a kiss to Alex's neck, right below her ear. "Trust me?"

Alex sighed, melting slightly despite her best efforts to maintain her annoyance. "The last time you said that, we ended up in contempt of court."

"That was one time! And the judge totally deserved it."

"He did," Alex admitted, then pulled back to fix Casey with a stern look. "Two minutes. Not a second more."

Casey's grin was bright enough to power Manhattan. "Scout's honor."

"You were never a scout."

"Details, details. Now come on, our chariot awaits!"

7:45 PM.

Their yellow cab crawled through Manhattan traffic like a particularly unmotivated snail. Alex watched the minutes tick by on her watch, calculating and recalculating their estimated arrival time with increasing despair. The leather seats squeaked every time she shifted, which was often, because Casey couldn't sit still to save her life.

By some miracle (and possibly several traffic laws bent beyond recognition), they were only fifteen minutes behind schedule. Alex, channeling the optimism she usually reserved for particularly difficult jury selections, decided to consider it a win.

That feeling of tentative victory lasted exactly three blocks.

"Hold up a second," their driver said, his eyes meeting Alex's in the rearview mirror. The cab swerved slightly as he turned to get a better look, causing Casey to grab Alex's arm. "I know you! You're that prosecutor, right? The one from that huge mob case!"

Alex stiffened, her spine straightening automatically into what Casey called her "courtroom posture." "I don't discuss work outside of the office."

"That was you!" He grinned, completely missing – or choosing to ignore – her arctic tone. "Man, that trial was something else. What was that guy's name? Sal... Sal something-or-other?"

Casey, because she had apparently made it her life's mission to be both the love of Alex's life and her personal tormentor, leaned forward with an eager grin. "Salvatore Giordano."

Alex turned to her with a look that had once made a defense attorney switch careers to accounting.

The cabbie snapped his fingers, the car drifting dangerously close to a parked SUV. "Yeah, that's him! You absolutely destroyed that guy! I watched every single day of that trial on Court TV. Even called out sick from work for the closing arguments."

Casey chuckled, clearly warming to her role as Alex's personal antagonist. "Oh, she destroys people for a living. It's her favorite hobby. Well, that and organizing her legal briefs by color-coding and subspecies."

"They're organized by jurisdiction and precedential value," Alex muttered, then immediately regretted engaging.

The cabbie laughed, taking another corner so sharply that Casey slid into Alex's side. "So, how dangerous was that whole thing? Did you get threats? Witness tampering? I heard the mob tried to bug your office!"

Alex pinched the bridge of her nose, wondering if it was possible to get motion sickness from emotional whiplash.

"Funny you should ask," Casey said, her voice dropping into what Alex recognized as her storytelling tone. She used the same voice to charm juries and convince judges to grant continuances. "There was this one time—"

"Novak."

"What? I'm just making conversation. Besides, the statute of limitations has definitely expired on—"

Alex fixed her with the look that had once convinced the entire Manhattan DA's office to switch from Starbucks to her preferred coffee shop. "Casey."

Casey grinned but held up her hands in surrender, her silver bracelet catching the streetlights. "Fine, fine. No war stories. Though I still think the one about the wire in the cannoli is hilarious."

The cabbie, undeterred by their exchange, launched into his own thoroughly unnecessary analysis of the trial. "The way you handled that cross-examination of the restaurant owner? Brilliant! And when you got that witness to crack on the stand—"

"Take the next left," Alex interrupted, her voice clipped. "It's faster."

"But the GPS says—"

"The GPS doesn't have to preside over motion hearings tomorrow morning."

Casey bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. "She knows every shortcut in Manhattan," she stage-whispered to the driver. "It's because she's pathologically early to everything."

"It's called being professional," Alex corrected, then checked her watch again. "And we're now twenty minutes behind schedule."

"See what I mean?" Casey said to the driver. "Pathological."

The cabbie nodded sagely. "My wife's the same way. Speaking of wives, are you two—"

"Left turn," Alex said sharply. "Now."

As the cab finally turned, Alex stared out the window, mentally reviewing New York's justifiable homicide statutes. She was fairly certain she could convince a jury that both Casey and the cabbie had it coming. After all, she had an excellent track record with difficult cases.

Casey, reading her mind as she often did, leaned over to whisper, "You know you love me."

"That remains to be seen," Alex replied, but she couldn't quite hide her smile when Casey kissed her cheek.

The cabbie, watching in the rearview mirror, beamed. "You two remind me of me and the missus. Hey, did I ever tell you about how we met? It's actually a funny story—"

Alex closed her eyes and began silently reciting the Model Penal Code. She'd gotten through three sections when Casey's hand found hers, squeezing gently.

"Almost there," Casey murmured. "And I promise, the soufflé will be worth it."

8:10 PM.

They finally made it to Lumière, only slightly disheveled and moderately behind schedule. The restaurant's elegant facade gleamed with warm lighting, promising an evening of sophistication that Alex desperately hoped they might still salvage. The maître d' recognized her name immediately – perhaps that third confirmation call hadn't been entirely paranoid – and led them to a perfectly positioned corner table.

Alex relaxed incrementally as they settled in, taking in the ambient lighting, the soft jazz playing in the background, and the way Casey's eyes lit up at the wine list. Maybe, just maybe, the universe would grant them this one evening.

Their waiter had just finished pouring their wine – a particularly good vintage that Alex had been saving for a special occasion – when she saw him. Samuel Jeffries, their newest junior ADA, was weaving through the tables toward them with the panicked expression of someone about to confess to a capital crime.

"Oh, come on," Alex muttered into her wine glass.

Casey followed her gaze and winced. "Maybe he's just here for dinner?"

"With that look on his face? He's either committed a felony or lost crucial evidence. Possibly both."

Jeffries reached their table, his tie askew and his normally neat hair looking like he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly. "Casey! Alex! I am so sorry to interrupt, but I—I accidentally sent the wrong case file to the DA's office and—"

Alex pinched the bridge of her nose, wondering if it was too late to transfer to the civil division. Or maybe Montana.

Casey, demonstrating the unflappable calm that made her so effective with victims, reached for a breadstick. "Which case?"

Jeffries shifted his weight from foot to foot, looking like he might actually faint. "Uh... Harrison v. State?"

Alex's groan was almost drowned out by Casey choking on her breadstick.

"That's a high-profile appeal," Alex said, her voice carrying the same deadly calm she used right before destroying a witness on cross. "What exactly did you do?"

"I might have..." Jeffries tugged at his collar. "I might have sent the defense our internal notes instead of the motions brief."

Casey's coughing fit got worse. Alex actually dropped her fork, the clatter drawing looks from nearby tables.

"Oh my God," Casey said when she could breathe again, her face flushed from coughing and suppressed laughter. "That is so much worse than I expected. Like, monumentally worse. Like, 'start updating your resume' worse."

"Please tell me you recalled the email," Alex said, her voice carrying the kind of calm that usually preceded hurricanes.

Jeffries gave her a look of pure terror. "I tried. But they... they already opened it."

Casey took a large sip of wine, then immediately reached for the bottle to pour more. "Yeah, no. You're dead. It was nice knowing you. I'll send flowers to your funeral."

Jeffries looked between them, his face cycling through various stages of panic. "What do I do? Should I call the defense? Maybe if I explain—"

"No," Alex and Casey said in unison.

"Sit down," Alex commanded, pointing to an empty chair. "Do not speak to anyone. Do not call anyone. Do not even think about calling anyone." She pulled out her phone, already scrolling through her contacts. "I'll fix it. But you owe me a favor, and I will collect."

Casey shook her head, torn between amusement and sympathy. "It's honestly impressive how quickly this night has derailed. I think this might be a new record."

Alex shot her a withering look while pressing her phone to her ear. "Judge Harrison? Yes, I know it's after hours. I apologize for interrupting your evening, but we have a situation that requires immediate attention..."

9:00 PM.

Alex had just managed to salvage the evening through a combination of legal maneuvering, three very apologetic phone calls, and what might have technically qualified as blackmail in some jurisdictions. Jeffries had been dispatched with strict instructions to go directly home and touch absolutely nothing work-related until Monday. The wine had been replenished, their entrees had finally arrived, and Casey had solemnly sworn on her bar license to behave.

The universe, apparently, took this as a personal challenge.

The fire alarm's shriek cut through the restaurant's carefully cultivated atmosphere like a defendant's outburst in a quiet courtroom. The elegant dining room froze for a moment, then erupted into confused murmuring as the sprinkler system began to whir ominously overhead.

They both looked up at the flashing lights, then at each other.

"You have got to be kidding me," Alex muttered, her perfectly cooked steak going untouched. "This isn't happening."

Casey set down her wine glass with exaggerated care. "Well, look on the bright side."

"There is no bright side."

"At least it wasn't my fault this time."

Alex's retort was cut off by the maître d's smooth voice announcing that everyone needed to evacuate immediately. The restaurant staff moved through the tables with practiced efficiency, helping diners gather their belongings and herding them toward the exits.

"Should we grab the wine?" Casey asked, eyeing their half-full bottle. "It seems shame to waste it."

"That would be theft," Alex pointed out, even as she cast a longing look at the vintage she'd specially requested.

"I prefer to think of it as evidence preservation."

Despite herself, Alex laughed. It was either that or cry at this point. "Come on, counselor. Before we add 'arrested for grand larceny' to this evening's highlights."

They joined the stream of displaced diners flowing onto the sidewalk, the cool evening air raising goosebumps on their arms. Casey immediately shed her heels, holding them by their straps as she stood barefoot on the concrete.

"That cannot be sanitary," Alex said, watching her with fond exasperation.

"Neither is third-degree burns from these torture devices you call shoes." Casey wiggled her toes. "Besides, we've got bigger problems. I'm starving."

As if on cue, several fire trucks rounded the corner, sirens wailing. Their red lights painted the gathering crowd in surreal flashes of color, turning evening gowns and suit jackets into a bizarre light show.

"I don't suppose they'll let us back in anytime soon," Casey mused, watching as firefighters deployed from their trucks with practiced efficiency.

Alex sighed, already pulling out her phone. "I'm ordering pizza."

"I love you," Casey said with such genuine affection that Alex felt her frustration start to melt. "Even if you did curse this entire evening by tempting fate."

"I did not tempt fate. I made dinner reservations."

"You specifically said, and I quote, 'no distractions, no emergencies.' That's basically daring the universe to mess with us."

"The universe is not a spiteful entity that—" Alex stopped as smoke began visibly curling from one of the restaurant's upper windows. "You know what? Never mind. I rescind my objection."

Casey grinned, wrapping an arm around her waist. "Wise decision, counselor. Now, about that pizza..."

10:30 PM.

Their apartment felt like a sanctuary after the chaos of the evening. They'd changed into comfortable clothes – Alex in silk pajamas that probably cost more than some suits, Casey in worn Harvard Law sweats that had seen better decades. The coffee table was covered in an impressive spread: one large pizza (half margherita for Alex, half "everything but anchovies" for Casey), garlic knots that would guarantee they both had terrible breath tomorrow, and a bottle of wine they'd rescued from Alex's impressive home collection.

"All I'm saying," Casey argued, gesturing with a slice of pizza in a way that made Alex nervously eye her white couch, "is that the Fourth Amendment issues in People v. Reddington were so obvious that a first-year law student could have spotted them."

"No, they weren't," Alex countered, reaching over to steal a bite of Casey's slice before it could become a projectile. "The expectation of privacy in shared cloud storage is still evolving case law."

Casey gasped with theatrical outrage. "You pizza thief! And don't try to distract me with technological semantics. The warrant was clearly overbroad."

"The warrant was perfectly reasonable given the circumstances." Alex settled more comfortably into the couch, tucking her feet under Casey's thigh. "The scope was limited to the specific folder structure identified by the witness."

"Oh please, they accessed his entire drive history!"

"Which was necessary to establish pattern and practice."

Casey narrowed her eyes, reaching for another slice. "You're just arguing with me because you can."

"I'm arguing with you because you're wrong," Alex corrected primly, but she couldn't hide her smile. "And because you're cute when you're outraged about constitutional issues."

"Flattery will not win you this argument." Casey paused, considering. "Though it might win you another piece of pizza."

They settled into a comfortable silence, broken only by the soft music playing from Alex's carefully curated playlist and the distant sounds of the city below. The chaos of the evening felt far away now, replaced by something warmer and more genuine than any fancy restaurant could have provided.

Casey squinted at her, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. "Admit it – this is better than some overpriced steak at Lumière."

Alex paused, taking in the scene: Casey's disheveled hair and bright eyes, the way her old sweatshirt had a small sauce stain already (because some things never changed), the comfortable weight of her feet under Alex's legs, the simple pleasure of arguing case law over pizza.

She rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress her smile. "Fine. But don't expect me to say it out loud."

Casey's answering grin was brighter than all the candles at Lumière combined. "Oh, I know you love this. You love me. You probably even love that I derailed your perfectly planned evening."

"That's a stretch."

"Is it, though?"

Alex sighed, shook her head fondly, and leaned in to kiss her. Casey tasted like garlic and wine and happiness, and Alex couldn't imagine wanting to be anywhere else.

Even the universe, it seemed, sometimes knew exactly what they needed.

"We're still going back to Lumière though," Alex murmured against Casey's lips. "I refuse to let that reservation deposit go to waste."

Casey laughed. "Whatever you say, counselor. But maybe next time we shouldn't tempt fate by announcing our plans."

"Next time," Alex said, pulling back to fix Casey with her best courtroom stare, "we're ordering in."

"Objection noted and sustained," Casey agreed, pulling her back in for another kiss.

The pizza got cold, the wine ran out, and somewhere in Manhattan, Jeffries was probably still having a panic attack about the Harrison case. But here, in their apartment with their terrible takeout and their endless legal arguments, everything was exactly as it should be.

Even if Alex would never admit it out loud.

[t3ch-wizard]

something i just realized! (small analysis)

(PROLLY not the first one to figure this out, but here my thoughts goo!)

Soo, we all know about the Turbo flashback we were shown in the first movie. Growing envious and jealous of the spotlight being stolen by that new RoadBlasters rolling in, Turbo goes turbo with the mission to TAKE over the new game, yadda yadda, he fails and skids the HELL outta there. But my big brain noticed something.

1- In comparison to the scene where Ralph and the other villains from Bad-Anon rode the carts from Pac-Man to GCS, the speed Turbo seemingly travelled at is ridiculiously fast!

Considering we see him sitting in his red kart before, this can only mean one thing. Turbo RACED HIS WAY THERE, literally! Even the carts of respective games go faster than the speed he went at, and no normal character such as short stack can run that fast (no, not counting Sonic). Hot shot was desperate for attention that badly.

2- It bugged me how there wasn't the notion of anybody trying to stop Speedy in his tracks. What about the Turbo Twins, didn't they get wind of Turbo's plans and attempt to hinder him? What about the Surge Protector, or ANYONE else in that manner?! Then, moment of clarity hit me.

It was opening hours when the RoadBlasters Incident had occured. This means that AT THE TIME, the Game Central Station was near to empty, spare the Surge Protector roaming around. Now keep in mind the "opening hours" thought, I'll get to that in a bit.

Basically, when Turbo maneuvered his kart shooting out of TurboTime STRAIGHT into RoadBlasters, no one stood in his way and in this short span of time, the Surge Protector wouldn't have been able to block him.

Poor man probably saw something red and white whoosh past his vision and not comprehend what was about to happen. Whoopsie to him I guess.

3- How Turbo escaped honestly had me on a chokehold here. Since the movie showed us the following three scenes after each other directly, I assumed it happened in the same moment RoadBlasters got busted.

But wait, this was Felix explaining to Calhoun/the audience the important chunks of Turbo's story, which means he left out anything that wasn't necessary for us to know! And because two workers (who didn't seem to be employees of Litwak) were rolling out the two cabinets, some time had passed for them to get there, which further then implies that TurboTime and RoadBlasters had to be unplugged sometime later on the same DAY.

What we see in the real world VS. what we see in the game world of an arcade game varies drastically. Although the screen of RoadBlasters was displaying a glitchy killscreen, we don't see what happens to Turbo and the RB racer exactly. Seeing the chaos he had inflicted upon RoadBlasters and the main character of it, Turbo would've abandoned his vehicle behind and scrambled to the exit, realizing there were no means of fulfilling his plan anymore. All that mattered to him was getting to safety under the wire to seek shelter elsewhere. Staying in RoadBlasters would've resulted in him getting unplugged along with the game. Going BACK to TurboTime was a (death sentence) confrontation with the Turbo Twins, escaping to ANY other arcade game would've arisen suspicion both to players AND to game characters. Turbo didn't have that many options.

--

What happened in the meantime on the outside, you may ask? Here's where we tread a bit into theory territory:

Remember that RoadBlasters was a FAIRLY new game that just came into the arcade. Litwak wouldn't have tossed it out as quickly as we'd seen it!

I believe he took the time to get the game's systems checked by a professional, see if it was just a minor memory problem or a tweak to be done on the system and then get it back working. However, due to the fact that Turbo jumbled up the game's code altogether when colliding with the RoadBlaster racer, repair seemed beyond reach after tinkering on RoadBlasters for so long. You can only do so much after hope dies for your new game.

As for TurboTime, I can imagine it this way. The kids who were playing RoadBlasters definitely told Litwak about the odd Turbo sprite dashing across the horizon before RoadBlasters crashed into oblivion. The second arcade cabinet was most likely inspected as well for any "issues" and truth be told, that cocky racer with that golden trophy was just not showing up no matter how many fixes you did.

The Turbo Twins? Oh, they had to endure the consequences. Had to hear Litwak being reality-checked by the technician that for all the popularity TurboTime had garnered over the years, the game had to go into retirement. Merely forced to stand in the black background, well-aware of the fact that they'd go down with TurboTime, without seeing Turbo's face one last time ever AGAIN. Tragedy, I know.

--

Now now, I DID say to keep in mind the opening hours aspect just earlier. Here it comes into fruition!!

4- Now, while we have gotten some explanation of how Turbo stayed in hiding for nearly ten years, it's not really clear how he managed to do that during all this time when video game characters were crowding GCS left and right after the incident.

As established in the movie/in this post, all characters of their respective games normally head to their game portals when the arcade is about to open. No bit was strolling to hit the rounds, you see. Everyone was occupied with their own game.

Though, the RoadBlasters incident was surely not a day anybody would forget anytime soon. Neighboring cabinets would've witnessed the horrors of RB unfolding between their eyes, the fleeting voice lines of "Turbo-tastic!" ringing in their ears a second too long. But even then, even WHEN everybody saw Turbo's deeds, how could somebody stop him? How could ANYONE in that matter step out and do the right thing? What if somebody had noticed a character missing from their title screen too? What if something went wrong?

What (presumably at the time) was Turbo's DEATH was no demise any other character wanted to go through. So, they had to stick to their programming. Act as if they were blissfully unaware of the falls of two beloved games in the arcade. Keep up the facade that somehow, everything was fine.

And so, with nobody knowing that hot shot was on the run, Turbo took the run for it. Dashing past the unaware Surge Protector, staggering left and right, he escaped into the bowels of GCS where nobody would find him. At least, until he came up with a new plan. A SOLID plan. One that would make up for the loss of a failure he took part in.

By the time the Surge Protector had partially pieced together the events at closing hours, it was far too late. The criminal was already gone, no trace left behind. Alas, the term "going Turbo" was coined, the act of game-hopping to a foreign game to your own in order to jeopardize and take control over it.

Once the new and flashy racing game Sugar Rush was plugged in, this gave the hiding ex-racer a chance for a comeback, albeit under a different name. With the arcade about to open, Turbo made his way to the new game portal, determined to get he what he had wanted back all this time..

.

.

.

.

That is, BY A̸̤̥̓̿͌̾͋͐͠͝N̷̨̪͍̩̼͙̤͉̹͍̥͕̈́̅͛̅͊̂͋̆́̏̈́̊͜͜Y̵̮̘̠̯͍͒̇͒̔́̑̀̚͝ MEANS NECESSARY.

[hpdabbles]

I don't know if you also accept writing requests on this blog, but if so, could you please write more about fae! Harry? I really loved the concept and keep rereading this post again and again. Thank you so much in advance.

Harry's sorting is a little different from the rest of the school. Professor Feline, a stern woman with a lovely Scottish accent, made him wait in the hallway while the rest of the first years were taken inside.

At first, he had grown frightful that she wouldn't allow him to attend school, but his nerves were settled when Belle had leaned in to whisper that all Potters weren't allowed in areas where attendance was made.

It was to protect the students' real names.

Once every last first year was sorted, and the Headmaster explained why they could not say their names in his presence to the muggle-raised children, Professor Feline would come back for him and sort him. Harry figured the woman hadn't given her real name because her identity didn't wrap around him like all the muggles he'd met.

And wasn't that a shock? After Belle had explained everything she knew about the Potter Family, Harry realized something.

Apparently, someone giving him their name was the magical equivalent of giving him control over their person. It was a binding that only his people- the Fae- could do. If he commanded it, the person who give away their name, must do anything he desired. He could have them become his servant, command them to walk off a cliff or break into song, or even kill others in his name.

These people were called the Unname because Harry was given their names. Even if it wasn't their full name, as most didn't introduce themselves with their middle names, for example, if their identity was attached to the part Harry had heard, he had some control over them.

If Harry practices enough, he could influence their thoughts and emotions. Apparently, there was a Potter who enjoyed taking away the sensation of fear from people so they would never be afraid again - which sounds nice on the surface.

A lot of those Unname ended up dead because they lost the feeling of fear. They were not afraid to insult people they shouldn't, they were not scared of taking risks they shouldn't, and most of them had not been afraid of death itself, so none of them were careful.

Belle had pointed out that people did stupid things without fear, and his ancestor wasn't nice.

Pearl had jumped in, explaining that Fae and human ideas of kindness were slightly different because Fae tended to have a more mischievous mindset and never thought things through. This didn't mean they were evil or trying to be cruel.

It just meant they saw the world differently. Of course, there were some Fae who were cruel and evil, the kind that liked stealing humans and keeping them as toys. The ones all those myths the muggles kept alive of the creatures spoke of.

But Nick empathized that it was the same with humans. Not all of the human race were murderers, but there were some rotten apples hidden in societies.

All that because names had power. The kind Harry had never known he could control. It made sense now why his aunt tried so hard to never introduce Harry.

She was trying to protect the other humans, but she failed, as she wanted to appear normal, and you don't usually avoid a name in conversations. He owed a lot of muggles, as all of them were free with their identities in his presence.

For once, since finding out he was a wizard, Harry was excited to go back to the Durselys. He wanted to check and see if he had made them Unnamed, and if he had, then there would be some big changes at Number 4 Private Drive.

"Mr. Potter." Professor Feline called, opening the door. "It is time for your sorting. Come along, child, we need you to sit at the stole as quickly as possible."

Harry straightened up, feeling his hair lift in excitement. This was it. He was going to become a full-fledged wizard! He stepped around the woman, thanking her softly, only to freeze as every pair of eyes in the large dining hall zeroed in on him.

Their stars pin him in place, making it impossible for Harry to move. He becomes painfully conscious of his flying hair, how the clothes hang on his frame and the position of his arms.

Reaching to flatten his hair, he feels his face burn in mortification as whispers and mutters break across the room. He wishes he could sink into the ground and never be seen again

Four long tables were covered with children of various ages, all wearing the same robes as Harry's, but his were pure black, while everyone else had different coloring lines in their outfits.

"Go on, Mr. Potter," Professor Feline urges, pressing her hand to the top of Harry's back when Harry just stands there. He allows himself to be led to the front, feeling the children's eyes on him like a cold mist on his skin. Aunt Petunia made him wake early those winter mornings and shovel the driveway without gloves and a too-large jacket.

He passes by the blue table where one of the teenagers presses himself far away from Harry. He crosses himself three times, holding a rosary in front of him like a shield.

A girl in yellow was doing something similar further down the tables- closer to the stole that the professor was leading him to- but she held up bread and a clad of metal staring him down as if daring him to try her.

Harry wasn't entirely sure what all that was about, so he ducked his head and avoided her eyes. He did notice that Pearl was sitting at the green table while Nick, Belle, and Herb (the chubby boy from the train who lost his toad) were all at the red table.

He offers them waves, beaming when they wave back. When Harry gets to steal, and a hat is placed on his head, Harry realizes something important.

He had been so focused on explaining his family during the train ride that he had forgotten to ask about the houses. When Pearl and Nick talked about the school, they skipped over that part and went straight into some kind of sports game.

He had been so busy trying to learn everything he could about his own kind. He had no idea which house best fit him.

But I do. A voice whispered in his mind, causing Harry to jump. I know the perfect place for a curious Fae like you. Since you have no preferences, I'll place you in the ideal place.

"RAVENCLAW!" The hat thunders over Harry's head. He practically leaps out of his skin when it does, but it's removed from his head just as suddenly.

The blue table erupts in screams and shouts as they start chanting, "We got Potter! We got Potter!". Harry feels a beaming smile forming on his face as he scurries to the table, his black robes shifting to the blue lining.

This is going to be a great year.

[calamitoustide]

hiii<33 you pick!! 14 or 15 for the drabbles :-)

drabble fic prompts

hiiii! why not both? we can have some hurt/comfort <3

It's been a long day. A long fucking day.

James has had an exam in each of his classes, four in all, it's like his professors did it that way on purpose just to overwhelm him. In the time he had outside of class he spent in the library trying to get some last minute studying done, which he didn't even think did anything. By the time he was on the last exam he barely had anything left in him, in fact, he's pretty sure he failed them all. He's not sure he was made out for college. He can't believe that he volunteered willingly to do this.

He knows Regulus is working on an essay and told everyone to leave him alone for today but he finds himself going to his dorms anyway. It's all the way across campus, and he was already dead on his feet before he even started the walk but that doesn't matter. He's outside Regulus' dorm weakly knocking on the door before long.

He hears Regulus cursing under his breath through the wood. Regulus' face is all scrunched up and James can tell he's prepared to yell at whoever is on the other side of the door until he sees him. His face falls, "Oh, baby, you're shaking."

"Bad day," James whines, letting Regulus pull him into the room. "I know you wanted to be alone. I just wanted to see you."

James drops his bag on the ground as soon as Regulus closes the door and pulls him in. He's warm against him and James can feel himself melting against him.

"It's okay," Regulus murmurs, pulling James into his shoulder. "I'm almost done anyway."

James hums, as he closes his eyes and breathes him in. This is good. This is helping. Wordlessly Regulus leads him over to the bed, before putting James' head on his chest. He scratches his scalp as he runs his fingers through his hair. Nothing else matters but here right now. Hell he might even drop out of all his classes so he never has to do anything but this, and doesn't have to be anywhere except right here.

"Can I do anything?" Regulus hums, kissing the top of his head.

"Just-" James sighs, shaking his head, "Just let me hold you for a minute." He tightens his grip against Regulus' waist.

"Alright," Regulus whispers, and James feels him smile against his skin.

He knows he'll have to let go of him soon, or at the very least let him grab his computer so he can keep working, but right now none of that matters. Right now he's holding his love and everything is okay.

It's not such a bad day after all.

[disassembly-required]

Aw thanks! Glad my post reached its an appreciative audience! I ADORE Murder Drones for its themes about trauma, how virtually all main characters experienced it and are severely impacted by it, and how they deal with it in different ways to .. various degrees of detriment for all of them really, until they hit their character growth beats (or don't and face the consequences, like J)

The pilot, though, only barely touches it when setting up the story (a great narrative choice). So when I first watched and saw Khan abandon Uzi, I felt angry at him. "Dead wife" doesn't excuse you being a complete coward, Khan! How could you!

Then, as the story progressed and more information was revealed, like I said, it put his actions into a different light; he was having a full blown trauma response and was NOT thinking clearly. That doesn't make it, like, okay or automatically forgivable, of course. Trauma doesn't work like that either--you don't get to just hurt whoever you want while hiding in your shell, and expect everyone else to keep being your friend. Everyone has choices. They can keep living in denial, or accept they've done wrong and hold themselves accountable. They can stagnate in self pity forever, or they can put the work in to do better.

I found Khan's growth was IMMENSE. It started right away! The parent teacher conference opened his eyes to just how much he didn't even KNOW his own daughter, he assumed she was doing great in class and had lots of friends! Upon finding out the opposite was true, he felt awful he hadn't noticed. He then outright rejected the very next call to his work passion ("something about his daughter being more important than building a door in this hallway"). Right then and there, he started choosing Uzi.

He made some shaky choices in episode 3; he wanted to keep Uzi away from the murder drones (but can you blame him after the distraught state he found Uzi in (ep 2), in some crazy wreckage, and nobody else with her but N, who fled the scene? Khan must've assumed N put her in danger. And I have a hunch Uzi didn't explain what happened in great excruciating detail or anything.. especially since she herself didn't know where she stood with N), and he thought he was doing her a favor by setting her up with classmates to go to prom with and, y'know, dad moment of thinking chaperoning is awesome and not like, the lamest thing anyone's parent can do ever. But he was already trying something. He wanted to do better.

He only grows upward from there though, after witnessing Uzi take her brave stand, and defend who and what she believed in. We don't see a lot of Khan for a while after that, but we do see him in episode 5 trying to express he's proud of seeing Uzi having friends over.. which were 2 murder drones. 1 who tried to kill Uzi in front of him. Who previously, Khan clearly mistrusted because before N ran away, something clearly horrible enough happened Uzi wanted to come home instead of going back with N. But in ep 3 Uzi made her choice, she chose her allies and they chose her, and so.. by ep 5 Khan had FAITH in Uzi and her choices, and just like, let 2 murder drones in his house, alone with his daughter! That's a pretty big deal!

By the end, his growth peaks! He REBUILDS Uzi's gun! That thing was TRASHED. Exploded. Who knows if it was salvageable at all or Khan rebuilt it from scratch. She was hurt he didn't believe in her (even if it had more to do with his trauma than doubting her weapon, what Uzi was left to understand was Khan didn't believe in her enough to even save her life), but he did believe in her now. Fully, without question. Rebuilding the gun was symbolic of that, sort of like the last piece of rebuilding his relationship with Uzi and, and fight (fight!!! Not hide, not shield her!) head on like she always believed in, when he failed to even defend. No more doors.

So ultimately, my poor opinion of him changed drastically, not just because I felt bad about his trauma, but he put in the hard work to change. His mistake was a wake up call, one I'm sure he thanked GOD it didn't end up being one he could never undo. And he didn't take that for granted. Did not spit in the universe's face that he didn't lose his daughter, and he got a second chance he didn't get with Nori. He put his all into it. Rocky at first, but he also learned fast from where he was fumbling and steered the hell away from the pitfalls of fucking up again.

It's crazy! I rarely end up liking parental characters who screw up like that, I'm VERY hard on them, I really don't easily forgive them or accept how the narrative attempts to redeem them (obvious personal baggage is obvious lol) but Khan earned my respect. And it IS pretty important to me understanding him as someone who.. wasn't just arbitrarily obsessed with a random thing in favor of his daughter, but it was trauma symptom. One he chose to heal from.

So I know it's common for folks to headcanon Khan was always obsessed with doors, and that obsession was more or less an arbitrary passion he had... but I can't help but feel there's a really important detail that, when considered, suggests otherwise?

In episode 4, when Khan is showing the contents of "Nori's kooky insane ramblings" closet, one of the things he quotes Nori said was "build doors against the coming sky demons"

I feel this implies

a) building doors to protect from the murder drones (that she apparently had an intuition about) was Nori's idea

b) Khan, on some level, believed this was a "kooky insane rambling" and not something he took seriously

(important to remember Nori had some level of memory loss/disorganized cognition when she was recovered from the lab; Khan didn't know the significance of her history there, and Nori wouldn't have been able tell him everything, only these ominous bits and pieces that didn't entirely make sense.)

Therefore, c) Khan likely didn't even start building any doors before the murder drones came, since in the exposition intro, the workers were otherwise just living casually, not hiding away in the outpost.

So I'm led to believe perhaps... when the "sky demons" were real and they killed Nori, Khan felt responsible for her death because he didn't listen to her. He didn't build the doors.

And perhaps that's where his obsession stems from, that fatal mistake he never wanted to make again. And we can say it's pretty maladaptive, since he became so preoccupied with doors, he was more emotionally invested in them than Uzi. But in his mind, he must have thought his life's work WAS all for her, to keep her safe, where he failed Nori. Khan also became way too comfortable in his maladaptive coping, feeling SO sure behind his doors, he would never have to actually face a murder drone ever again.

All that said, it also puts his actions in the pilot into a bit of a different light, when he abandoned Uzi. I don't think Khan was simply frightened seeing a murder drone and acting cowardly. I think he was having a flashback and a panic response. I mean, Uzi's appearance takes after her mother, yeah? It must've reminded him of Nori being attacked, which is.. even more harrowing with the heavy implication N was the specific murder drone who killed Nori. Even if Khan didn't actively know it or recognize him, looking at N's face filled him panic. He was being brought back to Nori's death.

I think there's a few different reasons he may have chosen to close the door. I don't think it was done in a sound mind "this is clearly for the greater good, only losing one drone instead of the whole colony" thought process. I'm sure that was part of what he was weighing the best he could possibly process. But I think another reason may have been the fact that he already felt like he already failed Uzi, and by extent Nori once again, and he ....didn't want to see it happen again. Whether he didn't believe Uzi's gun was strong enough, or believed he wouldn't be able to aim, or believed wouldn't even have a shot at all before N attacked him too, ultimately he must've felt like the scene would play out the same (we are left to wonder if Khan tried to fight back when it was Nori...) and he didn't want to see Nori (through Uzi) die again.

Which sounds awful of course, but PTSD will do that to you. You'll make terrible, impulsive decisions because your mind is trying to protect itself from further damage. Had Uzi actually died, I think the regret would have hit him like a truck and destroyed him. I don't think he would have stood by a decision he made during a panic attack.

Anyway I got a little sidetracked re: Khan's trauma, but my main thesis here was: doors was Nori's idea. Khan didn't listen until it was too late. Then his entire world became doors.

[v0idwraith]

quite frankly idgaf what Luigi Mangione’s politics are, he actually did something to make a change and that’s more than most people can say

[basofy]

i think you can be as critical about the venezuelan opposition and maría corina and edmundo as you want but arent venezuelans allowed to choose for themselves even if the options arent perfect? are you willing to justify electoral fraud and police brutality, class inequality, bad management of resources, lack of maintenance of the country, breach of the law, lack of investment in health services and education etc etc just because the person doing it is someone you like or because you don't like the other option? are people at fault for wanting something different?

[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

i have seen a lot of posts about lucanis & illario lately, that specifically call out that some of the things Lucanis says about him are kinda mean. usually in context of 'yes what illario did was fucked up but they BOTH went thru the fucked up training and lucanis says shit to him too' etc etc. and i'll be honest as someone who does have a contentious/estranged/very-low-contact sibling relationship. everything lucanis said came off as super mild to me and they should both be WAY nastier to each other actually. yes even when you include their dynamic in wigmaker job which was both more lighthearted And heartfelt. but like if you want realism they should be going from that to 1 minute later annoyed enough to break out the super cutting remarks dragging up the worst things the other has ever done/said, specifically becuause they know it will hurt the other most. then i would believe it more tbh.