#like shes been building up to this her entire life . she has no self outside of this . the crystal king gave her a purpose again

[malikselfindulgence]

Thisis a harumi apologist account btw . My evil wife who did nothing wrong ever

[invinciblerodent]

This is going to be very ranty and disjointed, probably borderline incomprehensible post, but with the "return" of Dragon Age Discourse (and really, did it ever go anywhere?) and me repeatedly seeing the complaints and dismissals of DA:I as a "chosen one"-type of a narrative, I just.... I keep finding myself thinking about the relationship of truth and lies within the game.

Throughout the course of DA:I, the idea of a malleable, flexible personal identity, and a painful confrontation with an uncomfortable truth replacing a soothing falsehood, follows pretty much every character throughout their respective arcs.

There are some more obvious ones, Solas, Blackwall, The Iron Bull, their identities and deceptions (of both those around them and themselves) are clearly front and center in the stories told about them, but this theme of deception (both of the self- and the outside world) is clearly present in the stories of the others as well.

Like, for example, ones that come immediately to mind are stories like that of Cullen, who presents an image of a composed and disciplined military man, a commander- all to hide the desperate and traumatized addict that he sees himself as.

Dorian grappled with the expectations of presenting the image of the perfect heir to his father's legacy, the prideful scion of his house, his entire life (he even introduces himself as the result of "careful breeding", like one might speak about a prized horse)- all while knowing that his family would rather see him lobotomized and obedient, than anything even just resembling his vibrant and passionate self.

Cassandra calls herself a Seeker of Truth, and takes pride in that identity- only to learn that in reality, she has been made a liar, a keeper of secrets, without her knowledge or consent, and it is up to her to either uproot the entire organization and painfully cut out the abscess it is to build it back from the ground up into something respectable, or let the information she had revealed sit, and continue to fester.

And this theme continues and reframes itself in, among others, things like Sera's own inner conflict between her elven heritage and her human upbringing, or in Cole being caught in this unconscionable space in-between human and spirit, between person and concept, etc.

The Inquisitor isn't exempt from this either.

I feel like this is where the core of the many misunderstandings of this plot come from, why so many people continue to believe that Inquisition is a "chosen one" or "divinely appointed" type of story, because I think many might just... not realize, that the protagonist's identity is also malleable, and what they are told in the setup/first act of the game is not necessarily the truth.

The tale of the Inquisitor is the exact opposite of that of a "chosen one" story: it's an examination and reflection of the trope, in that it is the story of an assumption that all wrongly believe to be the truth, and thrust upon you, even if you protest. The very point is that no matter who you choose to say that you are, you will be known as the Herald of a prophet you don't even necessarily believe in, and then that belief will be proven wrong, leaving you to cope with either a devastating disappointment if you believed it, or a bitter kind of vindication if you didn't.

There's a moment just after Here Lies the Abyss (when you learn of the lie you've been fed your entire journey in the game) that I don't often see mentioned, but I think it's one of the most emotionally impactful character moments, if you are playing an Andrastian Inquisitor who had actually believed themselves chosen (which I realize is a rather unpopular pick, lol): it's when Ser Ruth, a Grey Warden, realizes what she had done and is horrified by her own deeds, and turns herself in asking to be tried for the murder of another of her order. As far as she is concerned, she had spilled blood for power, and regardless of whether she was acting of her own volition at the time, whether she had agency in the moment, is irrelevant to her: she seeks no absolution, but willingly submits to any punishment you see fit.

And only if you play as an Inquisitor who, through prior dialogue choices, had established themselves as a devout Andrastian, can you offer her forgiveness, for a deed that was objectively not her fault- not really.

You can, in Andraste's name, forgive her- even though you, at that point, know that you have no real right to do so. That you're not Andraste's Herald, that Andraste may or may not even exist, and that you can't grant anyone "divine forgiveness", because you, yourself, don't have a drop of divinity within you. You know that you were no more than an unlucky idiot who stumbled their way into meddling with forces beyond their ken.

You know you're a fraud. You know. The game forces you to realize, as it slowly drip-drip-drips the memories knocked loose by the blast back into your head, that what all have been telling you that you are up to this point, is false. And yet, you can still choose to keep up the lie, and tell this woman who stands in front of you with blood on her hands and tears in her eyes, that you, with authority you don't have, grant her forgiveness for a crime that wasn't hers to commit.

Because it's the right thing to do. Because to lie to Ser Ruth is far kinder than anything else you could possibly do to her, short of refusing to make a decision altogether.

There are any number of criticisms of this game that I can accept (I may or may not agree depending on what it is, but I'm from the school of thought that any interpretation can be equally valid as long as there's text that supports it, and no text that contradicts it), but I will always continue to uphold that the Inquisitor is absolutely not- and never was a "chosen one".

They're just as small, and sad, and lost, as all the other protagonists- the only difference is that they didn't need to fight for their mantle, because instead of a symbol of honor, it acted as a straitjacket.

[ghostlyfleur]

𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥

eddie munson x shy!oc

contents: anxiety, curse words, friends to lovers. lovesick!eddie, inexperienced!reader, self-consciousness, first kiss, sharing clothes. eddie’s jacket is oversized on reader. can be read as x reader, but a bit oc too? carnival date.

word count: ~1.5k

eddie munson is in love.

she is entirely inexperienced in anything romantic or sexual; no first kiss, never even got close to it. extremely shy and anxious, has a seemingly innocent aura, is a bit out of sorts, ditzy, with a sort of luna lovegood vibe. doesn’t argue with people, always tears up if confronted about anything, doesn’t have beef with anyone and is a lot more rational than emotional even though she tears up so easily. also doesn’t hold grudges or care what people think of her…

the thing is, she has been introverted her whole life, a very anxious person, and so doesn’t understand that eddie munson likes her because she needs to be told how people feel about her very explicitly otherwise her mind will convince her they hate her. anxiety is like that. and she’s the kind of person that has a hard time realizing that people can perceive their existence and have feelings for them, no matter what type of feelings, so even though eddie is not at all shy about flirting with her and giving her all of the attention in the world in his over-the-top, overdramatic way, he also knows that if anything other than the friendship he’s thankfully managed to build with her is going to happen, romantic-wise, that she has to be the one to initiate it— but she’s oblivious!

on the other hand though, she doesn’t even bother hiding her infatuation with eddie — it’s a lot more than infatuation by now. she’s always looking at him with stars in her eyes and laughs at his jokes and smiles that big, square, goofy smile whenever they lock eyes and constantly praises him because he deserves to feel as special as he is, right? and she goes into detailed talks about lord of the rings with him, likes many of the same bands he does or simply lets him play his favorites for her, and she truly loves to watch hellfire play dungeons & dragons.

her eds even made her a special edition pink hellfire shirt. ‘cause he’s a simp.

one day, as she’s out with chrissy and heather outside a diner, talking and laughing and catching up, eddie is close by somewhere with friends. his van is parked nearby.

it starts getting chilly, and eddie’s girl starts shivering, so she quickly excused herself away from the girls, “gimme a second!” and reaches through the open window of eddie’s van, making a mental note to grill him about it later — “‘cause it isn’t safe, eds!” — to grab his leather jacket thinking of how he has told her over and over that she can borrow it, that “what’s mine is yours, sweets. i don’t mind sharing if it’s with you”, so she figures it’s okay, right? and goes back to the girls who are fucking smirking like they see something she doesn’t.

it’s about fifteen minutes later, and eddie is walking towards the trio, simply because he misses his girl and wants a hug, when he sees it.

she’s wearing his jacket. his jacket.

in typical eddie fashion, he makes a scene— gasping dramatically, he clutches his chest over his heart and falls to his knees, because fuck what anyone around thinks. his precious girl is wearing his fucking jacket! and she looks like a fucking angel.

“eds, what are you doin’?”

“do you know how heavenly you look in my jacket? i just had to get on my knees to worship you.”

the boy shuffles closer to his sweet girl on his knees still while he talks and she’s flustered, okay? she’s shy and her face is on fire and she’s covering her cheeks and giggling. and because it’s eddie, her eddie, she’s not running away to have a panic attack. ‘cause it’s eddie and he’s being sweet, so she can’t focus on anyone else long enough to feel crippling anxiety or embarrassment. doesn’t even care that chrissy is cooing and heather is smirking.

“that jacket is yours now, you own it. you pretty much own me by now.” eddie says, on his knees, in front of her

“it’s okay that i took it right?” she makes sure even after his display of joy, ‘cause anxiety isn’t rational “you said i—”

her eddie knows her, though. he stands up, gets real fucking close to her, so close they’re almost touching, with this look of absolute adoration and “i’d give ya everything i have if i could, pretty.”

fast forward a few days later. chrissy kept yapping on and on to the oblivious girl about how “in love” eddie is, but it’s as though her brain won’t let her even entertain the idea.

that’s until she’s having a semi-regular quote unquote friend-date with eddie, something they’ve done quite a few times before, and this time they go to the fair. they’re doing everything couples might do, eddie is very aware of this, and he’s over the moon to just be enjoying quality time with his pretty girl until she spots a photobooth, “oh, eds! we have to!” and eddie’s desperately counting coins to pay. the pictures go a little something like this:

after coming up blank with pose ideas, they just look at each other and laugh, but at the sound of his free and bright laugh, she just stares at her boy like he’s a dream come true— first pic is taken, looking at eddie like he hung the moon while he’s mid-laugh.

eddie notices her staring and goes from loud laughs to breathless ones, a smile on his lips, and whispers a soft “what?”— second picture is taken as the girl quickly presses her lips to his, her very first kiss, and it’s caught on camera.

the third picture depicts eddie’s sweet girl nervously rambling “i was going to ask for permission first, i promise!” while eddie has a glassy, dreamy look on his face, slack jawed, looking at her lips.

and at the fourth snap? eddie presses forward to shut her up with another impossibly soft and tender kiss, both of their eyes are closed and his hand is holding her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek.

after they part from the second kiss, eddie acknowledges that it was her first kiss, a shy “was that okay?” to which his sweetheart just smiles really big and nods excitedly over and over with a breathless giggle. that was the perfect first and second kiss and she couldn’t ask for more.

they hold hands the rest of the night.

[furioussouls]

It will come back.

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[yandere! academic rival x plus sized! reader]

🌔

Warning: yandere behaviour ( I dont condone this sort of behaviour in real life, but this is fiction. Enjoy), cursing, suggestive themes), mention of self harm and smoking, sacrilegious themes

Reader uses she/ her pronouns

Song: It will come back by Hozier

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Yandere type: masochistic, attention- seeker, clingy

You stared at the big grandfather clock behind your Professor, your own hands cupping your chubby cheeks. Worn down by time, one would assume that it looked less elegant, but it didn’t. Ever since you started going to Krepstom Academy 7 years ago, the huge clock has been there with you in every lesson and exam. Unfortunately, it wasn’t just the wooden clock that accompanied you through every step of the way.

„(Y/N) (L/N)“, the voice of your Professor, Mr. Bailey, shook you out of your thoughts.

Your eyes snapped towards him and a wave of embarrassment creeped it‘s way up your neck. You could feel the leering looks of some of your classmates behind your back accompanied by some hidden chuckles.

„Yes, Professor Bailey?“, you asked after clearing your throat.

„Where is Mr. Synovic?“, he inquired after glancing at the empty spot behind you.

Your eyebrows rose in annoyance at the mention of his name , but you immediately relaxed your face when Mr. Bailey‘s eyes found their way to yours.

„With all due respect, Professor. How am I supposed to know where he is?“ you asked him with genuine curiosity and a sweet smile.

Mr. Bailey‘s bushy, white eyebrows furrowed in confusion and then the right side of his mouth gently turned upwards. „Oh, I apologise. I thought the both of you continue this cat and mouse chase outside of the classroom as well. I shouldn’t have assumed“

Your saccharine smile turned bittersweet in a matter of a few seconds and you fidgeted in your creaky chair. Smiling uncomfortably at him, you crossed your plump arms.

Jesse Synovic was a thorn in your eye. You would not give him the satisfaction of having him play a bigger role in your life than necessary, so even his annoying existence was only bothersome - at most. The two of you have been competing in Mr. Bailey‘s class ever since your journey at the Academy began. In some cases, he’s the best in class and sometimes you are. It’s a constant futile battle, considering that neither the students nor the teachers care about who ‚the best‘ is. The whole „battle“ is entirely between you two. Suddenly you heard a few knocks. Somebody opened the creaky, oak door after hearing the affirmative hum of Professor Bailey.

Speak of the devil and he shall disappear. Jesse Synovic stood under the threshold of the door and apologised to your Professor for being late and sat down. His freckles adorning his aquiline nose and his familiar scent invaded your nose: mint and hibiscus.

You rolled your eyes when you heard him sit down behind you. The lesson could have been perfect; no annoying Jesse in the background, correcting your every participation in class. However, seems like you were not amongst any god‘s favourite mortals.

You looked outside of the stained window; the pitter-patter of the hammering raindrops against the glass mirrored not only your mood, but also perfectly reflects the season, which you are in right now; autumn. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed his eyes on you. Your eyes switched from the window to him.

„What do you want?“, you mouthed to him. His mouth twitched up into a crooked smile and he shook his head, as if to say „nothing���. You stared at his face and his shoulders relaxed underneath your glare. He smiled lazily at you and fixed some of his black curls.

You rolled your eyes at him and focused back on Professor Bailey‘s lesson until the end.

After the lesson, you walked along the huge corridors of the academy. The huge stone pillars of the building reminded you of the fantastical buildings of your favourite fantasy books. While admiring the architectural designs of the building, you suddenly heard a deep, male voice from behind you call out your name, causing you to spin around quickly. Your mood dampened seeing Jesse‘s face.

„What?“, you demanded. He walked towards you with raised hands, his frame towering over your deliciously rounded one. You crossed your arms over your busty chest, causing Jesse‘s eyes to pause there and his eyes scanned you again from top to bottom and then settled on your stunning eyes.

„I‘m not here to cause a scene.“, he grinned at you, „ I just wanted to walk with you for a little while… and wanted to ask about your Astrophysics grade“, he asked with an innocent grin. His cheeks dimpled.

A ball of annoyance tightened your belly. Your nostrils flared and you pinched the bridge of your nose. His soft chuckle echoed through the hallway. “I’ve got 93%“, you hissed out and clenched your jaw. You turned around and made a move to start walking again, but he stopped you.

„Pretty good!“ he exclaimed and stretched his arms out and closed his long lashed eyes. You crossed your arms and looked up to the sky, already knowing what’s happening next. He opened one eye and looked at you. „I got 97%”, he smiled, opening his other eye as well and exposing infuriating pearly white teeth with naturally pointy canines.

“Uh huh, very nice”, you pressed out and continued to walk away.

“Wait, wait!“, he walked beside you and matched your pace. „Don’t you want to congratulate me?“, he beamed at your annoyed expression and tightened the tie of his school uniform around his neck.

„Why would I?“, you grumbled out. „The only reason you‘re in the Academy in the first place is because of your parents money. That I can congratulate for: Congratulations for being well bred“, you replied sarcastically.

He tutted three times. „Oh baby, we’ve been doing this for 7 years and your only argument is the fact that my parents are rich? I thought your argumentative skills were better than that. God should’ve spent more time on your brain, and not all of it on your body, yes?“ he retorted condescendingly.

Your steps slowed down and Jesse matched your pace, looking at you from the side in a questioning manner. His smile dropped slowly and his eyes scanned every part of your face, his own face reflecting uncertainty. As quickly as the uncertainty appeared, the expression left his face again.

You raised an eyebrow at him and the one side of your mouth tucked upwards. “ Was that a compliment, Scrooge Mcduck? Do you think my body is pretty?”, you grinned at him from one ear to the other.

His shoulders relaxed and he exhaled softly. He closed his eyes and then laughed „You crave my validation that badly?“, You made a gagging sound at the idea of you needing male validation and started walking. Your dog, following obediently behind you.

🌔

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Jesse‘s hands shook. He clenched and unclenched his veiny, long hand. Matching the speed of his curvy darling was easy, the few seconds before they continued walking weren’t; seeing her face drop at (what he assumed was) his insult made his heart clench. He wanted to die right then and there. It teared him apart like spiky thorns, which dug themselves further and further into his beating heart.

Well, he didn’t lie. Your body was carefully carved by the gods. Every curve was attentively sculpted. Every line carefully drawn with the most precise of utensils, and every round limb diligently molded. The strech marks on your body carefully designed after billions and billions of shooting stars and every dip in a curve accurately measured after the most beautiful mountains of this planet.

However, it’s not only your body that he is in love with. Your intelligence shocks him from day to day. You weren’t lying either; he can afford the most qualified tutors and the most intricate advanced courses to deepen his knowledge. You can not, and you are one of the smartest people he has ever met. And to think that he almost insulted and hurt you, and not in a bickering matter, made him want to throw up. Thankfully, you only cared about the part where he complimented your body. Jesse’s chest tingled and he could not help the grin that came over his face. God, he loves his darling so much.

Continuing the walk in comfortable silence for once without biting insults, and hearing both your steps ring throughout the halls of the corridor, made Jesse think of when you first met each other; You were both very young, and he was the embodiment of a broody, edgy teenager. Nobody talked to him, because of his reputation. Well, nobody except for.. well, you. You stood there with the biggest smile on your squishy cheeks and showed him kindness by hugging him. Little Jesse’s body warmed and tensed up. Not even his parents were kind to him like that. But no, they didn’t mistreat him. No, because mistreating him would mean actually spending time with him, and they are not the type of parents to do that. Indifference is so much crueler than hatred. You on the other hand, ruffled his hair and showed him affection. And like a sponge, he soaked it all up, like a stray dog after being fed, he came running back to you once he needed more. And what guaranteed your attention more than academically being on your level? What guaranteed your attention on him more than you showing your beautiful infuriation towards him?

His belly warmed at the idea of your pretty face scrunching up in anger at him. Pointing your pretty finger at him and roughing him up a little. He knows that he cannot make anybody as mad as you. You are special.

Jesse was completely lost in thoughts, reminiscing about the past when you ripped him out his trance with your beautiful voice: „I’ll get going then. Not all of us can bribe the Professors with money, can we? Some of us actually need to study and let our abilities speak for themselves.“, you nodded at him and turned around.

Jesse smiled at you, put his fist up in the air and called out: „Study hard! We‘ll need someone to secure the second place again!“

You kept walking and lifted your middle finger, causing him to throw his head back and laugh.

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Jesse was sitting in the garden of the Academy, watching you study diligently. His veiny fingers gently put a cigarette in his mouth and he inhaled the toxic substance. Looking carefully around to make sure none of the teachers would catch him and interrupt his favourite pastime; observing you and your little habits.

The few birds around him, that haven’t started their journey to the south yet, sung the song of their people and the autumn sun shone brightly in his face. The garden around him looked like an idyllic landscape, but he doesn’t need to spend his time looking elsewhere for heavenly projections. He has found his own salvation. His beautiful, ethereal goddess sitting a few meters away from him.

Taking another drag of his cigarette, his eyes looked down at the faint scars on his palm and his wrist. The era of his life where he hadn’t met you yet; naturally it was the worst time of his life. He chuckled lowly and remembered the anguish he felt. Unnecessary, wasted energy. There’s somebody else that can spend all of their energy on him; the good emotions, the bad. Somebody that can order him around and insult him and.. more. Goosebumps of pleasure rose on his body and he shivered happily. He grinned and gently licked his portruding canine teeth and threw away his cigarette safely, his eyes never leaving your gorgeous form.

Do you guys want more of Jesse?

(Please do not copy, rewrite or translate my ideas:) )

[vxsellie]

‧₊˚┊simple living things﹗

a hunger games!au ellie williams fanfiction.⌇ 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔦𝔦

summary. to give a final goodbye to someone you love is generally the last thing anyone would ever wish to do. though, when being shipped off to your death, it's the equivalent to being given a final meal whilst on death row.

content warnings. abuse, mentions of death, implications of murder, and (the worst of all) a lesbian breakup

total wc. 5,225

notes!! here she is! i wrote this in one sitting on the night before christmas, literally up until two am bc my thoughts wouldn't stop flowing (ive had writers block for the past few months so you couldn't pry my keyboard from my cold dead hands). anyway here she is! once again, reminder that it's better read on ao3!

𝜗𝜚 series masterlist ⸝⸝ playlist ⸝⸝ ao3 𝜗𝜚

14:45.

DISTRICT SEVEN.

“What were you thinking?” 

Despite how loud Marlene’s voice is, it sounds rather muffled. Ellie’s thoughts all jumble together into a plethora of unintelligible abstraction. This results in outside noises becoming equally as cryptic.

After the Reaping, both tributes were escorted into the Justice Building and forced into separate rooms. Having grown up amid the Games, Ellie’s aware that this is the part where she’s supposed to say her final goodbyes to her loved ones — an hour of time allotted to these farewells. And, despite knowing that all twenty-three other tributes are going through the same thing, Ellie couldn’t feel more alone. There’s a sickening sense of finality to this. Like she’s cattle bred and born to await death. Like there’s nothing more to her life aside from this — being Reaped to never return.

And, with the time given, Marlene has opted to use the entirety of her visit reprimanding Ellie for how she’d acted on stage. Not that she doesn’t deserve to be chastised, she knows she does, but it’s still fucked up.

See, after her name had been drawn, Ellie’s entire world fell out from under her feet. She knew there was a possibility of her name being drawn, she’d be a fool not to at least acknowledge that fact. But to look that fate in the eye and have no way of revoking it? That’s an entirely different pill to swallow. As she stood atop that stage, the escort’s piping voice ringing through her ears, Ellie simply could not seem to comprehend it. But then she felt a weight in her hand, a warmth. She turned to see Riley, her jaw set and her eyes darkened. She grabbed Ellie’s hand and hoisted it into the air.

To Ellie, it was a rather odd thing to do. But, as Marlene is pointing out presently, it was an act of defiance against the Capitol itself. Ellie had no idea. Not that she doubts it, what with Riley’s outward distaste for the government, but it just hadn’t dawned on her that the mere act of holding a friend’s hand would piss off the Capitol. It’s kinda funny.

“What could you possibly be laughing at?” Marlene groans, her pacing coming to a halt as she whips around to face Ellie. Her expression isn’t one of rage, as initially expected. Instead, it’s one of genuine panic. Well shit, apparently holding hands really is treason.

Ellie doesn’t respond, her face dropping instantly. She pins her gaze to the floor, staring at the same rusted nail she’s been looking at for the past ten minutes. In fact, she’d been so zoned out that she hadn’t picked up a single thing that Marlene was trying to say. Usually, this would amuse her. But now, with her impending doom so leering, she can’t help but feel ashamed. She may never see Marlene again. And then what? Her last memory of the girl she’d raised from infantry would be of her zoned out whilst curled into a ball on a dilapidated sofa. That’s rather pathetic, is it not?

She shudders, pulling her knees even closer to her chest at the thought. She doesn’t yet know who was Reaped from the other Districts, but she’s sure they aren’t all pouting on their couches like children. Still, she can’t seem to remove herself from this position — one of self comfort. 

Something touches her knee and she flinches, tearing her gaze from the floor. She looks up to see Marlene sitting beside her on the couch, her gaze softened. Ellie hadn’t even noticed her approach. Fuck. See, this is the exact thing she’s worried about. If she were to zone out like this in the arena, she'd be dead within minutes.

“You didn’t hear anything I just said, did you?” Marlene asks with a sigh. A wave of guilt washes over Ellie’s body before she nods, admittedly having heard nothing. “I was saying I’m sorry. I don’t mean to shout at you like this, especially considering the situation. I’m only lecturing you because I’m worried. I’ve seen the Capitol kill people for less than holding hands.”

Ellie shakes her head, though the act is faraway. “The Capitol can’t kill us now that we’re tributes. To do so would only result in more defiance from the viewers. They’re anticipating a show, to kill off the characters would be antiprogressive.”

“No, but they can surely make your time in the arena worse.” Marlene points out. 

Ellie thins her lips at this, but ultimately says nothing. This is not what she wants to hear right before being sent to her death. She wants consolation and comfort, not reminders of how little control she has in her own life. But that’s just how Marlene is — she gets stressed and rambles. Most of the time, it's a harmless habit. Right now, though, it’s proving to be rather taxing.

“Look,” She sighs, “I’m not good at this whole thing, talking. Everyone knows that. It’s– Well, it’s the entire reason I never had any kids of my own.” She sighs again trying desperately to make sense of her thoughts and word them in a way that doesn’t sound like an insult. “I never wanted children, but raising you was the best thing that ever could have happened to me. Losing you would thereby be the worst thing to ever happen to me. I only shouted at you because your safety means everything. But— you’re strong, Ellie, and so very brave. If you put your mind to it, you can make it out of that arena. I believe in you. All you have to do is believe in yourself.”

Ellie is certain that’s the most Marlene has ever spoken in one go without shouting or giving up halfway through. And for that, she’s grateful. Ellie swallows harshly, her throat suddenly feeling too big for her neck. She leans forward.

She doesn’t hug Marlene, not necessarily. She simply flops into her, thumping her forehead onto her shoulder. Her body is stiff and her jaw is clenched tight, but the act of the touch still carries a sense of sentimentality to it. Especially considering she and Marlene never hug. In fact, she thinks she only ever hugged her once in her whole life. Again, it’s not anything to pity her for, it’s just their relationship. A fact of life. Some people are touchy, others aren't. And Marlene is definitely among those who are not.

She rubs a hand up and down Ellie’s back, though it’s more so to do something with her hands rather than to comfort her. 

They remain like that for a long time, sitting in silence because neither of them are skilled at voicing their emotions. Ellie’s mind continues to move at a million thoughts per second, though it slows a little in the absence of Marlene’s shouting.

Roughly twenty minutes go by before Marlene pulls away. She has a hand on each of Ellie’s shoulders, a foot between their faces. She stares at her, brown eyes flicking across each one of her features, as though to memorize her before departure. Ellie mimics her, taking in the sight of the woman who raised her — from the slope of her nose to the arc of her brows. Afterall, this might be her last time to do so. No matter how hard she believes in herself.

“I ought to go visit Riley.” Marlene says with an awkward cough, standing from the couch. “She doesn’t have any family aside from you and I.”

It’s true. Riley’s family is rather complicated seeing as she doesn’t have any. It took seven years of being Riley’s friend before she confided in Ellie about her past. And, after hearing it, she couldn’t blame her for her hesitance. 

Her father was a rebel. He hated the Capitol and everything related to it. He wasn’t married to Riley’s mother when she got pregnant, hadn’t even been dating. They simply had a fling and moved on — hence his oblivion to the fact that she’d been a Peacekeeper. Riley’s dad lived a life of tranquil solitude, aside from frequent whippings as punishment for opposing the Capitol so vocally. Truly, he’d been lucky to not be assassinated on the spot for his insubordination. The entirety of Seven knew him for his rebellious nature.

So, when Riley’s mother came forth with an infant in her arms, he was shocked. He couldn’t believe that she’d gotten pregnant. Though, more importantly, he couldn’t believe she was a fucking Peacekeeper. He tried to keep his calm, civilly agreeing to partial custody over their daughter. 

But, when Riley was about four years old, their refined consensus came to an abrupt end. They got into an argument. And a bad one, at that. Nobody knows the exact details to its origin or entailments, but it’s widely known how it ended — Riley’s mother dead and her father as an Avox for the Capitol. His punishment for her murder.

Riley subsequently grew up in an orphanage, though she inherited her father’s rebellious nature and oftentimes escaped over the fence. She’d spent more time in the woods than she had in the decelit building — chopping wood and climbing trees and visiting the Hob. She’d grown rather skilled at it, the illegality of escaping. She met Ellie in elementary. She’d been scaling the fence, intending to flee the school. Ellie had caught her and insisted she teach her how to do it. Begrudgingly, Riley agreed. From there, with many details gone unmentioned, they became friends. Now look at them Reaped for the Hunger Games together. Ugly ending to a beautiful story.

“Yeah.” Ellie agrees curtly to Marlene’s suggestion. “Yeah, she’d appreciate that, I think.”

Marlene nods in agreement prior to turning on her heel and exiting the room.

Ellie sits alone for a few minutes, returning to her humiliating fetal position. She hugs her legs to her chest, dirty shoes on the cushion of the couch. Though the sofa isn’t in the best shape considering the prodding springs and frayed stuffing. She rests her chin on her knee, staring at the rusty nail she’s grown so fond of.

She’s not sure how long she sits like that before a knock is heard at the door. She groggily tells them to enter, causing the door to creak on its hinges. A face pokes inside prior to the body attached. Cat.

Her black hair is done up, pinned into a purposefully messy bun, bangs cut shorter than usual. It looks put together, but in that I-woke-up-like-this way. Her eyelids are colored in a shiny crimson, her lips in the same glossy tint. Her skin looks inhumanly smooth, her eyebrows impossibly thin. She’s wearing a strapless baby pink dress that’s uncomfortably close to the shade of her skin, coming to her midthigh. Her shoes are the same red as her eyes and lips, clicking against the wooden floor as she walks. She looks like a Capitolite in the way her features are accentuated, though human enough for Ellie to still find her attractive

She instantly straightens, confused. “Why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be on a train to the Capitol?”

“Well,” Cat begins, shutting the door softly behind her as she walks over to the couch Ellie is curled atop. She sits down beside her, the cushion dipping under her weight, which instinctively pulls Ellie toward her. “I caused a bit of a scene, insisting I had to see you. And, considering it’s a hassle to find another stylist so late into the Games, I simply dared them to fire me. They didn’t, of course, and instead opted to just give me time to see you, albeit minimal.”

Ellie laughs, though the sound is hollow. This draws a tight expression from Cat as she takes in the sight of the girl before her. Ellie suddenly feels self conscious, wearing a wrinkled linen shirt while Cat looks like a literal fucking deity. Not to mention the pathetic way she’s presenting herself — small and weak. She sits upright, swallowing as she runs her hands down her shirt in a futile attempt at flattening it.

Cat stops her, placing a hand on her wrist. Ellie looks at the place where she touches her, taking in the sight of her perfectly done nails. Baby pink with crimson colored accents. God, every single detail of her is altered for the Capitol’s preference.

“I got you something.” Cat whispers, removing her hand from her wrist to reach into the purse Ellie hadn’t even noticed she carried with her. She holds out her hand, a small piece of metal resting in the center of her palm. A ring, in the shape of a moth. The body is the centerpiece, the wings made to wrap around the finger. “Here,” Cat grabs Ellie’s hand, pulling it forward before slipping the ring onto her index. 

“I love it,” Ellie breathes, holding her hand out in front of her to admire the ring.

“I made it myself.” Cat says. Ellie should have guessed. She knew Cat enjoyed making jewelry, using spoons and other random hunks of metal to concoct something ugly into something pretty. She’s spoken of the hobby before, though she’s never revealed any of the end products. This is Ellie’s first time seeing one of them.

She suddenly recalls the rule that tributes are permitted to bring one token into the arena from home. One thing to remind them of their identities — which are sure to be lost in the Games. Ellie had completely forgotten about the rule, it never having crossed her mind. But looking at this ring now, she’s certain this is the perfect thing to bring. A reminder of home. Not of a place, but of a person. Of Cat.

“I love it.” Ellie repeats more furtively, turning to kiss her.

However, before their mouths are able to touch, Cat lifts her hand to Ellie’s chest. She pushes her away. And, though the act is as gentle as possible, Ellie still feels as though she’d been shoved. She leans back. Cat’s expression is pained, not at all matching the cheerful makeup she wears.

She shakes her head, eyes squeezed shut. “I love you, Ellie. Truly. A part of me likely forever will. But– to be in love with you would only end in causing us both an insurmountable quantity of pain. I can’t consciously do that to you. Even our current relationship is deteriorating your mental health. You’re too dependent on what we have, too afraid to lose it. To allow you to continue down this road would be wrong of me. To even have begun it was wrong. And now that you’re going into the arena, I just– adding yet another burden to your shoulder would be wholly immoral.”

Ellie doesn’t know when, but amid that confession, she’d begun crying. Not just due to the breakup, though, if she could even consider it that. But due to everything. Riley distancing herself recently, the Reaping, Marlene’s shouting, Marlene’s halfhearted farewell, and now this? On top of it all?

“So you’re breaking up with me to ease your own fucking conscience?” Ellie snaps. She doesn't mean to say it. She doesn’t. It’s just all become so much for her to carry. And it’s so easy to drop it on Cat after what she’d just done.

“No.” She insists, nigh pleading in her denial. “Ellie, no, you know that’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then why even give me this?” She asks, holding out her hand with the ring on it. “For me to bring a reminder of your absence into the arena?”

“No, no.” Cat continues to deny Ellie’s accusations. “Not to remind you that I left, but to remind you why I left.”

Ellie scoffs, “Now you’re just saying shit. You’re not even trying to make sense.”

“Moths, Ellie.” She says, grabbing her hand in desperation for her to just fucking listen. “They’re attracted to the light. No matter where they go or– or what environment they’re placed in, they find a light. Something to always keep them going. Something to fight for. Something to reach. I’m holding you back, don’t you see? I don’t want you to fight to get home. I want you to fight because you know you’re worth it. You’re worth living for, even without me or Riley or Marlene. For you. Be your own moth, your own light.”

Ellie wipes roughly at her face, fists scrubbing at her eyes painfully. She wishes she had something clever to say. Something smart that would make Cat rethink everything. But all she can muster is a mumbled, “Moths are fucking ugly.”

14:45.

DISTRICT FOUR.

Your ears are ringing, a loud chiming sound that makes your head swim. Despite this, you keep your chin high as your mother shouts orders at you. You’ve long since tuned her out, which is something you’d never had dared to do prior to the Reaping. But you’re being sent to the arena — you’ll either die in there and never see her again, or you’ll come back a victor and thereby be of higher status than her. Whatever you do now matters naught.

She’s rambling on about something regarding orders to return home. Not because she cares for your wellbeing, but because it’d shame the entire family if you were to die on live television. 

She’s standing across the room from you, her pale blue dress somehow perfectly cleaned despite the journey she made across the grassy courtyard to the Justice Building. Her wrinkled face is contorted into an unreadable expression, the illegibility irritating you. Her golden cane is perched under her clasped hands. God, the woman is the embodiment of power despite having earned none. 

“I get it.” You cut her off, tone just as sharpened as hers, almost as though you’d spent years honing it into a blade serrated enough to challenge her. “I’ll come back. If not, you’ll be embarrassed. Poor you, right?”

The expression of shock on her face is almost worth the punishment — which ends up being hit by the end of her cane. Had it been the usual wood, the pain would be tolerable. But it’s pure gold, causing your mouth to fill with blood. You spit onto the floor and she begins to reprimand you for doing that, deeming it to be improper. You ignore her, massaging your newly bruised face.

The punishment for your statement would likely have been far more severe if you weren’t destined to be put on camera for the country to gawk at. A wound on your face would be shameful. A bruise, though? Your prep team can surely cover that up with a bit of makeup.

She finishes her castigation, seeming to have worn herself out. She then turns and storms out of the room. You almost didn’t notice her swift exit, as she’d made no effort to say goodbye or wish you luck. Just ten minutes of shouting prior to causing a splitting headache and a bruise to the jaw, uncaring to hear you utter a single syllable. Best mom ever.

See, most people deem this event as emotional — an hour allotted to parting ways with your loved ones. But your mother doesn't see this as a parting. She expects to irrefutably see you again. And very shortly, at that.

You’re alone in the room for only a few seconds before a shy knock is heard at the door. You’re confused by this, unsure of who else could be here to see you. “Come in.” You call out, moving to stand over the stain of blood you’d left on the shiny hardwood floor. Thankfully, your dress is long enough that the skirts cover up the space beneath you.

The door opens and a wrinkly old man pops inside. Your lips part at the sight of mister Alden entering the room. You rush forward, offering your aid in his walking. He takes it, looping his arm around the crease of yours.

There’s a small couch with two cushions in the corner of the room. You walk him over to it, easing him onto the sofa before sitting next to him. You cross your legs, “What are you doing here? I know it’s a far journey from where you live.”

He sighs, “You’re like a daughter to me, Y/n. And, though neither of us are willing to address that aloud, we’re both well aware of it. I’ve known you since you were three years old and just learning how to walk. In fact, I can vividly recall the very day I’d met you — you were asleep on your brother’s back, clinging to him like a sloth as he made the trek down to the docks. You were such a small thing, then. Chubby little face and a diaper that didn’t fit.” He smiles fondly, looking at you as though he still views you that way, a baby. “The point is, to not visit you would be cruel. And I’m not a cruel man.”

Your eyes burn as you listen to him. He’s right. You both know it. You and Ruben are like children to him. And he is definitely not a cruel man. You wonder if he’d visited Ruben when he was Reaped. Probably. But you don’t dare ask, not wanting to speak of your brother any more than necessary.

“Oh!” He jolts as though he’d just remembered something vitally important. 

You watch as mister Alden reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a dainty necklace. A white pearl resides in the center, acting as a pendant to the thin silver chain. Your gaze softens as you look at it hanging between his shaky fingers.

“It’s beautiful.” You tell him.

“I want you to have it, to take it into the arena.” He says. “You remember my granddaughter, the one who was facing her first Reaping today? She made it for herself, and planned to wear it into the arena had her name been drawn. She spent weeks searching for the perfect pearl, then another few weeks saving up money to buy the chain.”

Your chest twists at hearing this. You could easily buy something like this from a small shop down by the beaches. It wouldn’t even cost you a day’s allowance. You shake your head. “I can’t take this from her. It’s too special.”

“I insist.” Says he. “When she heard your name called, she instantly turned to me, slipped the necklace into my pocket, and demanded that I bring it to you.” He lets out a light chuckle. “Her ferocity reminds me of you, actually. I don’t even remember telling her about my visits to your house. No shock she found out, though, she’s so bright for her age.”

With a grunt, he pushes to his feet. You rush to do the same, standing beside him in case he needs assistance. Instead of asking for aid, he tells you to turn around. Without hesitation, you oblige. You then feel something cold wrap around your neck. You look down to see the thin necklace now placed across your collarbones. It’s absolutely stunning. Mister Alden fumbles with the clasp, his shaky hands struggling to work the tiny thing.

When he finally gets it on, you turn around to see that he has tears in his eyes. He takes in the sight of the pearl necklace paired with the navy dress, the silver chain matching the silver diamonds adorning it. He nods, wiping roughly at his eyes. “You’ve grown into such a lovely young woman.”

You swallow the lump in your throat before pulling him into a hug, having to hunch over a bit due to his lack of height. He hugs you back, sniffling. It’s rather telling that the random stranger that you buy your seafood from is more caring than anyone in your family. But he’s not a stranger, is he?

After a few minutes of sentimental embrace, he finally parts from you and leaves. On the way out, you catch a glimpse of a tear rolling down his cheek, the droplet catching the light for a split second.

Alone in the room with about ten minutes remaining, you walk over to the window. You look at your reflection in the shined glass, taking in the sight of the necklace. Knowing how long it’d taken to create only adds to its beauty. The dresses your mother has fitted for you are paltry; replaceable. But this? Nobody could recreate the months spent making it, nor could they recreate the small hands that did so.

The sound of footsteps entering the room draws you from your thoughts. You catch his reflection in the window before he’s even fully through the door. Your entire body tenses, something shifting in the air at his presence. Something deep, deep inside you. Like the atoms that make up your very being have been furtively yearning for this moment. For his proximity.

You turn to face him fully.

Ruben.

You’ve seen him around, of course. You’d seen him less than an hour ago. Everyone has seen him, what with the Capitol flashing him around nigh as much as the country’s flag. He’s their brightest diamond and their largest star — the abnormal mixture of UY Scuti with Sirius, creating something impossible to tear one's eyes away from.

You two have spoken as well, albeit in short increments and only when mandatory. So, truly, you’re not sure if it counts in terms of conversation.

He shuts the door slowly, facing you with an unreadable expression. No– that can’t be right. You could always read him, you could always understand him. But right now, not a single word comes to mind as you look at him. He’s a closed book that you’d once memorized every page of.

He stares at you for a moment, gaze lingering on the bruise forming on your cheek. You wonder if you should hide it or not. But he likely knows exactly how it was induced — knowing the feel of your mother’s cane all too well, as he’d grown up taking hits for you daily. It takes a few minutes, but he eventually tears his eyes from your face and looks around the room, looking at the intricate ceiling or the swaying chandelier.

“Been a while, huh?” He huffs a laugh, though it’s dry and lacking any scrap of genuine humor.

You think about this, about what he said. It’s been a while. The world’s biggest understatement, that is. You’re suddenly filled with an immeasurable amount of rage. It’s been eleven fucking years. And he has the nerve to say it’s been a while?

Eleven years since he was Reaped. Eleven years since he was the one in this room. Eleven years since you came to visit him, sobbing and begging him not to go to the arena. Eleven years since Ruben returned from the arena. Eleven years since your brother never returned. Eleven years since the boy who raised you, who protected you, who taught you to walk and talk and eat, vanished.

You say nothing to him, not trusting yourself to speak without either screaming or crying. Or, most likely, both. So, insead, you remain silent.

Ruben sighs, leaning back against the wall with crossed arms. Something about that action makes you visibly wince. He’s so confident. The Ruben you knew was an awkward young boy, made complete with lanky limbs and oversized eyes. Strange little habits — like the way he didn’t ever know what to do with his arms, or the way he always tapped his left foot when he was nervous — made him human. But not anymore. He now knows exactly what to do with his arms and he wouldn’t dare show when he’s nervous. His humanity is just another thing the Capitol stripped him of.

“You don’t have to say anything, just listen.” Says Ruben. He then inhales deeply, his jaw set and eyes piercing; a Capitolite in all but name. “This is the last time we won’t be monitored. After leaving this room, everything will be tracked and recorded and analyzed — the train, the center, the arena. From here, you’re never alone. Even in the bathrooms, privacy doesn’t exist.”

You narrow your eyes at him, “So you’re saying you need to tell me something the Capitol can’t hear?”

“Yeah,” He breathes, “Exactly.”

“Okay, so what is?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest. Of course that’s what he’s here for. Not to wish you well or say goodbye — though he likely also expects you to win; he was raised by the same monsters, after all — but, instead, to warn you. To make sure you survive the arena so as to not penetrate the family name.  

“Something is wrong with this year’s Reapings.” He explains. “Districts Two and Three both had a pair of siblings Reaped – Lev and Yara from Two, Sam and Henry from Three. Then, if that weren’t enough proof as is, Districts Five and Seven both Reaped a set of best friends — Selene Jones and Ariande Evans from Five, Riley Abel and Ellie Williams from Seven. Not to mention the pair of lovers that were Reaped from Six — Roland Jennings and Archie Bardot.”

You take in what Ruben is saying, thinking hard about it. You were Reaped alongside a small child, a little boy who you’d never seen before in your life. That doesn't seem rigged, but there ought to be some kind of intentional malice behind it.

“How do you know all of this?” You ask, though you know the answer. “The Reapings haven’t aired yet.”

“I know people.” He says rather ashamedly, as though he’s already aware of the kind of reaction this will draw from you. 

Anger sparks up once more at the mention of his ties to the Capitol. Not only is he using the Capitol to help you in the games — a perk no other tribute has — but he’s managed to fucking memorize every name name of importance. You don’t want to be treated as some sort of celebrity. You were Reaped with equally poor luck as Lev, Henry, or Ellie; or whatever their names were. You should therefore be held to the same expectations, not given hints into the Games. Which, by the way, is highly illegal. Not like Ruben would be punished. He could probably murder a Peacekeeper on stage and manage to get away with it. 

It makes you sick.

“Okay, great.” You bite. “You told me what you needed, you can leave now.” “No, Y/n, you’re not understanding.” He insists, taking a step forward. You take one backward, almost on instinct. A pained expression crosses his face, though it vanishes just as quick as it’d appeared. He sighs, running a hand down his face. “These tributes won’t be killing for the sake of winning, they’ll be killing to save themselves alongside their loved ones. Had you and I been in the arena together, our strength would have doubled. Just imagine that. For at least five other Districts, their wills to live are multiplied. And the—”

His words are cut off as the door slams open and Peacekeepers come filing into the room to rudely announce that your time is up. It’s time to board the train to the Capitol. To the Games.

[post] notes!! don't really have any (for once), i'm just so so so so excited for u guys to read this bc i write things way prior to posting bc i like to proofread like 50 time before releasing it. anyway yeah, u guys barely know abt this bad boy while im typing this

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⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 series taglist @kirammanss.  @dsybouquet.   @serraphinm.   @smellovie.   @sakiigami.   @opt1mistic.   @spacecinnamonbuns.   @clouded-whispers.    @sappicarribean.   @corpsebridenightmare.     @jaliyah-s.    @pixiec4t.    @chappellroankisser.   @mxquelo.    @vahnilla.

[bauliya]

it’s funny how a trans woman acting even slightly horny on this site is chased off for being a groomer posthaste but the actual groomer and rapist targeting primarily young vulnerable female fans has a dedicated fandom. very cool of you.

(full article below the cut. photos removed)

SCARLETT PAVLOVICH WAS A 22-year-old drama student when she met the performer Amanda Palmer by chance on the streets of Auckland. It was a gray, drizzly afternoon in June 2020, and Palmer, then 44, was walking down the street with the actress Lucy Lawless, one of the most famous people in New Zealand owing to her six-season stint portraying Xena the warrior princess. But Pavlovich noticed only Palmer. She’d watched her TED Talk, “The Art of Asking,” and was fascinated by the cult-famous feminist writer and musician—by her unabashed self-assurance.

On the surface, Pavlovich appeared to be self-assured as well. A local girl, she had dropped out of high school at 15 to travel to Europe, Morocco, and the Middle East on the cheap, pausing in Scotland—where Tilda Swinton gave her a scholarship to attend her Steiner school, Drumduan—and London to work in the cabaret scene. Eventually, her visa expired and she ran out of money and so, in 2019, she returned to Auckland, where she enrolled in an acting school and took a job at a perfumery. Pale and dark-haired and waifish, she favored bold colors and outrageous outfits. On the day she met Palmer—on most days then—she’d painted a triangle of translucent silver beneath her lower lashes so it looked as though she’d been crying tears of glitter. It was Pavlovich who approached Palmer on the sidewalk outside the perfumery. She was surprised when Palmer texted her a few days later. “It’s amanda d palmer,” she wrote. “Your new friend.”

Palmer, an obsessive chronicler of her own life in songs, poems, blog posts, and a memoir, got her start as half of the punk cabaret band the Dresden Dolls, but she is perhaps more famous for her ability to attract a tight-knit and devoted following wherever she goes. In 2012, she became the first musician to raise more than $1 million on Kickstarter and later became one of Patreon’s most successful artists. As Palmer explained in her book The Art of Asking— part memoir, part manifesto on the virtues of asking for assistance of various kinds—she had built her entire career on “messy exchanges of goodwill and the swapping of favors.” Out of this mess, she argues, a utopian sort of community formed: “There was no distinction between fans and friends.”

Over the following year and a half, Palmer and Pavlovich occasionally met for a drink or a meal. Palmer offered Pavlovich tickets to her shows and invited her to parties for the Patreon community at her house on nearby Waiheke Island, a lush bohemian retreat with vineyards, golden beaches, and more than 60 helipads to accommodate the billionaires who vacationed there. Sometimes Palmer asked Pavlovich for favors—help running errands or organizing files or looking after her child. Pavlovich was happy to assist. She had a crush on Palmer. She didn’t mind that Palmer only occasionally discussed paying her, even though Pavlovich was always strapped for cash. For Pavlovich, who was estranged from her family and without a safety net, Palmer filled a deeper need. In November 2020, Palmer invited her to hang out at her place for a weekend with a group of local artists. At the gathering, Palmer asked Pavlovich to babysit while she got a massage. Early the next morning, Pavlovich wrote a diary entry about the easy intimacy she’d felt in Palmer’s sun-drenched home, where she’d read to Palmer’s son, who was 5 at the time, their limbs entwined. “The years absent of touch build up like a gray inheritance,” she wrote. “I’m hungry. I am so fucking famished.”

On February 1, 2022, Palmer texted Pavlovich and asked if she wanted to spend the weekend babysitting, which would mean bouncing back and forth between her house and her husband’s. Pavlovich had never met Palmer’s husband, from whom she was separated, though of course she knew who he was: Neil Gaiman, the acclaimed British fantasist and author of nearly 50 books, including American Gods and Coraline, and the comic-book series The Sandman, whose work has sold more than 50 million copies worldwide. Gaiman and Palmer had arrived in New Zealand in March 2020, but just weeks later, their nine-year marriage collapsed and Gaiman skipped town, breaking COVID protocols to fly to his home on the Isle of Skye. Now, he’d returned and was living in a house near Palmer’s on Waiheke. Their previous nanny had recently left, and they needed help. Pavlovich agreed and was pleased when Palmer offered to pay her for the weekend’s work.

Around four in the afternoon on February 4, Pavlovich took the ferry from Auckland to Waiheke, then sat on a bus and walked through the woods until she arrived at Gaiman’s house, an asymmetrical A-frame of dark burnished wood with picture windows overlooking the sea. Palmer had arranged a playdate for the child, so not long after Pavlovich arrived, she found herself alone in the house with the author. For a little while, Gaiman worked in his office while she read on the couch. Then he emerged and offered her a tour of the grounds. A striking figure at 61, his wild black curls threaded with strands of silver, the author picked a fig—her favorite fruit—and handed it to her. Around 8 p.m., they sat down for pizza. Gaiman poured Pavlovich a glass of rosé and then another. He drank only water. They made awkward conversation about New Zealand, about COVID. Pavlovich had never read any of his work, but she was anxious to make a good impression. After she’d cleaned up their plates, Gaiman noted that there was still time before they would have to pick up his son from the playdate. “‘I’ve had a thought,’” she recalls him saying. “ ‘Why don’t you have a bath in the beautiful claw bathtub in the garden? It’s absolutely enchanting.’” Pavlovich told Gaiman that she was fine as she was but ultimately agreed. He needed to make a work call, he said, and didn’t want Pavlovich to be bored.

Gaiman led Pavlovich down a stone path into the garden to an old-fashioned tub with a roll top and walked away. She got undressed and sank into the bath, looking up at the furry magenta blossoms of the pohutukawa tree overhead. A few minutes later, she was surprised to hear Gaiman’s footsteps on the stones in the dark. She tried to cover her breasts with her arms. When he arrived at the bath, she saw that he was naked. Gaiman put out a couple of citronella candles, lit them, and got into the bath. He stretched out, facing her, and, for a few minutes, made small talk. He bitched about Palmer’s schedule. He talked about his kid’s school. Then he told her to stretch her legs out and “get comfortable.”

“I said ‘no.’ I said, ‘I’m not confident with my body,’” Pavlovich recalls. “He said, ‘It’s okay—it’s only me. Just relax. Just have a chat.’” She didn’t move. He looked at her again and said, “Don’t ruin the moment.” She did as instructed, and he began to stroke her feet. At that point, she recalls, she felt “a subtle terror.”

Gaiman asked her to sit on his lap. Pavlovich stammered out a few sentences: She was gay, she’d never had sex, she had been sexually abused by a 45-year-old man when she was 15. Gaiman continued to press. “The next part is really amorphous,” Pavlovich tells me. “But I can tell you that he put his fingers straight into my ass and tried to put his penis in my ass. And I said, ‘No, no.’ Then he tried to rub his penis between my breasts, and I said ‘no’ as well. Then he asked if he could come on my face, and I said ‘no’ but he did anyway. He said, ‘Call me ‘master,’ and I’ll come.’ He said, ‘Be a good girl. You’re a good little girl.’ ”

Afterward, Pavlovich crouched down in the water and tried to clean herself off. Gaiman looked at her and smiled. “‘Amanda told me I couldn’t have you,’ ” Pavlovich recalls him saying. As soon as he’d heard this, he “knew he had to have” her. “‘God,’ ” he continued, “ ‘I wish it were the good old days where we could both fuck you.’ ”

IN THE SANDMAN, the DC comic-book series that ran from 1989 to 1996 and made Gaiman famous, he tells a story about a writer named Richard Madoc. After Madoc’s first book proves a success, he sits down to write his second and finds that he can’t come up with a single decent idea. This difficulty recedes after he accepts an unusual gift from an older author: a naked woman, of a kind, who has been kept locked in a room in his house for 60 years. She is Calliope, the youngest of the Nine Muses. Madoc rapes her, again and again, and his career blossoms in the most extraordinary way. A stylish young beauty tells him how much she loved his characterization of a strong female character, prompting him to remark, “Actually, I do tend to regard myself as a feminist writer.” His downfall comes only when the titular hero, the Sandman, also known as the Prince of Stories, frees Calliope from bondage. A being of boundless charisma and creativity, the Sandman rules the Dreaming, the realm we visit in our sleep, where “stories are spun.” Older and more powerful than the most powerful gods, he can reward us with exquisite delights or punish us with unending nightmares, depending on what he feels we deserve. To punish the rapist, the Sandman floods Madoc’s mind with such a wild torrent of ideas that he’s powerless to write them down, let alone profit from them.

“THAT SAME VOICE THAT TOLD ME THOSE BEAUTIFUL STORIES when I was a kid was telling me the story that I was safe, and that we were friends, and that he wasn’t a threat.”

As allegations of Gaiman’s sexual misconduct emerged this past summer, some observers noticed Gaiman and Madoc have certain things in common. Like Madoc, Gaiman has called himself a feminist. Like Madoc, Gaiman has racked up major awards (for Gaiman, awards in science fiction and fantasy as well as dozens of prizes for contemporary novels, short stories, poetry, television, and film, helping make him, according to several sources, a multimillionaire). And like Madoc, Gaiman has come to be seen as a figure who transcended, and transformed, the genres in which he wrote: first comics, then fantasy and children’s literature. But for most of his career, readers identified him not with the rapist, who shows up in a single issue, but with the Sandman, the inexhaustible fountain of story.

One of Gaiman’s greatest gifts as a storyteller was his voice, a warm and gentle instrument that he’d tuned through elocution lessons as a boy in East Grinstead, 30 miles south of London. In America, people mistakenly assumed he was an English gentleman. “He spoke very slowly, in a hypnotic way,” says one of his former students at the fantasy-writing workshop Clarion. He wrote that way, too, with rhythm and restraint, lulling you into a trance in the way that a bard might have done with a lyre. Another gift was his memory. He has “libraries full of books memorized,” one of his old friends tells me, noting that he could recall the page numbers of his favorite passages and recite them verbatim. His vast collection was eclectic enough to encompass both a box of comics (Spider-Man, Silver Surfer) from his boyhood and the works of Oscar Wilde he received as a gift for his bar mitzvah. For The Sandman, a forgotten DC property he had been hired to dust off and polish up, Gaiman gave the hero a makeover, replacing his green suit, fedora, and gas mask with the leather armor of an angsty goth, and surrounded him with characters drawn from the books he could pull off the shelves in his head, from timeless icons like Shakespeare and Lucifer to the obscure San Francisco eccentric Joshua Abraham Norton. Norman Mailer called it “a comic strip for intellectuals.”

Gaiman and the Sandman shared a penchant for dressing in black, a shock of unruly black hair, and an erotic power seldom possessed by authors of comic books and fantasy novels. A descendant of Polish Jewish immigrants, Gaiman had gotten his start in the ’80s as a journalist for hire in London covering Duran Duran, Lou Reed, and other brooding lords of rock, and in the world of comic conventions, he was the closest thing there was to that archetype. Women would turn up to his signings dressed in the elaborate Victorian-goth attire of his characters and beg him to sign their breasts or slip him key cards to their hotel rooms. One writer recounts running into Gaiman at a World Fantasy Convention in 2011. His assistant wasn’t around, and he was late to a reading. “I can’t get to it if I walk by myself,” he told her. As they made their way through the convention side by side, “the whole floor full of people tilted and slid toward him,” she says. “They wanted to be entwined with him in ways I was not prepared to defend him against.” A woman fell to her knees and wept.

People who flock to fantasy conventions and signings make up an “inherently vulnerable community,” one of Gaiman’s former friends, a fantasy writer, tells me. They “wrap themselves around a beloved text so it becomes their self-identity,” she says. They want to share their souls with the creators of these works. “And if you have morality around it, you say ‘no.’ ” It was an open secret in the late ’90s and early aughts among conventiongoers that Gaiman cheated on his first wife, Mary McGrath, a private midwestern Scientologist he’d married in his early 20s. But in my conversations with Gaiman’s old friends, collaborators, and peers, nearly all of them told me that they never imagined that Gaiman’s affairs could have been anything but enthusiastically consensual. As one prominent editor in the field puts it, “The one thing I hear again and again, largely from women, is ‘He was always nice to me. He was always a gentleman.’ ” The writer Kelly Link, who met Gaiman at a reading in 1997, recalls finding him charmingly goofy. “He was hapless in a way that was kind of exasperating,” she says, “but also made him seem very harmless.” Someone who had a sexual relationship with Gaiman in the aughts recalls him flipping through questions fans wrote on cards at a Q&A session. Once, a fan asked if she could be his “sex slave”: “He read it aloud and said, ‘Well, no.’ He’d be very demure.”

But there were some who saw another side of the author. One woman, Brenda (a pseudonym), met Gaiman in the ’90s at a signing for The Sandman where she was working. On signing lines, Gaiman had a knack for connecting with each individual. He would ask questions, laugh, and assure them that their inability to form sentences was fine. After the Sandman signing, at a dinner attended by those who had worked the event, Gaiman sat next to Brenda. “Everyone wanted to be near him, but he was laser focused on me,” she says. A few years later, Brenda traveled to Chicago to attend the World Horror Convention, where Gaiman received the top prize for American Gods, the book that cemented him as a best-selling novelist. The night after the awards ceremony, she and Gaiman ended up in bed together. As soon as they began to hook up, the feeling that had drawn her to him—the magical spell of his interest in her individuality—vanished. “He seemed to have a script,” she tells me. “He wanted me to call him ‘master’ immediately.” He demanded that she promise him her soul. “It was like he’d gone into this ritual that had nothing to do with me.”

THIS PAST JULY, a British podcast produced by Tortoise Media broke the news that two women had accused Gaiman of sexual assault. Since then, more women have shared allegations of assault, coercion, and abuse. The podcast, Master, reported by Paul Caruana Galizia and Rachel Johnson, tells the stories of five of them. (Gaiman’s perspective on these relationships, including with Pavlovich, is that they were entirely consensual.) I spoke with four of those women along with four others whose stories share elements with theirs. I also reviewed contemporaneous diary entries, texts and emails with friends, messages between Gaiman and the women, and police correspondence. Most of the women were in their 20s when they met Gaiman. The youngest was 18. Two of them worked for him. Five were his fans. With one exception, an allegation of forcible kissing from 1986, when Gaiman was in his mid-20s, the stories take place when Gaiman was in his 40s or older, a period in which he lived among the U.S., the U.K., and New Zealand. By then, he had a reputation as an outspoken champion of women. “Gaiman insists on telling the stories of people who are traditionally marginalized, missing, or silenced in literature,” wrote Tara Prescott-Johnson in the essay collection Feminism in the Worlds of Neil Gaiman. Although his books abounded with stories of men torturing, raping, and murdering women, this was largely perceived as evidence of his empathy.

Katherine Kendall was 22 when she met Gaiman in 2012. She was volunteering at one of his events in Asheville, North Carolina. He invited her to join him a few days later at an after-party for another event, where he kissed her. The two struck up a flirtatious correspondence, emailing and Skyping in the middle of the night. Kendall didn’t want to have sex with Gaiman, and on one of their calls, she told him this. Afterward, she recorded his reply in her diary: “He had no designs on me beyond flirty friendship and I believe him thoroughly.” She’d grown up listening to his audiobooks, she later told Papillon DeBoer, the host of the podcast Am I Broken: “And then that same voice that told me those beautiful stories when I was a kid was telling me the story that I was safe, and that we were just friends, and that he wasn’t a threat.”

At a reading ten months later, Gaiman suggested that Kendall and two other girls wait for him on his tour bus so they could all hang out after he was done signing. When Gaiman showed up, he pulled Kendall into the back of the bus and lay on top of her. He kept saying, “Kiss me like you mean it,” Kendall remembers. She tried to get into it, but she was panicked. Eventually, Gaiman rolled off her. “‘I’m a very wealthy man,’” she remembers him saying, “ ‘and I’m used to getting what I want.’ ” (Years later, Gaiman gave Kendall $60,000 to pay for therapy in an attempt, as he put it in a recorded phone call, “to make up some of the damage.”)

Gaiman had been having sexual encounters with younger fans for a long time. Kendra Stout was 18 when, in 2003, she drove four and a half hours to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, to see Gaiman read from Endless Nights, a follow-up to The Sandman. She met him in the signing line. Gaiman sent her long emails and bought her a web camera so they could chat on video. Around three years after they met, he flew to Orlando to take her on a date. He invited her back to his hotel room, put on a playlist of love songs, and held her down with one hand. Gaiman didn’t believe in foreplay or lubrication, Stout tells me, which could make sex particularly painful. When she said it hurt too much, he’d tell her the problem was she wasn’t submissive enough. “He talked at length about the dominant and submissive relationship he wanted out of me,” she tells me. Stout had no prior interest in BDSM. She says Gaiman never asked what she liked in bed, and there was no discussion of “safe words” or “aftercare” or “limits.” He’d ask her to call him “master” and beat her with his belt. “These were not sexy little taps,” she says. When she told him she didn’t like it, she says he replied, “It’s the only way I can get off.”

Gaiman told Stout he had been introduced to these practices by a woman he’d met in his early 20s who had asked him to “whip her pussy.” At the time, he claimed to Stout, he was such a naïve Englishman that he thought she meant her cat. Then she handed him a flogger and told him to use it on her vagina. “‘This is what gets me off now,’ ” Stout recalls him saying. A similar anecdote shows up in an interview Gaiman gave for a 2022 biography of Kathy Acker, the late experimental punk writer Gaiman befriended in his 20s, but he offers a different account of how it affected him. When Acker asked him to “whip her pussy,” he found it “profoundly unsexual,” he told the interviewer. “I did it and ran away.” He identified himself as “very vanilla.”

In 2007, Gaiman and Stout took a trip to the Cornish countryside. On their last night there, Stout developed a UTI that had gotten so bad she couldn’t sit down. She told Gaiman they could fool around but that any penetration would be too painful to bear. “It was a big hard ‘no,’” she says. “I told him, ‘You cannot put anything in my vagina or I will die.’ ” Gaiman flipped her over on the bed, she says, and attempted to penetrate her with his fingers. She told him “no.” He stopped for a moment and then he penetrated her with his penis. At that point, she tells me, “I just shut down.” She lay on the bed until he was finished. (This past October, she filed a police report alleging he raped her.)

According to the podcast, which quoted Gaiman through his representatives, his position was that “sexual degradation, bondage, domination, sadism, and masochism may not be to everyone’s taste, but between consenting adults, BDSM is lawful.” (Gaiman declined to speak with me despite multiple requests, but through a legal representative, he responded to some claims.) If you know nothing about BDSM, Gaiman’s claim that he was engaging in it with these women may sound plausible, at least in some cases. The kind of domineering violence he inflicted on them is common among people who practice BDSM, and all of the women, at some point, played along, calling him their master, texting him afterward that they needed him, even writing that they loved and missed him. But there is a crucial difference between BDSM and what Gaiman was doing. An acronym for “bondage and discipline, dominance and submission, and sadism and masochism,” BDSM is a culture with a set of longstanding norms, the most important of which is that all parties must eagerly and clearly consent to the overall dynamic as well as to each act before they engage in it. This, as many practitioners, including sex educators like Dossie Easton and Janet W. Hardy who wrote some of the defining texts of the subculture, have stressed over decades, is the defining line that separates BDSM from abuse. And it was a line that Gaiman, according to the women, did not respect. Two of the women, who have never spoken to each other, compared him to an anglerfish, the deep-sea predator that uses a bulb of bioluminescence to lure prey into its jaws. “Instead of a light,” one says, “he would dangle a floppy-haired, soft-spoken British guy.”

AFTER GAIMAN GOT INTO the bathtub with Pavlovich, she retreated to Palmer’s house, which was vacant at the time. She sat in the shower for an hour, crying, then got into Palmer’s bed and began to search the internet for clues that might explain what had happened to her. She Googled “Me Too” and “Neil Gaiman.” Nothing. The only negative stories she found were about how he’d broken COVID lockdown rules in 2020 and had been forced to apologize to the people of the Isle of Skye for endangering their lives.

At the end of the weekend, Palmer texted Pavlovich to say how pleased she was to see Pavlovich and her child get along. “The universe is a karmic mystery,” Palmer wrote. “We nourish each other in the most random and unpredictable ways.” Palmer asked if she could babysit again. She needed so much help. Would Pavlovich consider staying with them for the foreseeable future?

Pavlovich was living in a sublet that was about to end. She was broke and hadn’t been able to find a new apartment. She’d been homeless at the start of the pandemic, when the perfumery closed, and had ended up crashing on the beach in a friend’s sleeping bag on and off for the first two weeks of lockdown. The thought of returning to the beach filled her with dread.

She didn’t consider reaching out to her own family. Her parents had divorced when she was 3, and Pavlovich had grown up splitting time between their households. Violence, Pavlovich tells me, “was normalized in the household.” One close family member beat her with a belt. Another would strangle Pavlovich when she got upset and slap her across the face until her cheeks were raw. She began to regularly cut her arms and wrists with a knife when she was 11. She became bulimic, then anorexic. By 13, Pavlovich had grown so thin that she ended up in a psychiatric unit at Auckland Children’s Hospital and spent weeks on a feeding tube. When she was 15, she left home and never went back.

In the years since, she had been looking for a new family, but many of the people she’d encountered in that search turned out to be abusive as well. “After all of this, Amanda Palmer was an actual creature sent from a celestial realm. It was like, Hallelujah,” Pavlovich tells me. Palmer was famous for speaking out about sexual abuse and encouraging others to do the same. In songs and essays, she had written of having been sexually assaulted and raped on multiple occasions as a teenager and young woman. Pavlovich didn’t think someone like that could be married to someone who would assault women.

Sexual abuse is one of the most confusing forms of violence that a person can experience. The majority of people who have endured it do not immediately recognize it as such; some never do. “You’re not thinking in a linear or logical fashion,” Pavlovich says, “but the mind is trying to process it in the ways that it can.” Whatever had happened in the bath, she’d been through worse and survived, she thought. And Gaiman and Palmer were offering her the possibility of a shared future. Palmer’s vision of herself as the central figure of a utopian community could, according to some of her friends, make her careless with the young, impressionable women she invited into her and her husband’s lives. “Her idealism could blind her to reality,” one friend says. (Palmer declined to be interviewed, but I spoke with people close to her.) Palmer told Pavlovich they might travel to London together, and to Scotland, where Gaiman was shooting the second season of Good Omens. Pavlovich had wanted to leave New Zealand—her “epicenter of trauma”—for as long as she could remember. These conversations filled her head with fantasies “of finally being on solid ground in the world.”

After Palmer’s offer, Pavlovich texted Gaiman: “I am consumed by thoughts of you, the things you will do to me. I’m so hungry. What a terrible creature you’ve turned me into.” The following weekend, she packed up her sublet and boarded the ferry to Waiheke.

THROUGHOUT HIS CAREER, Gaiman has written about terror from the point of view of a child. His most recent novel, The Ocean at the End of the Lane, tells the story of a quiet and bookish 7-year-old boy. Through various unfortunate events, he ends up with a hole in his heart that can never be healed, a doorway through which nightmares from distant realms enter our world. Over the course of the tale, the boy suffers terribly, sometimes at the hands of his own family. At dinner one night, the boy refuses to eat the food his nanny has prepared. The nanny, the boy knows, isn’t really a human but a nightmare creature from another world. When his father demands to know why he won’t eat, the boy explains, “She’s a monster.” His father becomes enraged. To punish him, he fills the tub, then picks up the child, plunges him into the bath, and pushes his shoulders and head beneath the chilly water. “I had read many books in that bath,” the boy says. “It was one of my safe places. And now, I had no doubt, I was going to die there.” Later that night, the boy runs away from home; on his way out, he glimpses his father having sex with the monstrous nanny through the drawing-room window.

In various interviews over the years, Gaiman has called The Ocean at the End of the Lane his most personal book. While much of it is fantastical, Gaiman has said “that kid is me.” The book is set in Sussex, where Gaiman grew up. In the story, the narrator survives otherworldly evil with the help of a family of magical women. As a child, Gaiman had no such friends to call on. “I was going back to the 7-year-old me and giving myself a peculiar kind of love that I didn’t have,” he told an interviewer in 2017. “I never feel the past is dead or young Neil isn’t around anymore. He’s still there, hiding in a library somewhere, looking for a doorway that will lead him to somewhere safe where everything works.”

While Gaiman has identified the boy in the book as himself, he has also claimed that none of the things that happen to the boy happened to him. Yet there is reason to believe that some of the most horrifying events of the novel did occur. Gaiman has rarely spoken about a core fact of his childhood. In 1965, when Neil was 5 years old, his parents, David and Sheila, left their jobs as a business executive and a pharmacist and bought a house in East Grinstead, a mile away from what was at that time the worldwide headquarters for the Church of Scientology. Its founder, the former science-fiction writer L. Ron Hubbard, lived down the road from them from 1965 the church. By the late ’60s, David was the church’s public face and chief spokesperson in the U.K.

It was a challenging job, to say the least. The U.K., following the example of a handful of other governments, had issued a report declaring Scientology’s methods “a serious danger to the health of those who submit to them.” Hubbard would routinely punish members of the organization who committed minor infractions by binding them, blindfolding them, and throwing them overboard into icy waters. Back in England, David gave interviews to the press to smooth over such troubling accounts. The church was under particular pressure to assure the public it was not harming children. In his bulletins to members, Hubbard had made it clear that children were not to be exempt from the punishments to which adults were subjected. If a child laughed inappropriately or failed to remember a Scientology term, they could be sent to the ship’s hold and made to chip Scientology lingo, is what happens when you complete one of the lower levels of coursework.) What was happening away from the cameras is difficult to know, in part because Gaiman has avoided talking about it, changing the subject whenever an interviewer, or a friend, brings it up. But it seems unlikely that he would have been spared the disciplinary measures inflicted on adults and children as a standard practice at that time. According to someone who knew the Gaimans, David and Sheila did apply Scientology’s methods at home. When Neil was around the age of the child in The Ocean at the End of the Lane, the person said, David took him up to the bathtub, ran a cold bath, and “drowned him to the point where Neil was screaming for air.”

As a teenager, Neil worked for the Church of Scientology for three years as an auditor, a minister of the church who conducts a process some have likened to hypnosis. One former member of the church who worked with Gaiman’s parents and was audited until 1967, when he fled the country and began directing the church from international waters, pursued by the CIA, FBI, and a handful of foreign governments and maritime agencies.

David and Sheila were among England’s earliest adherents to Scientology. They began studying Dianetics in 1956 and eventually took positions in the Guardian’s Office, a special department of the organization dedicated to handling the church’s growing number of legal cases, public communications, and intelligence operations. The mission of this office, as Hubbard wrote, was its “covert use in destroying the repute of individuals and groups.” On the side, the Gaimans ran the church’s canteen, lodged foreign Scientologists in their home, and opened a vitamin company in town, where they supplied courses of supplements for Scientology’s “detoxification” programs, a business that grew exponentially alongside the expansion of rust for days or confined in a chain locker for weeks at a time without blankets or a bathroom. In his book Going Clear, Lawrence Wright recounts the story of a 4-year-old boy named Derek Greene, an adopted Black child who stole a Rolex and dropped it overboard. He was confined to the locker for two days and nights. When his mother pleaded with Hubbard to let him out, he “reminded her of the Scientology axiom that children are actually adults in small bodies, and equally responsible for their behavior.” (A representative for the Church of Scientology said it does not speak about members past or present but denies that this event occurred.)

David used Neil as an exhibit in his case to the public. In 1968, he arranged for Neil to give an interview to the BBC. When the reporter asked the child if Scientology made him “a better boy,” Neil replied, “Not exactly that, but when you make a release, you feel absolutely great.” (A release, in by Gaiman recalls him as precocious and ambitious. It was unusual for a teenager to have completed such a high level of training, he tells me. But the Gaimans were like “royalty,” he says. In 1981, David was promoted to lead the Guardian’s Office, making him one of the most powerful people in the church. But the same year, he fell from grace. A new generation of Scientologists, led by David Miscavige, who eventually succeeded Hubbard as the church’s leader, had Hubbard’s ear, and David was “caught in that grinder,” as his former colleague puts it. A document declaring David a “Suppressive person” was released a few years later. It accused him of a range of offenses, including sexual misconduct. David, the document claims, put on a “front” of being “mild mannered and quite sociable,” adding that his actions “belie this.” His greatest offense, it seemed, was hubris. “Gaiman required others to look up to him instead of to Source,” it reads, referring to Hubbard.

In the ’80s, David was sent off to a sort of rehabilitation camp. It was around this time that Gaiman set out to make a living as a writer. Charming and strategic, he used the contacts he developed as a journalist to break into the business of genre writing, endearing himself to the giants of that world at the time: Douglas Adams, Arthur C. Clarke, Clive Barker, Terry Pratchett, Alan Moore. “When I was young, I had unbelievable chutzpah,” Gaiman says in the documentary Neil Gaiman: Dream Dangerously. “The kind of monstrous self-certainty that you only get normally in people who then go on to conquer half the civilized world.”

GAIMAN AND PALMER MET in 2008, when she was 32 and he was 47. Both were at a turning point in their lives and careers. Gaiman was in the midst of finalizing a divorce from his first wife, with whom he had three children, and on the verge of breaking into Hollywood (nine of his works have been turned into movies or TV shows); Palmer was in a fight with her record label that would culminate in a split. Palmer had a collection of photos of herself posing as a murdered corpse and wanted Gaiman to write captions to go along with the pictures. Gaiman liked the idea, and the two met to work on the project, a book tied to her first solo album, Who Killed Amanda Palmer. As Palmer described in The Art of Asking, they were not attracted to each other at first. “I thought he looked like a baggy-eyed, grumpy old man, and he thought I looked like a chubby little boy.”

Gaiman was the first to propose a romantic relationship. In an interview, he later said, “I got together with her because I couldn’t ever imagine being bored.” Palmer could. Ever since she’d gotten her start as a street busker, painting her face white and standing on a crate in Harvard Square dressed as a silent eight-foot-tall bride, she prided herself on a low-rent, bohemian lifestyle, couch-surfing when she toured, playing random shows in the living rooms of her fans. She had no savings and didn’t own a car, real estate, or kitchen appliances. Gaiman owned multiple houses. He was too rich, too famous, too British, too awkward, too old. And they didn’t have great sexual chemistry. But he appeared to be kind and stable, a family man, and they shared a dark, fantastical aesthetic. She also felt a little sorry for him. He seemed lonely, in spite of his fame, and Palmer found herself hoping that she could help him. “He’d believed for a long time, deep down, that people didn’t actually fall in love,” she wrote in her book. “ ‘But that’s impossible,’ ” she told him. He’d written stories and scenes of people in love. “‘That’s the whole point, darling,’ he said. ‘Writers make things up.’ ”

They wed in 2011 in the Berkeley home of their friends Michael Chabon and Ayelet Waldman, the novelists. Their union had a multiplying effect on their fame and stature, drawing each out of their respective domains of cult stardom and into the airy realm of tech-funded virality. They became darlings of the TED Talk circuit and regulars at Jeff Bezos’s ultrasecret Campfire retreat. Gaiman introduced Palmer to Twitter, which he had used to become fantasy’s most beloved author of 140-character bons mots. Palmer, in turn, leaned into her growing reputation as a crowdfunding genius. Online, they flirted, went after each other’s critics, and praised each other’s progressive politics. In an interview with Out magazine in 2012, Palmer said that the main “other” relationship in both of their lives was with their fans: “Sometimes when I’m with Neil, and go to the other room to Twitter with my followers, it feels like sneaking off for a quick shag.”

This wasn’t strictly a metaphor. During the early years of their marriage, they lived apart for months at a time and encouraged each other to have affairs. According to conversations with five of Palmer’s closest friends, the most important rule governing their open relationship was honesty. They found that sharing the details of their extramarital dalliances—and sometimes sharing the same partners—brought them closer together.

In 2012, Palmer met a 20-year-old fan, who has asked to be referred to as Rachel, at a Dresden Dolls concert. After one of Palmer’s next shows, the women had sex. The morning after, Palmer snapped a few semi-naked pictures of Rachel and asked if she could send one to Gaiman. She and Palmer slept together a few more times, but then Palmer seemed to lose interest in sex with her. Some six months after they met, Palmer introduced Rachel to Gaiman online, telling Rachel, “He’ll love you.” The two struck up a correspondence that quickly turned sexual, and Gaiman invited her to his house in Wisconsin. As she packed for the trip, she asked Palmer over email if she had any advice for pleasing Gaiman in bed. Palmer joked in response, “i think the fun is finding out on your own.” With Gaiman, Rachel says there was never a “blatant rupture of consent” but that he was always pressing her to do things that hurt and scared her. Looking back, she feels Palmer gave her to him “like a toy.”

For Gaiman and Palmer, these were happy years. With his editing help, she wrote The Art of Asking. They toured together. And when Palmer was offered a residency at Bard College, Gaiman tagged along to give some talks, then ended up receiving an offer to join the faculty as a professor of the arts. After they’d been together for a few years, Palmer began asking Gaiman to tell her more about his childhood in Scientology. But he seemed unable to string more than a few sentences together. When she encouraged him to continue, he would curl up on the bed into a fetal position and cry. He refused to see a therapist. Instead, he sat down to write a short story that kept getting longer until it had turned into a novel. Although the child at the center of the story in many ways remains opaque, Palmer felt he had never been so open. He dedicated the book, The Ocean at the End of the Lane, “to Amanda, who wanted to know.”

IN 2014, THE CRACKS in Gaiman and Palmer’s marriage began to show to those around them. While they were at Bard, they decided to buy a house upstate. Palmer would have preferred to live in New York City, but Gaiman liked the woods. Eventually, he picked a sprawling estate set on 80 acres in Woodstock. It was Gaiman’s money, a friend who accompanied them on the house hunt says, “and he was going to have the say.”

Later that year, Palmer got pregnant. She and Gaiman were spending more time at home together and talked about slowing down and devoting their attention to their marriage. She wanted to close the relationship, and he agreed. But when she was eight months pregnant, Gaiman came to her with a problem: He had slept with a fan in her early 20s, taking her virginity. Now, Gaiman told her, the girl was “going crazy.” He promised to change, and they met with a couples counselor. Gaiman was prone to panic attacks and had never been in treatment. “Amanda was shocked at how traumatized Neil was, given his public persona and the guy she thought she’d married,” a person close to them says.

One of the people in whom Palmer confided about her marital issues at the time was Caroline, a potter who, along with her builder husband, Phillip, had been living on the Woodstock property and working as a caretaker. Gaiman had made them an offer that seemed too good to be true. They would build an addition on one of the cabins on the land at Gaiman’s expense, and in exchange, Gaiman would sell them a five-acre parcel, allowing them to put up a barn-style home to share with their three daughters. They tended to the garden, ran errands for guests, and rehabilitated the buildings, which needed plumbing and electrical work.

At lunch one day, Palmer told Caroline she hated living in the woods and was disturbed by what she was learning about her husband. “‘You have no idea the twisted, dark things that go on in that man’s head,’ ” Caroline recalls Palmer saying. Palmer said she wished her marriage were more like Caroline and Phillip’s, but their marriage of 11 years was falling apart, too. In 2017, Phillip moved out of their house. Caroline, 54, spent her days in bed crying and drinking. She stopped eating and, for the most part, stopped working. It was then that Gaiman began paying attention to her. He would bring juices up to her cabin and fret that she was losing too much weight. The first time he touched her, in December 2018, she was sitting on his couch next to him, crying from exhaustion. Gaiman told her, “You need a hug.” She stood and he hugged her, then slid his hands down her pants and into her underwear and squeezed her butt. She does not recall saying or doing anything in response. “I was stunned,” she says.

Over the next two years, they had a series of sexual encounters, always when Palmer was away. When Gaiman wasn’t around, they occasionally engaged in phone sex. At first Caroline, who hadn’t been with anyone since Phillip left, went along willingly. But at the end of their second encounter, she remembers asking Gaiman what Palmer would think about their romance: “He said, ‘Caroline, there is no romance.’” After that, she tried to keep her distance from him, darting away when she saw him on the estate. He was difficult to avoid. He kept an egg incubator in Caroline’s cabin and would come down and check on it, entering without texting first. On one of these visits, he found her crying by the fireplace. He walked over to her, stuck his thumb in her mouth, and twisted her nipples. She told Gaiman the arrangement was making her “feel bad.” She recalls him replying, “I don’t want you to feel bad.” But nothing changed. Caroline had no income at the time and was borrowing money from her sister to get by. She worried that if she didn’t appease Gaiman, he’d kick her out of her house and then she and her three daughters would have nowhere to go. “ ‘I like our trade,’ ” she remembers him saying. “ ‘You take care of me, and I’ll take care of you.’ ”

Sometimes she would babysit. Once, Caroline and the boy, then 4, fell asleep reading stories in Gaiman and Palmer’s bed. Caroline woke up when Gaiman returned home. He got into bed with his son in the middle, then reached across the child to grab Caroline’s hand and put it on his penis. She says she jumped out of the bed. “He didn’t have boundaries,” Caroline says. “I remember thinking that there was something really wrong with him.”

In April 2021, Gaiman informed Caroline that the land he’d promised her was no longer available. That summer, she stopped responding to his attempts to engage in phone sex and Gaiman increased the pressure on her to leave his property. One night in December 2021, Gaiman’s business manager, Terry Bird, called Caroline and offered her $5,000 to move immediately if she’d sign a 16-page NDA agreeing to never discuss anything about her experience with Gaiman or Palmer or to take legal action against Gaiman. Caroline recalls saying to Bird, “What am I going to do with $5,000? I need therapy. This is maybe $300,000.” Looking back, she says she didn’t know how she came up with that number, but Gaiman agreed to it, and she signed. (Gaiman’s representatives say Caroline initiated the sexual encounters and deny that he engaged in any sexual activity with her in the presence of his son.)

TWO MONTHS LATER, Pavlovich arrived on Waiheke. By then, Palmer and Gaiman were divorcing. According to Palmer’s friends, she asked for a divorce after Rachel called to tell her that she and Gaiman were still having sexual contact, long past the point when Palmer thought their relationship had ended. She was hurt but unsurprised. “I find it all very boring,” she later wrote to Rachel, who recalls the exchange. “Just the lack of self-knowledge and the lack of interest in self-knowledge.” In late 2021, Palmer found out about Caroline, too. “I remember her saying, ‘That poor woman,’” recalls Lance Horne, a musician and friend of Palmer’s in whom she confided at the time. “‘I can’t believe he did it again.’”

By the time she asked Pavlovich to babysit, Palmer was fed up with Gaiman’s behavior, but “she still had some faith in his decency,” a friend says. Still, she knew enough to warn Gaiman to stay away from their new babysitter. “I remember specifically her saying, ‘You could really hurt this person and break her; keep your hands off of her,’ ” the friend says. And Palmer still hoped, according to those close to her, that she and Gaiman would be able to negotiate a peaceful co-parenting arrangement. She found a school for their child and the two houses on Waiheke. “She was going to do her best to keep Neil as a presence for her son,” one friend says.

One evening, Palmer dropped Pavlovich and the child off with Gaiman and retreated back to her own place. Pavlovich was in the kitchen, tidying up, when he approached her from behind and pulled her to the sofa. “It all happened again so quickly,” Pavlovich says. Gaiman pushed down her pants and began to beat her with his belt. He then attempted to initiate anal sex without lubrication. “I screamed ‘no,’” Pavlovich says. Had Gaiman and Pavlovich been engaging in BDSM, this could conceivably have been part of a rape scene, a scenario sometimes described as consensual nonconsent. But that would have required careful negotiation in advance, which she says they had not done. After she said “no,” Gaiman backed off briefly and went into the kitchen. When he returned, he brought butter to use as lubricant. She continued to scream until Gaiman was finished. When it was over, he called her “slave” and ordered her to “clean him up.” She protested that it wasn’t hygienic. “He said, ‘Are you defying your master?’ ” she recalls. “I had to lick my own shit.”

Afterward, she got into the shower and tried to wash her mouth out with a bar of lavender soap. It had a grainy texture and tasted of metal, acid, and herbs. She noticed blood swirling down the drain. He hadn’t used a condom, and she worried she might have gotten an infection. She had a migraine, and her whole body ached. But she didn’t consider leaving. She’d hated herself her whole life, she tells me, “and when someone comes along and hates you as much as yourself, it is kind of a relief, without it always being consent.” She says she understands how Scientologists might have felt when they were sent to the Hole, a detention center where they were forced to lick the floor as punishment. She’d heard of how some would stay in the room even after they were allowed to leave. “People keep licking the floor in that horrible room,” she says.

The nights with Gaiman blurred together. There was the time she passed out from pain while Gaiman was having anal sex with her. He made her perform oral sex while his penis had urine on it. He ordered her to suck him off while he watched screeners for the first season of The Sandman. In one instance, he thrust his penis into Pavlovich’s mouth with such force that she vomited on him. Then he told her to eat the vomit off his lap and lick it up from the couch.

A week or so into Pavlovich’s time with the family, their son began to address her as “slave” and ordered Pavlovich to call him “master.” Gaiman seemed to find it amusing. Sometimes he’d say to his child, in an affable tone, “Now, now, Scarlett’s not a slave. No, you mustn’t.” One day, Pavlovich came into the living room when Gaiman and the boy were on the couch watching the children’s show Odd Squad. She joined them, sitting down next to the child. Gaiman put his arm around them both, reached into Pavlovich’s shirt, and fondled her breasts. She says he didn’t make any effort to hide what he was doing from the boy. Another time, during the day, he requested oral sex in the middle of the kitchen while the boy was awake and somewhere in the house. “He would never shut a door,” she says.

On February 19, 2022, Gaiman and his son spent the night at a hotel in Auckland, which they sometimes did for fun. Gaiman asked Pavlovich if she could come by and watch the child for an hour so he could get a massage. It was a small room—one double bed, a television, and a bathroom. When he returned, Gaiman and the boy ate dinner, takeout from a nearby delicatessen. Afterward, Gaiman wanted to watch a movie, but the child wanted to play with the iPad. The boy sat against the wall by the picture window overlooking the city, facing the bed. Pavlovich perched on the edge of the mattress; Gaiman got onto the bed and pulled her so she was on her back. He lifted the covers up over them. She tried to signal to him with her eyes that he should stop. She mouthed, “What the fuck are you doing?” She didn’t want the child to overhear what she was saying. Gaiman ignored her. He rolled her onto her side, took off his pants, pulled off her skirt, and began to have sex with her from behind while continuing to speak with his son. “ ‘You should really get off the iPad,’ ” she recalls him saying. Pavlovich, in a state of shock, buried her head in the pillow. After about five minutes, Gaiman got up and walked to the bathroom, half-naked. He urinated on his hand and then returned to Pavlovich, frozen on the bed, and told her to “lick it off.” He went back to the bathroom, naked from the waist down. “Before you leave,” he told Pavlovich, “you have to finish your job.” She went to the bathroom, and he pushed her to her knees. The door was open. (Gaiman’s representatives say these allegations are “false, not to mention, deplorable.”)

Three weeks after Pavlovich arrived on Waiheke, Palmer told her that the child would be traveling with Gaiman to Edinburgh in a few days to visit the Amazon production of his series Anansi Boys. They wouldn’t need her for a couple of weeks. That morning, Pavlovich came down with COVID. Palmer and Gaiman agreed that she could isolate in Gaiman’s empty home. They still hadn’t paid her for a single hour she’d worked for them.

TEN DAYS AFTER Gaiman left New Zealand, Pavlovich went to Palmer’s house for dinner. She asked Palmer if she could tell her something in confidence and made her promise not to tell Gaiman. She begged for reassurance that she would still keep her job as the child’s nanny. Palmer assured Pavlovich her employment was not in danger. Sitting in the kitchen, Pavlovich told Palmer that Gaiman had made a pass at her. She told Palmer about the bath. “I didn’t have any choice in the matter,” she said. “He just did it.” She said he had been having sex with her ever since. She withheld some of the most brutal details and did not describe her experience as sexual assault; she didn’t yet see it that way.

Palmer did not appear to be surprised. “Fourteen women have come to me about this,” she said. She mentioned that Gaiman had slept with another babysitter during his first marriage, and that she’d heard from other women who were disturbed by their experiences with him. Pavlovich waited until the end to tell Palmer about the child being present in Auckland. Afterward, she recalled, Palmer was silent. She appeared shocked. Palmer insisted that Pavlovich spend the night in her guest room. She told her, “I’ve had to do this before, and I can do this again. I will take care of you.” Pavlovich lay down in the bed and heard Palmer pacing back and forth in her room upstairs until 3 a.m.

Palmer called Gaiman that night. According to Horne, the musician, she asked Gaiman whether their son had been wearing headphones while he and Pavlovich were in the hotel room. He replied “no,” then hung up. The following day, Palmer emailed Gaiman and their couples counselor, a man named Wayne Muller, a minister and “a sort of marital companion,” as he put it to me. According to Muller, who relayed the contents of the email to me, Palmer wrote that Gaiman needed psychiatric treatment and had finally agreed to seek it. “Everyone was trying to make the best of what was clearly a difficult situation,” Muller tells me. Palmer then flew to Edinburgh, where Gaiman was staying with their son, whom she collected. Meanwhile, Pavlovich received a text from Gaiman: “Amanda tells me that you are having a rough time and you are really upset with me about what we did. I feel awful about this. Would you like to talk about it? Is there anything I can do to make anything better?” Pavlovich didn’t respond immediately. “My reflex was to fix the situation,” she tells me. The next day, she wrote, “Hey. We’ll speak soon … hope you are doing good.”

In the days and weeks after Pavlovich’s revelation, Palmer was solicitous, checking in frequently over text and sending warm notes: “From the minute you entwined your fate with mine on ponsonby road i’ve been glad i met you. That is tenfold so now.” She helped Pavlovich find a temporary apartment and invited her over for meals. In late March, Palmer sent a message to a friend of Pavlovich’s, a 41-year-old ceramicist named Misma Anaru, in whom Pavlovich had confided about Gaiman. “I’m glad she had you to take care of her,” she wrote. “It’s been a rough month for everyone.” Anaru’s partner, Kris Taylor, was a doctor of psychology who had lectured at the University of Auckland on coercion, consent, and rape. Although Pavlovich had never used the words rape or sexual assault to describe what had happened to her, both Anaru and Taylor believed Gaiman had raped her repeatedly. Anaru felt Palmer bore a share of the blame. Replying to Palmer, she wrote that “the majority of my rage is directed at Neil.” But she couldn’t understand why, with all Palmer knew about Gaiman, she had sent Scarlett into that situation. “Did you not see this coming a mile away?” She added, “And yes I know you asked him not to do that to her, but honestly, the fact you even felt that was something you should ask is fucked up in ways that defy comprehension.”

Around the same time, Pavlovich followed up with Gaiman. “I had a very intense dream about you last night,” she wrote. “Are you doing okay?” In his reply, he made a reference to something that had happened two weeks earlier. In a session with Muller, Palmer had said that Pavlovich was telling people he had raped her and was planning to “Me Too” him. “I wanted to kill myself,” he wrote. “But I’m getting through it a day at a time, and it’s been two weeks now and I’m still here. Fragile but not great.” He expressed dismay at Anaru’s message, which Palmer had told him about. “I’m a monster in it,” he wrote, “and Amanda seems to have bought it hook line and sinker.” Apologizing for “bringing any upset” into Pavlovich’s life, he wrote, “I thought that we were a good thing and a very consensual thing indeed.”

Pavlovich remembers her palms sweating, hot coils in her stomach. She was terrified of upsetting Gaiman. “I was disconnected from everybody else at that point in my life,” she tells me. She rushed to reassure him. “It was consensual (and wonderful)!” she wrote. Anaru had been “triggered by something I think,” she added.

“I am so glad that you messaged me,” Gaiman wrote. “I thought you were a monster.”

Gaiman asked Pavlovich to speak with Muller. “Knowing that you would be prepared to say, ‘It’s not true, it was consensual, he’s not a monster,’ makes me a lot more grounded,” he wrote. Muller reached out to Pavlovich to offer a “safe harbor.” When they spoke on the phone, Pavlovich told Muller what Gaiman, who was paying for the session, had asked her to say. After listening to Muller’s “esoteric, spiritual claptrap,” she felt worse. “I really felt it was all my fault.” Muller, for his part, tells me that ethical boundaries prevent him from sharing anything about his sessions with Gaiman, but he apparently felt comfortable sharing details of his conversation with Pavlovich. “What she called to speak with me about was feeling pressured—from very diverse, mostly older women in her community—to take action that she wasn’t sure she felt comfortable taking. I accompanied her on a journey to help her figure out the answers for herself to that issue.”

In the weeks that followed, Muller connected Gaiman with the Austen Riggs Center, a psychiatric facility in Massachusetts. According to Muller, Gaiman had several preliminary phone calls with the facility and was considering entering a six-week inpatient evaluation process. But Gaiman never followed through. “I don’t remember why not,” Muller says.

Pavlovich grew suicidal. She hoarded zopiclone and aspirin and walked around the city surveying bridges. She decided she’d take the pills and told Palmer about her plan. At Palmer’s urging, she checked into an emergency room. “You are loved,” Palmer texted. After a few days in a respite center, feeling slightly better, Pavlovich reached out to Palmer to ask if she could resume working as the child’s nanny. The apartment Palmer had set her up with was temporary, and she needed a place to stay. “It would be really good for me I think to have something to do and people to be around,” she wrote. Palmer argued that it was not the time for her to take on the responsibility of caring for a child. “Your job is to care for you,” she replied. She proposed they get together when Pavlovich got out, promising to help her get back on her feet, and suggested in the meantime she go home to her parents. This infuriated Pavlovich. “There is a reason I have divorced my parents,” she wrote. “I’m starting to feel very much on my own and like I hate everyone.”

“I can’t offer you exactly what you want from me,” Palmer wrote, “but i can still be here. remember this.”

“Babe I am more alone than I’ve ever been in my life,” Pavlovich replied. She wished she’d never agreed to be their nanny: “If I hadn’t gotten on that first ferry I wouldn’t be where I am now.”

That night, Pavlovich texted Gaiman. “Amanda keeps saying she will help but it seems more philosophical rather than actually like she will help.” Two minutes later, she added, “I’ve been thinking of you so much.” Gaiman replied that he’d be happy to help in a tangible way. Pavlovich then received an NDA dated to the first night of her employment, when he had suggested she take a bath. She signed it. A month later, she received a bank transfer from Gaiman: $1,700 for her babysitting work. Two months after that, she received the first of nine payments totaling about $9,200.

Over the course of the year, Pavlovich’s perspective changed. “As he faded away, I began to let other voices in,” she says. Friends connected her with women who were experienced in dealing with sexual assault and abuse, including Zelda Perkins, a former assistant of Harvey Weinstein’s and an advocate for ending the “misuse of NDAs to buy women’s silence.” (Caroline and Pavlovich broke their NDAs when they spoke out about Gaiman.) These women encouraged her to go to the police.

In January 2023, Pavlovich filed a police report accusing Gaiman of sexual assault. At the station, she gave a formal interview about the case. After she told the officers her story, one of them told her that Palmer’s cooperation would be essential for the case to move forward. Pavlovich assured them Palmer would participate. “I said to them, ‘She’s a public feminist, and she knows what happened. She’ll want to protect me. I’m sure she’ll speak.’ ”

When the police contacted Palmer later that year, she declined to talk with them. Gaiman never spoke with the police either, though he did provide a written statement. Whatever feelings Palmer might have had about the situation went into a song she performed on tour in 2024, one she wrote shortly after Pavlovich’s confession. It was called “Whakanewha,” named after a park near their homes on Waiheke. “Another suicidal mass landing on my doorstep—thanks a ton/A few more corpses in the sack/You’ll get away with it; it’s just the same old script/This world is shaped to have your back/You said, ‘I’m sorry,’ then you ran/And went and did it all again.”

THIS PAST FALL, Pavlovich began studying for a degree in English literature at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland. As it happens, the university had awarded Gaiman an honorary degree in 2016. In December, Pavlovich approached the head of the university, Dame Sally Mapstone, to share her experience and ask the university to review the decision to honor Gaiman. Mapstone was sympathetic but indecisive; some on the board, she told Pavlovich, would likely want evidence of prosecution to rescind his degree. As far as the police report goes, the “matter has been closed,” a spokesperson says. Gaiman’s career, meanwhile, has been marginally affected. A few pending adaptations of his novels and comics have been put on hold or canceled. But the second season of The Sandman is set to premiere on Netflix this year, as is Anansi Boys on Amazon Prime. (Amazon did not return a request for comment.) He and Palmer are entering the fifth year of an ugly divorce and custody battle. Gaiman has “bled her dry” in the divorce proceedings, according to someone close to her. She’s moved back in with her parents in Massachusetts. (Gaiman’s representatives alleged that Palmer was a “major force” driving this story in light of their contentious divorce.)

In December, Pavlovich flew to Atlanta to meet some of the other women who had made accusations against Gaiman. They had been unaware of one another’s existence until they’d heard the podcast. Since then, they had formed a WhatsApp group and grown close. “It’s been like meeting survivors of the same cult,” Stout tells me. “It’s impossible to understand unless you were there.” On New Year’s Eve, Pavlovich, Stout, and Caroline gathered around a bonfire at the Athens home of the musician Michael Stipe, an old friend of Caroline’s. Kendall joined them on Face-Time. With their dark hair and delicate features, they looked like they could be sisters. Around 11 p.m., they wrote down their intentions for the year and cast the scraps of paper into the fire. Pavlovich had written that she wanted to “release the yoke of victimhood” and “invite in self-acceptance.” The next morning, she woke before the others, made coffee, cleaned the kitchen, and sat on the porch in the winter sun. “Am I happy?” she wrote in her journal. “No.” But she also noted that she wasn’t alone. “There is no need to feel abandoned anymore

[marvelfilth]

AKA Shut up and listen

Pairing: Jessica Jones x f!reader

Warnings: alcohol consumption, self-deprication

Summary: you love Jess, Jess doesn't get why

Masterlist

"So... This is it?" you mumble, your gaze pinned to the roach on the wall to your left.

You really shouldn't be disappointed - you heard enough of Jess' grumbling whenever she came back from a hideout with too many compromising pictures on her camera and too much alcohol on her breath.

So, yeah, it's all your fault, since it was you who begged her to take you with her, just to get a taste of that PI life.

"Yes." She opens the window, letting some fresh air flow into the tiny motel room.

"Cool," you sigh and search the room for a safe place to sit. Unfortunately, the entire place looks like a biohazard, so you have no choice, but to settle on the edge of the single bed.

Your hesitation doesn't escape Jess' watchful eye. "You realize you'll have to sleep here, right?" Jessica drawls. She's sitting on the windowsill, her flask clutched between her fingertips. She raises her eyebrows at your silence and you shake your head, feeling hot all of a sudden. Lately, it's been happening too often - her looking at you far longer than a friend should, and you flushing under her heavy gaze.

"You said it won't take long," you mumble, turning away to hide your burning cheeks with your hair.

"It won't. Twenty hours top." She shrugs, taking off her leather jacket to reveal her toned arms, your eyes zeroing in on the muscles hidden under her soft skin.

"Great," you sigh.

The roach on the wall moves closer to you and you have to fight the urge to stamp it down with your shoe.

It probably has a family somewhere.

"You don't have to stay. I can call Trish, she'll pick you up. She can take you somewhere fancy."

Your eyes roll at the obvious attempt at getting rid of you. You know she likes you enough to tolerate you for at least a day, but you also know she prefers to work alone. Even Trish never gets to tag along.

"You know I like you more."

“Really?” She husks sarcastically around the neck of her flask.

“Yes.”

Another roach crawls from under the bed, making you squeak and jump off it. Jessica rolls her eyes, gesturing around you. “This. This is me.”

You blink. Then blink again. “A roach?”

She hums, turning to look outside and taking another swing from her flask. “Yep. A roach, dirty motel, cheap booze - all me. Doesn't seem like your thing.”

You huff, crossing your arms, your shoulders suddenly tense. “Luckily for me, you're more than cheap booze, and shitty motels, and roaches. So yeah, you're my thing.”

She tilts her head, her dark eyes brimming with exhaustion from countless sleepless nights spent chasing leads, but there's a flicker of something, something important. It's gone faster than you can place it, and she turns back to the window, lifting her camera, and covering her face from your scrutiny.

“Get us some food, yeah?” She whispers, pretending to focus on the streets below.

You let out a frustrated huff, but nod nonetheless, leaving in search of something edible.

You come back a little over half an hour later, a paper bag full of takeout clutched tightly against your chest, your heart still racing after a ride with a sketchy man on a sketchy elevator.

Jessica startles you with a question.

“You okay?”

Her body is halfway out of the window, facing the building across the street, but her eyes are pinned to you. The flask lies empty on the windowsill.

“Peachy,” you mumble, pushing a container into her hand. “Eat it all or no booze for two days.”

She frowns, eyeing you warily. “Don't bullshit me.”

You smile, humming, and nudge Jess to make space for you on the windowsill. You dig into the food, almost moaning at the rich flavor, and note with pride that Jessica seems to enjoy it too.

“Not bad,” she says around a forkful. “Not as good as your famous lasagna-”

You shove her before she can finish her thought.

“Jess!”

Her brow arches in question, and she keeps a serious expression for all three seconds before the corners of her mouth jump up in a fleeting smile. “What? I liked it.”

You groan, pushing the food around. She'll never let you forget it. And to think that you were just being a caring friend, spending all day perfecting a recipe you found online, chasing down Jess, and making her eat some of it.

“Just a little less salt next time,” she says, leaning back against the wall, her eyes on you.

You shake your head, cheeks burning in embarrassment.

The evening is settling in, the warm glow of the sun seeping away, giving way to the chilly breeze. You shudder, goosebumps littering your bare arms, and consider moving to the bed, or maybe wrapping yourself in a blanket. You eye it warily - it's thin, its color washed away and even from here you can see some of the stains.

You jump up when a weight settles over your shoulders, a familiar scent of leather enveloping you. When you turn to look at Jess, instead of looking away like you thought she would, she looks at you, head-on.

“Thanks,” you whisper, pushing your arms through the sleeves. “You're not cold?”

She shakes her head no, pushing her food around. “Looks good on you.”

“Yeah?” You look down at your lap, fingers fidgeting. The air grows heavy.

She reaches inside her bag and takes out another flask.

“I'm no good for you, you know?” she says after gulping at least a quarter of it.

You look up, startled.

“I'm an asshole with a drinking problem. You deserve better.”

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath. “You’re not an asshole.”

She snorts, and finishes the flask in quick gulps before carelessly throwing it to the floor.

“Jess.”

She hums.

“You're not an asshole.”

“I heard you the first time.”

You huff, and pull the take out box out of her hands before gently setting both of your food on the nearby table. “Jessica,” you start, squaring your shoulders. “I need you to listen to me very carefully.” She rolls her eyes, but turns to face you nonetheless. You can tell she's ready to bolt or at least deflect, but you won't let her. Not this time, the conversation is long overdue.

You take her hand in yours, fiddling with her slender fingers. “You’re one of the best people I've ever met, Jess-” the scoff that follows is expected “-yes, you are!” You insist, giving her hand a sharp tug. “You're brave, and selfless, and kind-”

“I’m an unreliable, unstable alcoholic with a fucked up head,” she growls, jumping off her seat. “I'm not kind or brave. I don't do nice things. I'm not nice, period. I have a hole in my wall and more empty bottles than cutlery. I haven't washed my jeans in two months. I- fuck, sometimes I can't even look at you without thinking about you leaving, eventually.” She starts pacing, fingers lost in her dark tresses.

“Jess.”

“I can't take care of myself, Trish does that half the time. I have one bedsheet. I don't have a vacuum cleaner. My door is permanently broken.”

“Jessica.”

“I'm a fucked up-”

“Shut up.”

She stops mid rant, looking at you with tired eyes, and let's out a long-suffering sigh. “You deserve better.”

You shake your head and take a step towards her. “I love you.”

She recoils, suddenly looking like a frightened child. Her eyes shine with unshed tears. “What?” She croaks.

“I love you, Jess. I love you when you're drunk and miserable, and I love you when sober up and smile like you don't have a care in the world. I love you when you're out of reach for days on a case, and I love you when you make sure to spend time with me, even if it means sacrificing sleep-”

“Stop.”

“-I love you when you don't have time to take my calls, and I love you when you answer me from strangers’ balconies. I love you when you're being mean, and I love you when you choose to be the kindest person I know, even after all of the shit you've been through.”

“Y/n…”

“I love you and your broken door. And I love your cutlery.”

“Don't-”

“And I have a vacuum cleaner.”

She sighs, but her eyes soften just a slightest bit. "A vacuum cleaner, huh?"

You swallow and take a deep breath. “I- I don't want anyone else, Jess. I want you. I love you.”

She looks at you for a long moment, her jaw tenses, brows furrow in thought. “Okay,” she nods slowly, begrudgingly.

“Yeah?” You whisper, inching closer.

“Yeah,” she breathes against your lips, before pulling you in a tender, almost chaste kiss. She's pulling away a second later and it's over before you even fully register the feeling of her soft, full lips on yours. “I- You- Fuck, why is this shit so goddamn hard?” She grumbles, closing her eyes briefly before taking a deep breath. “You deserve better, so-”

“Jessica,” you growl, pushing her by the shoulders. She doesn't budge, pressing you closer to her chest, her grip on your waist tightening.

“You deserve better, so I'll get better. I'll do better. For you,” she finishes slowly, begrudgingly, and for a moment you're speechless. “Less booze should be a good start, right? No girl likes to smell alcohol all the time,” she sounds like she's complaining, like this is the worst situation she could ever find herself in, but her eyes shine in a way you've never seen before. It's hope, you realise after a moment.

“Not for me, for you,” you state firmly, cupping her jaw. “You'll get better for you.”

She blinks. “That’s not a good enough motivation,” she grumbles.

You press a kiss to the corner of her mouth, fighting back a smile. She's so Jess. “We'll work on that.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Okay. I... I love you too, I guess.”

"Mhm," you hum, and she opens her mouth again, so you pull her in a proper kiss before she can say anything else.

[acupofinkedblood]

Hyperlaser x reader

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

• The fact that you have managed to break down his tough exterior he had forced himself to build up all those years is such an impressive achievement. Hyperlaser sometimes has to question which forces have granted you such stubbornness to pining over him for this long, even when he sees nothing in him for you to be so hopelessly smitten. It is really questionable, yet admirable. And in the end, he has finally accepted your love, so your efforts definitely pay off well

• Hyperlaser comes off as a man of few words at first when you first see him. He doesn’t show that much interest in anything at all. Maybe it’s that mysterious nature that adds up to his charm, after all, he is a complicated individual that you can’t quite grasp as an outsider. Always so unbothered with everything in any situation, if you haven’t known better, you might even assume that his heart has stopped beating because of the cruelty in his job

• But that’s where you got it wrong. Hyperlaser’s heart is still beating, slowly and steadily for him to still remember how to feel, how to express himself and how to love. In his chest isn’t a cold rusty rock, but a wounded heart that is cautious with what he doesn’t know about just yet. All those years of building up his walls is just so his scarred heart can never be ripped away again, losing too much is enough for him to develop that defense mechanism

• When you wait outside the door lead to his heart, keeps in mind that you need to be patient with him. He has been through hell and back, and he won’t risk making you another shadow haunting his life like the rest just because he doesn’t think clearly for his own sake. You are an important consideration for him, that’s why he has to brace himself for so long to finally open up the door of his heart for you, so rest assured

• And once you have entered his personal bubble, you will be surprised to figure out that side of him that almost be buried and forgotten if it wasn’t for little miracles around him to appear. He thought he wouldn’t be able to live with his truthful self again soon, but you have proven him the other way

• Suffering from PTSD and hypervigilance, he seems to be afraid of some potential dangers lurking in the dark where he can’t see. His danger radar is always on in his mind no matter what. He has lost count how many times he subconsciously be ready to pull his gear out just because of a small noise outside. It bothers him quite a lots, so keep in mind that you shouldn’t startle him on purpose

• He can also be paranoid about making sure no one is following him back. Closing all the curtains, putting a lock on his front door, keeping those keys with him all the time, etc…You name it. Don’t be offended when the first time you been to his house, he walked you around basically in circle before let you know where is actual apartment located at. He just wants to make sure to get rid of all those unnecessary tails

• But once he makes sure that everything is secured and no other dangerous forces can come to him once the door is locked, you can see the obvious sight of him relaxed a bit. Not entirely, but that change is noticeable for you. And when Princess comes into the picture, it’s like Hyperlaser has turned into a completely different person with his Princess around

• He really lives up to that cat dad energy without anyone knowing, it just makes your jaw drop in quite the affectionate way, but still. Just imagine him doing that ‘pspspsps’ to call Princess then picking her up lovingly to ask if she is behaving at home or how is her day in general. And think of the way he said all those above in that warm and contented voice of his, the complete opposite to the usual nonchalant no-nonsense voice of his. That isn’t just a cat, that’s literally his daughter

• If Princess loves you, then that will ease a lot of Hyperlaser’s worries. She is definitely a bit shy at first, considering the fact she hasn’t seen anyone else but Hyperlaser in her life before. Gives her some time and a bit of treat if needed. Once Princess has approved of you, she won’t waste anymore moment and just hop into your laps to loaf there. That means you passed the test, congratulations!

• At home, Hyperlaser allows himself to take it easier. With you and Princess around, that has definitely helped him to get a grip of himself better after a long day of following Blackrock’s orders back and forth. Honestly if it isn’t because of his personal grudge towards them that makes he so insistent on staying in this factor, he will definitely pack his stuff, one hand holding Princess and one hand carrying you then just hasta la bye bye out of that hell hole. Who knows? Maybe if he has finished with his personal matter, that would become reality soon

• He is pretty chill when there isn’t any prying unknown eyes staring at him. He seems to talk more to you, even expressing more of his emotions than he usually does outside. Hyperlaser is aware that he isn’t technically good with expressing his feelings with words, it’s just not really his things. But he still tries for you, it’s just that he doesn’t really have anything interesting to tell you aside from his boring works or Princess’ behavior. Maybe some stories of him and Katana, but you probably hear all of it at some point. His love language is more leaning towards acts of service though

• He notices the very little things you do, in which he quickly mesmerizes the patterns and of what you like or dislike. You have grown used to how your cup of coffee is seen each morning besides his in the way that you like it. You also used to see him showing you what he remembers vaguely that you might like this thing. Although his memory isn’t as well as before but still enough for him to take notes of something when it’s a pattern. And if those things are involved you, of course he will give his efforts and remember it

• Surprisingly, he can be quite curious about his surroundings. That includes what you usually do around him as well. You have soon used to the fact he usually looked over your shoulder when you are doing something he just sees for the very first time with that typical inquisitive look in his expression. You make a joke about how him and Princess seems to have that trait in common, since she can be pretty inquisitive herself too. Like father, like daughter

• Due to the various scars that are mostly burned one on his body, he has to take up a daily routine to stretch. You are more than welcome to join him if you want, it’s a good way to exercise as well. Sometimes he still feels the urge to scratch it off, but he resists it. That’s when you offer to lean him a hand to help him moisturize his healed burn scars. There is a lots of it as the scars are scattered all over his body — if not wanting to say his entire body already — and is waiting for you to carefully apply the lotion on, be careful with it. Your touch really makes him vulnerable, and Hyperlaser is a terrible liar if he says he doesn’t enjoy the feeling

• Speaking of the scars, he is quite self-conscious of the current state of his appearance. He knows very well that his appearance is probably disfigured by this point. He is hesitant to take his helmet off around you during the few first time the two of you have been officially together. He did tell you that he wasn’t that good-looking before as he preferred to hide his appearance than showing it, and you seemed fine with it. While he reassured himself that you wouldn’t mind much, but it still couldn’t help that bubbling worries inside his mind

• When he took off his helmet for the very first time in front of you, he expected a lots of things — which most of them are potential negative comments coming from you — , which was understandable given the reactions he used to get before putting on this specific helmet of his. But to his surprise, your reaction was everything but what he had in mind. You weren’t mind at all, even telling him that he was still as handsome in your eyes. And he knows that tone of voice of yours isn’t sarcasm, it’s truthful

• Your words mean more to him than you can imagine. Until this day, he is more than grateful for what you have done to him, giving him a chance to heal and all. After all he has done, you come to his life like a blessing

• He doesn’t believe in mental health, which makes him neglect the obvious issue of his own. Sometimes PTSD still gives him nightmares of the bloodshed when the darkest moments of his life is being replayed over and over again restlessly until he has to wake up in a panic. He will just go to the bathroom to clean his face off as well as tries to maintain his calm demeanor. You know damn well that there is no way you can talk him into going to therapy, so might as well figure a way to help him without making it obvious

• The least you can do is to stay by his side and reassure him, helping him to steady his breathing and keeping him in touch with the reality. There is an old trick that you always use on him whenever his thoughts wander a bit too far, which is telling him to describe the surroundings and point out the thing he sees. It’s not something too special, but it has working quite well and never failed to help him, so you can stick with that. Sometimes he even uses that same method to calm you down as well

• You have become his responsibility. And you know one thing very clear is that he will do anything to keep you safe. Hell, you can even ask him to kill for you and expect him to come back unscathed. For you, he will rain hell over whoever deemed to be a threat to you. He has already killed a bunch of people, stained his hand with blood of those he didn’t know the name, what could possibly hold him back from killing anyone that threatened your safety?

• Of course, he won’t tell you about that because there is a high chance you will oppose with his idea. So yeah, he will kill your foes behind your back if he figures that it is time for him to interfere. You don’t know why your enemies haven’t pestering you for a while, he will just shrug as well, saying that you don’t need to sweat over such trivial matters. Of course, the bodies have been taken care of, or not. But nonetheless, he still manages to leave without a trace

• If you want to, he can take you out to the bar where he usually goes to after work and have a drink with you there. There is a high chance you will be able to meet Katana as well. And don’t worry, as much as he looks quite intimidating, he means well. You have heard stories of him from Hyperlaser after all, so you know that Katana is a good guy. The three of you sometimes hang out together, that is if you want to tag along and engage into the conversation with two old guys then talking the times away

• Most of the time when duty doesn’t drag him out to exploit his labor, he will be at home quite a lots. There are a few times he will come home late due to his work, but don’t worry, he will send you a text to know that you don’t need to worry about him

• On the topic of that, when it’s you who is off to some duty for a good while, he will send you images of Princess on her daily lives as well as sending you messages to know that you are still alright. Don’t underestimate this guy’s photography skill with his phone. Sometimes you will be surprised at how precise he captures the shot of something happening within a blink. Another advantage of dating a sniper, probably. He knows his shot in the battlefield and when he needs a picture

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

Note: I hate my periods so much ｡ﾟ(ﾟ>Д<)ﾟ｡

[alwayslurkinginthebackground]

Lies - A Pedrotober Drabble

Day Twenty-Five of Pedrotober: Javier Peña Pedrotober Hosted by @norththelemon and @alyssamariag. View the full prompt list HERE and view my entire Pedrotober drabble catalog HERE.

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Rating: E for this is Exactly what I want to happen to me. Actually not all that explicit, but there are mentions of oral (fem receiving) and p in v sex. This one's really angsty y'all and also has several depictions of panic attacks and coarse language throughout.

Word Count: 2080

a/n: For those that don't know, Javier Peña is my husband. I love him more than life itself. So much so that I was entirely unsure what to write for today until I let Sabrina Carpenter into my head, and "Lie to Girls" provided the prompt I needed. Truthfully though this is just self-service, and this is my Javi.

"You want the truth, Javi? Fine. Deep down? Deep down I could never love you."

The words spill from your lips before you can stop them, self-imposed anger filling your tone as he stares back at you with wide eyes. You've wounded him, hurt him in a way you were certain no one could ever touch Javier Peña, and yet you have.

He's gone before you can stop him, the door slamming behind him and leaving you in stunned silence.

And then, you're alone with the lies that got you here.

Four Months Before

You know who they're talking about before you even slip into the seat at your desk. Javier Peña. It's an assumption you know to be correct based on the whispered discussion about the size of his cock and the way your coworkers wish he would glance in their direction instead of at the women he claims are informants. You've heard it all before, their daily list of reasons they long to end up in his bed providing the soundtrack to your entire life in Columbia. Murmurs of what he might do to them behind closed doors, all trivial to your existence.

Until the moment everything changes.

"He's looking at you," one of them hisses, and you drag your gaze up to lock with his from across the room. His stare is soft, brimming with something that looks like concern, but it's immediately tainted by the fire of those staring at you.

"Shit, he's looking at her?"

"What did she do?"

"Are they sleeping together?"

You don't tell them the truth, that you're only visible to him now after months of working in the same building on the same case because he found you in the parking lot outside last night. Lies had tumbled out of you as you tried to erase the evidence of the tears from your eyes, but he'd seen right through you. He broke you down piece by piece until you confessed everything to him. Mourning the conclusion of a relationship that you'd convinced yourself was good for you because you would rather stay in it than confront the loss waiting on the other side.

He didn't invite you home the way you'd expected him to, but instead drove you to yours, walking you to your door to confirm that you would be okay. From start to finish, Javier Peña was the complete antithesis of the man you thought he was. The man they claimed him to be. So distant from the rough exterior and innuendo-filled personality you typically avoided at all costs.

You assure him you're fine.

It's the first of many lies you'll tell him.

Three Months Before

You inevitably end up in his bed.

It crossed your mind as he covered you with his body that it would be a one-time thing. You're scratching an itch that's been burdening you both since the night you became a blip on his radar and then you'll move on with your lives.

But the error in your calculation is evident when one night turns into two, which turns into three, and then four until you're spending every night with him between your legs.

You attempt to convince yourself that it's just sex instead. Lies you tell to stop the eventual heartbreak. You write it off as stress relief, something you both desperately need. When he has you pinned up against the shower tile it's because Escobar managed to allude him again. When he's eating you out on the kitchen counter it's because you were denied the promotion you so obviously deserve. And when he's fucking you within an inch of your life, the bed creaking below you to the point that you're afraid it might break, it's simply because Steve spilled his coffee all over Javi's favorite jacket.

And then it's not just sex either.

The storm clouds roll in as the last of the evening light fades on the horizon, lightning flashing as you speed back to your apartment. It had always unnerved you, the way Mother Nature could unleash her fury, and while you were reluctant to admit it to anyone, the rumble of thunder frightened you more than anything. More than horror movies, more than spiders, and certainly more than your job with the DEA.

By the time you make it home, rain is falling. The sky flashes continuously as you turn on every light in your apartment. You know you're not truly in danger, but the subconscious part of your brain won't allow you to do anything other than curl up in your bathtub with a plush blanket and a pillow, which is exactly where he finds you.

"Carino," he soothes when he locates you, easing his way into the tub behind you so you can lean back against his chest, strong arms encompassing you in safety. You feel the kiss he presses to the side of your head and can hear the quiet words he mutters to calm you. It works, and for a brief moment, you let yourself believe that this isn't a lie after all.

Two Months Before

Rumors only grow.

Someone catches you when you ease into the passenger seat of his car, a rare smile on his face when he leans over to steal a kiss. A coworker observes the way he lingers in your presence, making excuses to bring paperwork to your desk instead of anyone else's. The chatter intensifies as he walks into the Embassy each morning, hair sticking up on the back of his head like he can't be bothered to tame it, only for you to fix it later when you think no one is watching.

It spirals before you can even try to hide it.

"Have you seen them together?"

"They have to be fucking."

"Lucky bitch."

You change desks to escape it. You remove yourself from the constant questioning and away from his watchful gaze like it will do something to stop the whispers. A feeble attempt at keeping up the charade as you try to quell the suspicions racing around the office. An effort to deny the allegations that you're more than colleagues and about the way he fucks you in the evidence room.

Which, he does, but you never admit it, and neither does he.

Out in the open, your life is a fabricated reality, but when you're sated and tangled in the sheets of his bed, the lines begin to blur.

He explains that the women really were informants, but that they also filled a void he's spent most of his life trying to fill. He tells you about his childhood, about growing up on the ranch, and how he hopes to return there when this can all be put to rest. He's honest when you ask about his past relationships, giving you the backstory on the lies he'd been told that nearly resulted in a marriage he couldn't fathom being in now.

Especially not when he has you.

When you tell yourself he's telling the truth, it still feels like a lie.

It's late. Too late.

Javier always appears like clockwork, but tonight he's nowhere to be seen. It makes you nervous, especially when the distant sound of gunfire sends a chill along your spine. The clock hits ten. Then eleven. When midnight rolls around, you're doing everything you can to convince yourself that he's fine. That he just got caught up with something at the Embassy, that he's with Steve and they've finally found a lead that takes them somewhere productive.

And then, something triggers in your mind.

Doubt creeps in. Your heart rate increases and you try to steady your breath as the whispers grow louder.

"Think she knows he keeps a tally?"

"She should get out while she can."

"It's only a matter of time before he cheats."

By the time he appears, you've convinced yourself that they're telling the truth.

"Where were you?"

He doesn't meet your gaze, the first sign that whatever is about to follow is exactly in line with the warnings you should have listened to sooner. You should've believed them instead of lying to yourself. You'll never be good enough for Javier Peña.

"Please, just..."

"Where. Were. You?" You repeat, standing your ground. Javi remains silent, the anger clouding your vision to the point that you miss the haunted look in his eyes. The one that you should've noticed. "Get out."

His expression shifts to something more hardened. He runs a hand through his hair as he blows out a puff of air. "I'm sorry, I just..."

"Get out, Javier."

"I love you," he says at the same time.

Everything stops. "You don't mean that."

"I do," he returns, taking a step closer, "and don't even try to lie to me, because I know you feel the same way."

You spiral, panic setting in until you're no longer sure which lie you should believe. Yours or theirs. The idea that he's been bound to leave you from the beginning, or the concept that you could never love someone like him anyway. The argument that you're together or the case that you're not. The plea you make with yourself that you love him or the reasoning that he could never truly love you. That everything is based on a lie.

So you lie, too.

"You want the truth, Javi? Fine. Deep down? Deep down I could never love you."

Two Days Later

You learn why he was late and it destroys you. The horrors he witnessed in the dark of night are revealed from the shadows and it makes you sick to think that instead of enveloping him in your arms, you sent him away.

He hasn't shown up at the Embassy since.

"Bet he's out fucking another informant."

"What did I tell you? Notch on the bedpost."

"Think he'll fuck me next?"

You want to scream at them. Want to set the record straight once and for all, that every second of the relationship you've shared with Javi has been tainted by the lies. The ones they've told you and the ones you've told yourself. And now, because you were stupid enough to believe them, you've fucked it up.

The phone calls you make to his apartment go unanswered. You beg Steve to check on his partner, but Javi never opens the door. You've thought a dozen times about stopping by his favorite bar just to see if that's where he's ended up, but you talk yourself out of it. You convince yourself that he doesn't want to see you and resolve that it's the truth. A final attempt at masking the way your heart is breaking.

But the lies can't dull the reality that the only one who hasn't lied is him.

Grey clouds blanket the sky when you step into the parking lot, your eyes immediately traveling to the empty spot reserved for him. Drops of rain fall on your skin, mingling with the tears you can't seem to stop. You haven't slept. You can't, not when your mind insists on repeating his words over and over.

"I love you."

By the time you make it home, thunder is rattling the frames on the walls of your apartment. Your subconscious takes over, melting away at the emotions you've been riddled with for days and replacing them with fear. Fear of the storm outside, yes, but also the fear that you'll never see him again. The fear that you'll never have the chance to tell him the truth.

The wind picks up quickly as you land in the hallway, your arms wrapped around you as the storm outside matches the intensity of the one raging in your mind. It's overwhelming, the flash of lightning mirroring the detonation of your relationship as you sob into your knees. It consumes you to the point that you're completely unaware of the warmth. You don't notice when he carries you to your bed, barely registering the way he coaxes you back to reality.

"Breathe, mi amor. Breathe."

He holds your face against his neck, hand on the back of your head as he draws you close. His breath is steady and he encourages you to match it. Slowly, you do, and as the sound of the storm dies down, so do the voices, until the only one left that matters is yours.

You finally tell him the truth.

"I love you."

"I know you do, Carino. I know."

[oddeyes588]

So, Oshi no Ko's ending... (spoilers, obviously)

What a fucking mess. How did we get here? How did we get from starting with such a high peak of storytelling and drop all the way down to hell?

I'm going to preface this by saying... regardless of how awful the ending is, Oshi no Ko will always hold a place in my heart. Hell, one look at my screen name should let at least some people know that bad endings have never been able to rid me of whatever brainworms I've accumulated for a series, and it certainly won't start now.

(CW: SUICIDE MENTIONS)

A certain someone infecting me with Ai Hoshino brainworms is also part of why. For better or worse, my hyperfixation with Oshi no Ko is set to last for a long while yet, even after it's ending.

So where to start in talking about this ending... well, let's start with the biggest thing. This is single handedly the most mind-boggling, absurd ending I have ever read, for all of the worst reasons.

Oshi no Ko, as a whole, has never exactly been subtle about its messages. The cruelty of the idol industry, of the entertainment industry as a whole. The self-destructive nature of revenge. Finding reasons to live for yourself, finding your own happiness... happiness for oneself. It was heavy-handed with these messages, and it's important that it was. Aka Akasaka seemed like an author who would not shy away from writing these criticisms, who had their main messages down pat, even if at times things got... questionable.

(Just look at the side materials that we got for Oshi no Ko. Things like Viewpoint B. Everything, if nothing else, remained at least somewhat consistent to what the story was trying to convey).

And yet somehow, for reasons I cannot begin to understand... at the end of Oshi no Ko, Aka spat on every single message his work has ever had.

Aquamarine Hoshino, a traumatized boy who views his life as worthless, ready to give it up and sacrifice himself if it means succeeding in his revenge, who has said outright that that he intends to die after his revenge is over... is faced with a chance for a new beginning, a chance for love, given a chance to life a life of real, genuine happiness... faced with SO MANY people who love him and want him in their lives...! And he chooses to die anyways, taking his father with him to the ocean depths in a murder suicide, all so that his sister wouldn't have to live with the stigma of having a murderer for a brother. Something he does without hesitation, because everyone will move on from him eventually.

And Ruby... oh Ruby. Oh how they character assassinated you... faced with the crying face of her own mother in her reflection, she conveyed the truth... the truth that Ai was always just an ordinary girl, an ordinary girl who had her real self beaten down by the desires of people, turned into a perfect and pure commodity, all for the ugly desires of the people... who was then KILLED for failing to live up to those desires... what does Ruby do?

She choses to surpass her mother as an idol... because sure, Ai may not have been perfect, but she won't be like Ai! She'll be her own idol! An even better idol!

And so she does. She effectively becomes Ai 2.0. Ai without all of those complicated hidden feelings, Ai but she really is pure this time.

And in the wake of her brother's death... Ai but without any happiness of her own. Without any happiness outside of her singular, sole purpose. Having lost everything that she held dear, she now truly is the Perfect Idol, and nothing else. A monument of praise towards the Idol Industry.

...Everything this manga had been building up to. Building up to convincing Aqua that he deserves happiness... hell, Ai's one and only wish, for her babies to grow up healthy, for them to be happy. Building up to Ruby finding her own happiness, finding her own real reason to be an idol.

With an ending that Aka has confirmed is what he'd wanted the entire time... everything is flushed down the proverbial toilet, never to be seen again.

Aqua dies pointlessly and in a way that goes against every message we've ever had concerning living for yourself. Hikaru never had nearly enough screentime, let alone an arc, to justify being irredeemably evil and needing to be killed. Kana never gets to confess her feelings, Ruby's feelings go forever unaddressed, Akane serves fundamentally no purpose, Ai's wishes go almost completely unfulfilled, and Ruby becomes a shell of herself with being an idol now the only thing she has... and yet all of this is framed as a good ending.

The idea that this is in any way a good ending is... completely baffling to me. I cannot understand what is going through Aka Akasaka's head. Not only is this narratively the worst possible ending, but even the ending itself feels so hollow... rushed, as though none of it really meant anything, least of all Aqua's death. All but proving him right.

His death, his sacrifice, his suicide was worth it. Because despite how many people were hurt by his passing, in the end, they all moved on just like he expected.

(WHICH, LET ME JUST SAY, IS AN EXTREMELY POOR, RECKLESS, AND IRRESPONSIBLE MESSAGE TO BE WRITING ABOUT FUCKING SUICIDE. ESPECIALLY TO A COUNTRY LIKE JAPAN, WHERE SUICIDE RATES FOR YOUNG PEOPLE ARE PAINFULLY HIGH!! IT WAS ONLY WHAT, 20-SOMETHING CHAPTERS AGO WHERE YOU HAD THE LITERAL MANGAKAS IN THE STORY GO ON FOR A WHOLE CHAPTER ABOUT HOW THEIR WRITING HAS AN INFLUENCE ON PEOPLE'S LIVES, HOW THEY HAVE TO BE READY TO TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR WHAT THEY WRITE, AND YOU WROTE AN ENDING THAT GLORIFIES A CHARACTER'S SUICIDE!? SAYING THAT ITS OKAY HE DIED BECAUSE EVERYONE WAS STRONG AND EVENTUALLY GOT OVER IT!?? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME—)

Sighs...

Ultimately, in the end, this ending was an utter mess of an execution. Ideas that Aka was clearly too committed to, never once seeing how fucked it was, and never changing course.

And honestly? The fact that he wrote such good shit before this, wrote what I would even describe as masterpieces... only serves to make this ending hurt that much more.

[noxusstrap]

"I'll Get It Right This Time" Chapter 2

Ok! Hey y'all!! Sorry it took me so long to upload the second chapter on here; been downloading all my data from TikTok so please bear with me while I migrate why whole entire platform (no matter how small it is) to another location!

If you haven't read Chapter 1 yet, Here is where you can find it.

Anyways Enjoy :3

CHAPTER II : The Loose Cannon

Powder would like to think she was a normal girl, thank you very much! She had everything she could ever want, her sister by her side, a roof over her head, friends she could hang out with (even though they don't want her around, but she won't admit it out loud), and the best friend any gal could ever ask for!

But she couldn't deny that sneaky little voice in her head; the one that wanted more from her life; the one that wanted to see the world and discover all the secrets and joys that lie outside of the bar; the one that saw everything that went on but never said anything until she was at her worst. She couldn't deny the utter need to be greater than what she was; she knew she had a purpose, her bombs proved it! (the voice in the back of her head disagreed but who was it to judge her?)

She sang a tune her mother used to sing to her under her breath as she worked on a new and improved bomb, she knew it would work this time, she swore it!  It had to work, it just had to! She’d make Vi proud, she loved her inventions, she just knew it! Just as she was about to screw in the last bolt, she felt a tingle go up her spine.

Something happened…but she didn't know what.

Powder looked around in a blind panic, why did she feel so panicked? She hated not knowing things, usually she’d know what was happening, but she didn't; why did she feel so … so ANXIOUS? She didn't know why she felt this way; she wants it gone, gonegonegonegonegonegon-

She banged her hand against her head, tears streaming down her face. Why was she so overwhelmed with emotions? She has never felt this way before, why start now? She shook her head and let a small whimper escape; no no nonononononono-

She Screamed.

“Powder!”

_

She opened her eyes, it was blurry… blue was all she could recognize; it was such a pretty shade of blue, like the blue of the sky after a storm passes by. She liked that blue, but as her eyes adjusted, she knew she had to be dreaming, she had to be, because if she wasn't… how could she explain the scene in front of her? She was looking at a mirror and she saw herself… only…it wasn't.

What the fuck?

It seemed like the other version of her copied what she did, when she lifted a hand to her face, the other version did too; when she stuck her tongue out, so did the other Powder. She noticed little details about her, how her hair was braided like her mom, how her face grew out of the baby fat she knew she had, just how long her hair was (she preened at the length) and… most interestingly, her eyes.  

Why were they Fushia? What the hell was going on?

'What happened to me?' Powder thought, her hand slowly reaching out to the reflection of herself, but it never touched. Before Powder's hand could reach the mirror, the reflection of herself screamed, and screamed, and screamed. All she could do was stare with fear and fascination; just what made her turn out like this? 

It seemed like the reflection could hear what she was thinking because it smirked at her and thrusted her into a memory of sorts. It was nighttime, yet the whole street was filled with the light of a thousand suns; when she turned around, a building (warehouse?) was on fire and she got a sense of deja-vu, a deep, ingrained feeling of wrong. She tries to look away, but her body does not comply, instead; she sees herself, and she's smiling.

“Vi! It worked! Did you see me? My monkey bomb finally worked!”

Oh.

She looked towards the scene and back at the burning warehouse.

Oh.

...” You did this?” Powder watched as her future self fumbled and blabbered incoherent murmurings.

“I only wanted to help,” The words shot through her, and oh isn't it a sad sight, even when she tries to do good, she was always gonna be a Jinx .

“I told you to STAY AWAY!”

SMACK!

“WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME?”

“BECAUSE YOU'RE A JINX , YOU HEAR ME, MYLO WAS RIGHT!”

The scene slowly faded away and Powder tried to soak up all she could from it, the smell of the fire, of death; the man hugging her body and murmuring seemingly words of comfort; the dead body of Vander-

Powder cried and heaved, but like always, she had nobody.

_

“She’s waking up! Pow-” 

Powder (Jinx?) whined; couldn't they have let her sleep just a little longer? 

“Pow Pow! Are you oka-”

God, wouldn't they let a girl sleep a couple minutes more? It wouldn't kill them now, would it? She’d have to sick Flame Chompers on em’-

What the hell are Chompers?

Her eyes shot open and immediately shot to her feet, startling the small group around her.

Where was she? She thought she abandoned this place when Silco died, she hadn’t stepped a foot in this place since the talk she had with Sevika in his office….so why-

As she looked around, she took note that it was livelier than it usually was, it felt warm, inviting almost. She laughed to herself, the bar almost seemed cleaner than normal, it felt like she was coming home after so very long. Gee, she hadn’t felt this way in over 7 years, not since Vi left-

“Powder! You shouldn't be whipping your head like that! We found you on the floor with a nosebleed!” 

She paused.

Powder? But I haven't been Powder in a long-

“Pow, are you ok? Please just let us help you-” She could feel the presence of a hand getting closer and closer to her shoulder, she could feel all of her senses come alive screaming against the touch, but she paid them no mind. She wanted the hand to touch her, she dared it to touch her.

The second she felt their fingertips graze against her shirt, she grabbed their arm and hauled them over her shoulder (she didn't question how she could do it in this tiny form, maybe she would figure out the schematics later).

“Son of a-!”

THUD!

“POWDER, WHAT THE FUCK?” She heard Vi groan, her body slowly rocking back and forth on the floor. Powd-Jinx couldn't help but stare at her sister (enemy), her sister who hadn’t yet abandoned her, her sister who — up until this point — had been nothing but caring and protective and she couldn't muster up a single word, a simple sentence; all she could muster was a small, pathetic whimper. This is Vi, but this isn't her Vi. Her Vi hated her guts, her Vi had up until recently, wanted her for dead.

Vi slowly sat up at the small sound, her eyes widening as she saw a small, almost purple sheened tear slowly go down her sister's face.

“Hey… Powder it’s okay… it was just an accident; I can't be broken that easily. Are you okay? We walked into our room and saw you collapsed on the floor, we thought something bad happened to you, so we got Vander-” Vi looked off to her left; Jinx’ eyes followed Vi’s and saw (her dad) Vander standing there, his arms crossed in that oh-so-familiar pose, looking straight into Jinx’ eyes.  “- to take a quick look at you. Everything seemed fine, but you started shaking and we didn't know what-” Vi stopped in her tracks and looked back at her sister; she couldn't help but feel as if something is off. 

“Are you sure you’re okay, Pow?”

And. oh wasn't that a loaded question.

How can she feel okay when she just saw her future laid out for her on a silver platter, like she was on death row, and this was her grotesque final meal; how can she feel okay when she’s the cause of everything going wrong around her; how can she feel okay when she saw Isha-

Jinx (Powder? She didn't know anymore) let out a small sob, her arms wrapping around herself in an imitation of comfort she didn't need to simulate. Before her arms could fully wrap around herself, she felt the distinct rough hands of her sister pulling into one of her signature hugs, the kind where you didn't need to speak to say a thousand thoughts, the kind where you just melt into their arms and forget about the world, the kind where you can just be an open, wounded soul with no judgement, the kind that an older sister gives to her struggling, younger counterpart. And Jinx lets herself be a lost soul in her sister's arms, just this time.

She can get to being a big fat hero and effortlessly saving the future later, for now; she just wants to be a sister weeping into her big sisters' arms.

I'm throwing this brick at you while I lock the fuck in and save all my data. See y'all next time!!!

[yourheartonfireblog]

So, I've been thinking about The Locked Tomb as a whole, particularly about how Tamsyn Muir pulls off the trick of making a dramatic tone and perspective switch with every book, yet it still feels cohesive as a story and a series.

Something that just clicked for me after a reread of Harrow the Ninth is noticing that a motif obviously present in HtN is actually running through all the books, in a way that supports this constant resetting at the beginning of every novel. And that is Alternate Universes. As in, like, the fanfiction concept of AUs.

Massive spoilers ahead for the first three books of The Locked Tomb:

Probably the biggest link between the books is the structure. All three books of The Locked Tomb roughly follow the same narrative pattern; the narrator/protagonist starts the story hopelessly outclassed and the least informed person in the situation in which she finds herself. At first she is passive or blocked from action, but there's a realization/revelation that she is not as helpless as initially thought. She builds in power and action (and this is rewarded with exposition dumps to catch her and the reader up on what is actually happening). The final act is a fight to the death and as she is dying the narrator makes a sacrifice of her own body in a way that manages to preserve at least part of her consciousness outside herself.

(The secondary narrative in Nona the Ninth -John's confession- loosely follows this pattern too. Except of course John makes a different decision in the final act of his story.)

More than just the structure, each story is a variation on the same themes. Some of them are obvious. Power and how people use it/ abuse it. The narrator's relationship to their own body and how it becomes an expression of trauma.

But another less obvious theme, right from the first chapter of Gideon, is the narrators all have some connection to an Alternate Universe version of themselves/ their lives.

I'll admit this theory is weakest in GtN. But I don't think it's a coincidence that Gideon's entire life plan is inspired by military-themed porn mags - a smut AU, if you will. She's also the only one of the narrators who regularly indulges in daydreams that give her the strength to fight and struggle forward. Also not, I believe, a coincidence.

In HtN things start getting more on the nose - unlike Gideon, Harrow has magic. Rather than accept reality, Harrow uses her power to lobotimize herself into creating and living in an alternate reality, while retelling an alternate version of the prior book. This of course is the book with the infamous role swap/ Regency ball / barista AU sequence, just in case you didn't get what's going on.

But NtN is equally about AUs - Nona is the story where the universe conspires to give Harrow and Gideon the alternate universe of the life they both wanted. Gideon (or at least her body) does turns out to be the daughter of the emperor and the crown prince of the universe. Harrow (or at least her body) gets a found family who love her and a brain that is 100% free of the horrible truth of her abominable origin. We spend most book wondering just who is in that body, Harrow or Gideon, and that's part of the point. The trauma is so deep Harrow and Gideon are unrecognizable as people if their slate is wiped. So of course Nona turns out to be a secret third option.

More to the point, NtN is the book where we learn that the Nine Houses are, in fact, John's shitty self-insert AU. Harrow had a little power a and lobotimized herself, John had more and lobotimized all of humanity he could get his hands on, remaking them into this bizarre and baroque universe centered around worshipping him as a god-emperor. The planet of New Rho, outside John's direct control, is bursting with life and chaos and mess and humanity that is missing entirely from the glimpses we get of John's universe. It's no wonder the other survivors call everyone in the Nine Houses zombies - they are, in fact, brainwiped slaves to John's whims whomever he will pick up, put down, resurrect, and murder exactly as he thinks is best.

I'm very excited for Alecto the Ninth and how this is going to play out now that we've met all three of the people in this relationship, and everyone is in the same place in the right body.

[theaterchemy2]

Rinne is clingy.

“Rinne suddenly realizes she loves Houtaro! There’s no buildup!” seems like the main reason a lot of people dislike the current arc of Gotchard.

Okay, but take it back a second. Rinne is established to be an outsider amongst her peers. She focused on school and alchemy, and nothing else. Her relationship with her father became strained when he was revealed to have “betrayed” the alchemists’ union (thanks Gereyon). She can’t say anything, because she’s just a child against the masked whoevers in charge of the union. Rinne is the child of a traitor, and now she feels personally betrayed by her father. Because she can’t speak against the union, she bottles up her feelings, and thus, she becomes very cynical and aloof.

Rinne cannot let herself trust anyone, else she might get betrayed again.

Even in the alchemist academy, where she has Sabimaru and Renge (and Spanner, I guess), she doesn’t make a connection with them. She does her own business, they do theirs.

Then enters Houtaro. He quickly becomes a recurring presence in her life after joining the alchemist academy, and slowly manages to break down her barriers. He flips everything she’s perceived about friends and relationships on her head. Suddenly, she’s made a connection. Through Houtaro, she makes connections to the rest of the academy. Rinne becomes friends with Renge and Sabimaru, and the Chemies as well. She goes out to eat with Renge. She becomes comfortable enough with Houtaro (and Kajiki?) to show off her love of spooky things, a side that the old her would have likely hidden. She’s growing up. She may get annoyed with them, but they’re the first friends she’s made in a while, if ever. And Houtaro is the one who helped her build those bridges, supporting her, and she supports him right back. Rinne is happier than she’s ever been, now with friends and purpose in her life.

Aside from her father, Houtaro is her greatest connection and her best friend.

At the same time, however, Rinne is subconsciously relying on Houtaro to be an emotional support for herself. Even if she believes in him, she doesn’t fully believe in herself, even after gaining the power to become Majade. Rinne looks to Houtaro to reaffirm his belief in her and support for her; if he doesn’t do that, she doubts herself. And with Tsukumo suddenly taking up all of Houtaro’s attention, she’s not receiving that affirmation. Her first/best friend and largest connection is being cut off by someone else, and seems to have replaced her.

Subconsciously, Rinne is clingy. Mostly towards Houtaro, but also towards the rest of the squad. She feels like she, and socially awkward introvert, belongs with a group of friends.

She’s maybe a bit jealous, but now, she’s anxious that her connection to Houtaro is diminishing because of his childhood friend who literally came out of nowhere and inserted herself back into his life. And now that subconscious clinginess has become more prominent.

And now she’s doubting herself again.

If Rinne can’t be supported by Houtaro, or if she can’t support Houtaro, does her presence matter with Tsukumo around? Everyone, from Kajiki to Tamami, seems to gel well with Tsukumo hovering around Houtaro, trying to grab his attention with her big ol’ doe eyes. Suddenly she’s become the outsider again. Rinne isn’t questioning if she loves Houtaro, she’s questioning herself and her self-worth.

And Tsukumo, if unintentional, feeds into that doubt. Her declaration to be able to go after Houtaro without any worries feeds Rinne’s self-doubt.

And Atropos is really, really, REALLY, good at fueling that doubt even further.

What if Houtaro starts doubting her? What if her entire friend group suddenly doubts her? Suddenly she’s in her father’s shoes. Is she going to be branded a traitor as well?

(Okay, maybe that’s a stretch)

Houtaro is pure of heart and dumb of ass, so it’s unlikely he’ll turn on her. He’s able to recognize that she was hurting in episode 14, can see the good in humans and Chemies alike, and also seems to be better at socializing… save for recognizing when Tsukumo is flirting with him.

But the worry is still planted. Maybe that’s why Minato tells her to fight as herself in the preview? So she can believe in herself? Rinne has relied on Houtaro to help her believe in herself, but the what-if of if he doesn’t has been provoked.

The main writer of Gotchard is Hasegawa, who graciously gifted us with Yomogi and Yume from SSSS.DYNAZENON, a show that also featured a relationship between two high schoolers. The buildup between Yomogi and Yume versus Houtaro and Rinne is similar: two teenagers learning to support one another. What differs is that Yomogi and Yume are both emotionally scarred by their past, and they learn how to heal and bond as a result, while Rinne is relying of Houtaro to support her as she heals. Houtaro doesn’t seem to carry any kind of emotional baggage going into forming a connection with Rinne, aside from a missing father, so he’s not needing reassurance of himself. He needs reassurance from everyone equally to bring out Gotchard’s full strength. It’s doubtful he would recognize that he’s been christened as Rinne’s emotional support extrovert.

[siriuslysmoking]

Friends

Part 2 of Meddle About

Series Masterlist

A/N: Next chapter is a time skip. Kinda in a Chase Atlantic Era tbh. Also I can’t think of anyone who doesn’t look good in green.

Pairing: Fem!college student x sugar daddy!steve

Warnings: fem!reader, she/her pronouns, alcohol consumption, age gap (R:21, S:29), Reader has a memory about her grandpa (literally sum my grandpa used to do for me), Mention of bad family experience/relationships, No mention of race or body shape (except a hint at reader with big boobs)

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: Working and being a student is tough, you never seem to have a moment to yourself, so when one of you co-workers needs a shift and offers to take your saturday night double, you take it. Finally going out with your friends you encounter a strange man with a strange proposition.

-Heart on your sleeve like you've never been loved Running in circles, now look what you've done (woo) Give you my word as you take it and run Wish you'd let me stay, I'm ready now (woo)-

Steve picks you up two days later. He's sitting in his Red BMW outside your cheap apartment and you feel a little self conscious about your home as he sits in his freshly cleaned expensive car.

The two of you had been messaging for a couple days and he has decided that instead of taking your measurements to the seamstress that it would be better to go in person.

You are worried, you haven't been alone with Steve, you didn't know what to expect.

Before you left your apartment you sent your friend your active location and Steve's whole name. You had asked for his entire name and he gave it willingly, understanding the need for safety.

He sits patiently in the front seat as you walk out your building's front door. He beams as he notices you, your appearance is nothing special, you are wearing a summer dress with converse and your normal jewelry and simple makeup.

You adjust the straps of your cross body bag as he exits the car and rounds the side to open your door. He looks like he wanted to give you a hug, but he seemingly thinks better of it.

Once you enter the car, he goes around and sits himself into the driver's seat. "Hi, how are you?"

"Good." You nod with a smile, meeting his eyes.

"How was your classes?"

"They were fine, I'm finishing up an Art History portfolio."

"That's good." He nods, adjusting the radio's volume for it to be a small ambiance music. "So, I wanted to talk more about this event with you."

"Okay," You adjust your body to face him. He puts the car in drive as he continues to talk.

"So, I work for this big company that my father used to run and we host a yearly charity event where we auction off art and different things for different charities." You nod along as he turns a corner, "I've never taken a date before and I've always been given shit for it. I don't want people's attention on my dating life when there is an auction for the homeless going on."

You nod not knowing what to really say to that.

He looks to you, not for an answer but for some sort of confirmation of your comfortability of the situation. "Are you still wanting to do this? I can turn around and lose your number if you prefer."

"No it's not that." You start to fidget with your hands, meeting his eyes at a red light. "It's just the only nice event I've ever been to is a wedding, so I don't know how to go about this. I mean- the nicest thing I own is my bridesmaid dress from my cousin's wedding."

"That's fine. I didn't assume that you would have a ball gown just handy- no sane person does." He laughs, "And just be yourself, no one else's opinion matters, you're coming so I don't go insane."

You laugh along with him, "I don't think I'll have a problem conversing with you, It's just I assume we'll be sitting next to people, what do you want me to tell them? That I'm a college student barely making ends meet as a waitress."

"Sure, I don't care." He shrugs, you give him a are you serious? look. "Tell them your plans after college, avoid questions you don't want to answer."

"You make it sound easy."

"Must be the years of practice." He smiles, adding to your comfort. "We're here."

You didn't even notice that you had shifted into park. Outside of a white dress shop with a black sign and matching window frames. It was a modern rustic feel. "Ready?"

You nod unbuckling and opening your door. When you stand on the pavement he gives you a playful scoff, "I'm supposed to get your door."

"My bad." You raise your hands in surrender, "I'll remember that."

He points a light-hearted accusatory finger at her and he utters with a smile, "You better."

You both enter the shop and he talks to the lady and the counter, talking about the appointment he made. "I wanted to ask, what's your favorite color? or what you look good in."

"I like blue and green and red." You huff out a laugh, "I'm not really against any color."

"Good, I told them that any color would probably work but you can talk to her about the different cuts and types of dresses you like."

"Okay."

He looks you in your eyes like he's searching for the answer that he hasn't even asked yet. "Are you sure about this? You can tell me to fuck off."

"You already asked me this, Steve." He rubs the back of his neck.

"Right, sorry."

"Don't be." You shake your head, following the lady that guides you behind a silk curtain.

"Hello, you must be Steve." The seamstress looks to you, "and you?"

You give her your name and she smiles as she asks for your regular dress size. You give it to her and she nods, grabbing the measuring tape that is wrapped around her neck like a scarf.

"Alright, let's start from the bottom." She motions you to step on an elevated platform. "arms up, hips and waist first."

You look to Steve who smiles as he sits down in the loveseat in the corner.

Four days later you get home from your day shift at work and see a car sitting out front.

The newly familiar BMW sits outside your apartment. He gets out as soon as he sees you walking down the street. "Hi."

You smile at him, "hey, what are you doing here?"

"Your dress is done and I thought that I would hand deliver it to you and if you feel comfortable I would love to see you try it on."

"Yeah! Sure, come on in." You wave him over as he grabs a big white box from his backseat.

He follows you up to your apartment while asking you about your day. You answer happily, asking him about his.

"Would you like something to drink or a snack?"

"I'm okay."

"Wanna get straight to the show?" You ask, his smiling as he makes himself comfortable on the beaten-up couch. He hums in agreement, motioning for you to grab the box. "Alright I will be right back, feel free to snoop, but I must say whatever you find that might in the slightest be embarrassing, just assume it's my roommate’s."

"Will do." He laughs as you turn to look back at him before closing your door.

Once you unfold it you let out a soft gasp. It is utterly breathtaking, it has a deep v-neck cut, spaghetti straps that don't seem very trustworthy to support you throughout the night. It has a slit in the side to give you more movement. It looks silk but has some stretch to it.

You strip down, pulling the deep green fabric over your body.

As you start to pull up the zipper in the back it suddenly gets stuck. You try to zip it three times before sighing and moving to your door. "Hey Steve, would you help me zip it up? I think it's stuck."

He looks up, meeting your eyes quickly. "Yeah of course."

You smile and turn around in the doorway as he comes up from behind you.

The fingers on your back make you shiver, you silently hope he doesn't notice the goosebumps growing on your arms. "There, just needed a little tug."

You turn facing him and realize that you are only inches away from him, you can feel his breath on your cheeks. You both meet each other's eyes, locking into his hazel eyes. You don't want to break this little trans that you're both put in, but if it goes on any longer it might get awkward. You lightly whisper, "Thank you."

He clears his throat, taking a step back, and looks you up and down. "You look beautiful." He pauses, before clearing his throat again, "T-The dress fits great."

"It does fit, very well actually." You look down at yourself, "Nothing has ever fit me this well before, thank you."

"You're welcome." He smiles at you.

"You look like a fucking goddess." Mia whispers as she finishes up applying your lipstick. "I can't get over it. God, I need a Steve in my life."

Over the past two weeks Steve has taken you to a dress shop, out to lunch, out to dinner, and just regular shopping. It feels so surreal, you feel so weird saying this but this does not feel like something that would happen to you.

"He's so sweet." You sigh, "and it's not even because he buys me things, like he refuses for me to open any door."

That hit a little too close to home. Growing up your grandpa used to yell at you if you would open the car door before he could come around the car and open the door for you. He would tell you that only a man worth keeping would open your door for you.

You smile at the memory.

You hear the doorbell and Mia seems to fucking giggle. She's truly living vicariously through you.

You walk to the door and open it to Steve who is wearing a black suit with a black button up underneath, he looked good.

"Woah-You look breathtaking, angel." He smiles.

"Thank you," You slightly whisper, "You don't look so bad yourself."

His smile seems to widen. Then his eyes drift to something behind you, you follow his gaze. "You don't have to hide, Mia."

You were surprised he remembered her name from the one time you mentioned it in a story, usually saying 'my roommate'.

"Hey, Steve." She walks out of the doorway she was hiding in, "'m not hiding, just watching from a distance."

He gives her a playful look and she just retreats to her room with her head down. "Oh, before I forget, here."

He shoves a black card into your hand. "It has twelve thousand on it, after tonight it might be closer to twenty."

"W-what?" You laugh nervously, "I thought you were joking about that whole thing."

"I'm a man of my word." He thrusts the card closer to you and you slowly take it with slightly shaky hands, "Shall we go?"

You smile and nod after shoving the card into your crossbody bag. He grabs a hold of your hand, guiding you down the stairs in your heels.

The drive was silent underneath the low sound of music from the stereo.

You travel downtown in no time and Steve drives the care into the line of the valet.

"Alright, I will be bombarded with work questions. Feel free to have as many drinks as you require, I will take you home tonight, so if it's just that painful, feel free drink your annoyance away."

"It's okay, Steve." You place your hand on his thigh, calling his rant to a stop. "I'm sure I'll be okay, you should meet my family, If I can deal with them I can deal with anything."

"Alright then." Steve nods and he looks down to his lap, that's when you pull away your hand, realizing that you had left it there.

You two join hands after he rounds the car, he helps you out and guides you up the stairs into the ballroom. The ballroom… It looked ancient, golden and white, sculptures and paintings on the ceiling. The white tiles floor is covered in circular tables.

“Let’s dance, so we can avoid the grating voices of others for just a few more minutes.” Steve speaks into your ear, guiding you onto the dance floor. 

“Uh-Steve, I don’t know how to dance.”

“We must’ve gone over this, yes?”

“No.”

“Okay, that’s okay, close your eyes and let me guide you. Put your hand on my shoulder and in my hand and I’ll help you.”

You close your eyes and his warm arm settles on your waist, pulling you closer into him. The both of you dance in silence, you feel his body heat against your front, oddly comforting you.

Once the song comes to a close he guides you to your table that’s in the middle of the dinning section of the ballroom. There is a stage up ahead, with the ballroom behind, and the tables in the middle section.

You sat next to him and he called over a waiter, there were a few people that arrived before you. “This is Billy… and his date,”

Steve kind of leaves the question up in the air, not knowing her name. “Charisa.” She smiles, leaning over the table to shake your head, you see the way she pulls her shoulders together to accentuate her cleavage, but you try to ignore that, getting it, she’s a pretty woman.

“And Tommy and his wife Melanie.” He pointed to the next group, Tommy looked at you with a smirk, he was the man from the other night who refused to call you your name and you recognize Billy as the one who is seemingly allergic to scallops.

“We’ve met you before.” Billy points at you.

“Um, yes, I believe we have.” You smile with a nod, he gives you a smirk, like he knows all of your secrets, Steve rested a supporting hand on top of your thigh that is peaking out from the slit in your dress. “I think you came to the restaurant that I work at, one day.”

The table goes quiet, but Mealanie smiles, “Is this the restaurant that you went to that you said that they had the most delicious Steak? Because I want to have a group there some night, but it’s awfully full recently with the holidays coming up.”

“Yes, I do believe that that was that restaurant.” Tommy says, not breaking eye contact with you.

“I would love some help getting a reservation for it, I could do you a favor of course or repay you in some way, but I would be so appreciative.”

“Of course! I’d be happy to help.” You smile.

“Wonderful! I’d love to get your number or something so we can hookup!”

“Perfect.” You smile wider, it’s starting to hurt, you’re not quite sure how you feel about this interaction, but Steve calms your nerves by rubbing his thumb up and down your thigh.

“The waitress, Steve?” Billy laughs, shaking his head. You furrow your eyebrows, looking at Steve, he just rolls his eyes, squeezing onto your thigh.

“We’re gonna go make our rounds, okay?” Steve announced, standing up and taking ahold of your hand.

You and Steve make your rounds and you stay quietly at his side while he says hello to his business friends.

The next few hours were nothing but ‘hello’, ‘how is the family’, ‘my mom’s good, how are the kids?’. That when both you and Steve get back to the table, the auction starts.

“So since we’re not bidding on anything we’ll just sit here.” He leans back against his chair, swishing around his liquor in his glass. “Need a refill?”

“No, I don’t think I need to drink until I drop.” You smile at him, also relaxing in your chair. “I’m having a nice time with you.”

“I am too, sweetheart, It’s much less painful with you here.” He looks to you, giving you a lazy smile, his eyes seem to sparkle and you’re not sure if it’s the lighting or the alcohol.

“This is nice, Steve.” You send the lazy smile back.

“Yeah…” He trails off quietly, his eyes looking down for a moment, glancing at your lips, you thought you had imagined it but when he does it again, you know that you didn’t.

He leans in closer and when you feel like he’s about to give in and close the gap between you the man on stage loudly says, “I’ve got four hundred thousand, do I hear five hundred?”

You hear Steve sigh from next to you, looking toward the stage.

-

-

Taglist:

@glamourbabe17 @eddiesguitarskills @paradise-summertime @taeteddybear @strangerparks @ali-r3n @sunmoonandstars2000 @rvllybllply2014

(I tagged anyone that showed an interest in a part 2)

comment if you want to be added to the taglist or removed

likes and reblogs appreciated

[marinawolf]

[hi! work has been crazy but I finally found some time to post this. An angsty first kiss fic for all my supercorp girlies- hope you like it!]

A Revelation (Supercorp)

Lena may or may not have killed Lex, but she did it to save Kara. In the days that follow, she grapples with her confusing grief, her feelings for Kara and the knowledge that she would kill Lex over and over again to save Kara. (OR: Several times Lena wants to kiss Kara, and the one time Kara kisses her.)

(Almost 4K words of angst and fluff tbh)

It was one a.m., and the darkness of the night was only matched by the heavy weight in Lena's heart. She sat on her couch, her eyes fixed on her laptop screen, but her mind lost in the haunting memories of the events that had unfolded just two days ago.

The shadows had crept into her dreams, replaying the chilling scene that had changed everything, making sleep an unwelcome torture, which is why she was trying to distract herself with work.

Lex had made a sinister last move to ensnare her in his web of darkness. With the L Corp building held hostage, he had cruelly used Kara, her closest friend, as a pawn, rendering her powerless with dreaded kryptonite. Yet, even in the face of danger, Kara had displayed unyielding courage and loyalty to Lena, standing firmly between Lena and the loaded gun Lex aimed at her even as her strength drained away.

The situation had been impossible – Lex held a detonator in his other hand, forcing Lena to make an unimaginable choice. Save Kara, the woman who meant everything to her, or save the countless innocent lives in the building.

Every fiber of Lena's being rebelled against causing harm to Kara, but the weight of responsibility for those innocent lives crushed her soul. It was as if Lex had crafted this hellish scenario solely to break her, just as he had been broken by the darkness that consumed him.

In that desperate moment, Lena's mind became a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

But the woman standing before her, the one she was secretly in love with, was worth fighting for, worth sacrificing everything to keep safe. It was her fear for Kara's life that made Lena reach for the gun she had concealed, clutching onto the last shreds of hope to rescue both Kara and the innocent souls caught in the crossfire.

Time seemed to stand still as she pulled the trigger, the sound echoing through the air like a chilling proclamation of her resolve. The bullet found its mark, and Lex's body crashed through the window, disappearing into the night, but not before Lena saw the shock and betrayal in his eyes.

But no body was found, leaving Lena with the torment of uncertainty – had she truly taken her brother's life?

The days that followed were a blur of guilt and sleepless nights. The image of Lex's haunting face, juxtaposed with the memories of happier times, tormented her relentlessly. Every time she closed her eyes she saw the Lex she once knew – the kind, sweet big brother who had once been her protector, before corruption twisted him beyond recognition. It felt like she was being pulled apart by conflicting loyalties, torn between the darkness of her actions and the knowledge that she had ultimately done the right thing.

And now, as she sat on her couch at one a.m., her emotions reached their breaking point. Tears welled up in her eyes, ready to spill over. She felt adrift in a storm of self-doubt and remorse.

But just as she was about to be swallowed whole by her emotions, to be consumed entirely by the darkness, a familiar thud outside on her balcony drew her attention. Her heart, heavy as it was, skipped a beat as the door creaked open, and Kara stepped into the room.

Her radiant presence illuminated the darkness around Lena, a lighthouse guiding her through the storm. With her blond hair gently tousled by the night breeze and her brilliant blue eyes sparkling in the soft light of Lena's living room, Kara was a vision.

A heart-stopping smile graced Kara's lips, and Lena's brain short circuited for a second. Despite the turmoil inside her, she couldn't help but smile back, a small flicker of light in the shadows. Kara's presence always had a way of making everything else fade into the background.

"Kara, hi," Lena whispered, her voice barely above a murmur.

"Lena. How are you holding up?" Kara's voice was gentle, filled with genuine concern.

Lena's gaze, clouded with unspoken anguish, met Kara's tender eyes. The kindness and care reflected in Kara's gaze threatened to shatter the fragile facade Lena had constructed to hold herself together. She clenched her trembling hands, determined to suppress the overwhelming surge of emotions, and instead fixated on Kara's consuming presence.

"I'm okay, all things considered," Lena managed to respond, her voice laced with a hint of weariness. But she knew that Kara, with her unparalleled understanding, saw through the veil of strength Lena presented to the world. She could sense the tumult raging beneath the surface, the cracks in Lena's composure.

Without a word, Kara sat down beside Lena, her graceful form slipping effortlessly under the blanket Lena had draped over herself before she took the laptop from Lena's hands and gently placed it on the floor. The contours of her Supergirl suit accentuated her physique, offering a fleeting and welcome distraction from the weight of Lena's thoughts.

Kara snuggled up to Lena, a strong arm encircling Lena's shoulders, drawing her into a protective embrace. The proximity, their bodies pressed together, sent Lena's heart into a tumultuous frenzy. But amid the whirlwind of conflicting feelings, Lena found safety in Kara's comforting presence.

"I'm sorry about Lex," Kara whispered, her voice barely audible, "I know you loved him. I'm sorry you had to do what you did," she continued, her words a gentle caress against Lena's fractured soul.

The floodgates within Lena, already straining under the weight of grief and guilt, gave way. Tears streamed down her cheeks, unchecked and raw, as she began to sob uncontrollably into Kara's steady shoulder.

Kara responded with unwavering tenderness, enfolding Lena in her arms, holding her close as if to shield her from the pain that threatened to consume her. In that moment, Lena realized the true depth of Kara's understanding. Throughout the aftermath of the ordeal with Lex, others had commended Lena for her actions, expressing admiration for her courage and bravery. They had offered hollow reassurances, asking if she was okay after being subjected to such a harrowing threat. But none of them truly comprehended the complex tapestry of emotions woven within Lena's heart. No one had truly understood the agony Lena had endured—the impossible choices she had faced and the torment that plagued her every thought. None of them understood the profound grief that gripped her.

But Kara saw her. Kara felt her pain with a depth that no one else could fathom. And Lena loved her all the more for it, for the genuine empathy and compassion she showed without reservation. In that moment, as Kara placed a gentle kiss on her head, Lena realized just how much she depended on this extraordinary woman by her side.

Kara held her tightly and her hand soothingly caressed Lena's hair, offering a tender reassurance that she was not alone in her grief.

Her sobs eventually subsided, but Kara continued to hold her, their hearts beating in unison.

--

As Lena's tears finally subsided, she felt utterly drained, her body and soul exhausted from the emotional release. She found herself nestled against Kara's chest, their closeness causing her to short circuit again. As she lifted her head slightly, she couldn't help but notice how close their faces were, their lips almost brushing against each other. Lena's heart pounded in her chest, and for a fleeting moment, she entertained the intoxicating idea of closing that distance, of kissing Kara.

The intimate proximity sent a surge of anticipation through Lena's veins, her gaze fixated on Kara's enticing lips. They were so close, just a breath away from tasting the sweetness she had longed for. So close that she could feel Kara's breath on her own lips.

Time seemed to stand still as they sat in that charged moment. Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest, teetering on the edge of an exhilarating precipice, as she summoned the courage to bridge the distance and claim the kiss she desired.

Kara, still and unmoving, met Lena's gaze.

The seconds stretched into eternity as Lena's heart fluttered, desperately seeking the courage to take that daring step. But the weight of their friendship, the fear of crossing a line and losing Kara's precious companionship, held her back. Kara was there to offer comfort as a friend, and Lena wasn't willing to risk their precious bond. With a sudden, almost desperate movement, Lena sat back, wiping away her tears, and offered a shaky laugh.

"Ugh, I think I ruined your suit," she quipped, trying to diffuse the charged atmosphere that enveloped them.

Kara's smile was both tender and reassuring. "It's pretty impervious to most things, don't worry," she joked.

"Feeling better?" Kara asked gently, her concern still evident.

Lena nodded, her voice barely above a whisper, "Thank you."

"You should get some sleep, Lena. You look like you haven't slept in days."

A wry smile tugged at the corners of Lena's lips as she replied, "I know. I'll try and get some sleep tonight."

Kara stood up then, extending her hand to Lena, her intentions unclear to Lena in her emotional haze. "Come on, then," she said softly.

Lena was momentarily confused, her thoughts still tangled in the emotional web that had enveloped her. "Where?" she asked, her confusion evident.

"To sleep. I'm gonna stay with you to make sure you sleep."

Lena's heart skipped a beat, and a rush of emotions flooded her as she took Kara's outstretched hand. She followed Kara into the room, feeling a mixture of vulnerability and gratitude for this gesture of kindness.

Once in the bedroom, Lena handed Kara some sweats and a t-shirt, their fingers grazing ever so slightly in the exchange, igniting a spark of electricity. They settled into bed side by side, and Lena tried to control her somersaulting heart.

The comfort she found in Kara's presence was unlike anything she had ever experienced, a blend of safety and tenderness that wrapped around her like a blanket.

Despite the whirlwind of emotions that engulfed her, Lena finally found herself relaxing, her thoughts consumed by Kara. Kara's steady presence offered her a sense of peace and security that had eluded her in the restless nights prior. Listening to the sound of Kara's steady breathing, Lena finally drifted off to sleep.

--

Lena woke up to a soft light bathing the room, immediately noting the warmth enveloping her. As consciousness swept over her, she realized that Kara had cuddled up to her in their sleep, closing the physical gap between them. Now, Kara's body pressed intimately against Lena's back, her arm encircling Lena's waist. Lena felt the gentle rhythm of Kara's breath cascading over the nape of her neck, sending a surge of electricity through her veins.

In an instant, her heart pounded in her chest, the presence of Kara so near amplifying the intensity of her emotions.

The soft sounds of Kara stirring reached Lena's ears as Kara slowly woke from her slumber.

"Hey," Kara whispered in a sleepy voice, her words laced with concern. "You okay?"

"Yes," Lena managed to choke out, her voice catching in her throat. "Did I wake you?"

Kara untangled herself from Lena's embrace, allowing her to turn and face her. The sight of Kara, her eyes drowsy but still sparkling with affection, made Lena's heart skip a beat.

"Your heartbeat woke me," Kara explained with a soft laugh, her superhearing attuned to every nuance of Lena's being. "Were you scared or something?"

Lena's cheeks flushed, and she could only imagine how obvious her racing heart had been to Kara. Of course, Kara would hear her racing heartbeat every time. Before she could find a suitable reply, Kara stood up, and stretched. The hem of Kara's t-shirt lifted slightly, revealing a glimpse of her well-defined abs, and Lena's heart rate skyrocketed once again. She cursed her body's inability to calm down in Kara's presence. Lena could have sworn she detected a mischievous smirk on Kara's lips, but the moment passed without further remark.

"Coffee?" Kara offered, and Lena nodded, grateful for the distraction. She followed Kara to the kitchen, where she busied herself with the coffee machine. Lena watched her, captivated by the grace in Kara's movements and the effortless way she made a mundane morning ritual look like an art. She loved that Kara had made herself at home so easily, as if she had always belonged in Lena's apartment. The domestic familiarity made Lena smile.

With the coffee ready, Kara handed Lena a cup. As she took a sip, Lena couldn't help but marvel at how Kara's coffee always tasted perfect. She made it perfectly to Lena's taste, something that even Lena's trained assistants failed to do.

--

Placing her empty cup in the sink, Lena pivoted to find Kara standing closely behind her. Kara reached around Lena, placing her own cup in the sink. Their bodies pressed together, the charged atmosphere crackling with anticipation. Lena looked up, her gaze landing on Kara's tousled hair and sleepy eyes and she longed to lean in and capture Kara's lips in a searing kiss, to express the intensity of her emotions . The desire to taste Kara's lips, to bridge the gap between them, surged within Lena, a hunger she struggled to contain. And in Kara's intense gaze, Lena could have sworn that for a second she glimpsed a mirrored yearning.

Their moment was shattered by the shrill ring of Kara's phone, piercing through the charged atmosphere. Kara moved away, swiftly grabbing her phone with a groan of frustration. "Duty calls," she lamented before dashing into Lena's room and emerging once again in her Supergirl suit.

Before she could leave, Kara turned to Lena, the concern evident in her eyes.

"Will you be okay?" she asked, softly.

Lena nodded, her heart aching, "I'll be fine. Just be safe."

"I'll be back later," she promised, and Lena knew she would anxiously await Kara's return.

As Kara disappeared into the sky, Lena found herself wishing she had seized the moment, wishing she had kissed Kara before the day took them in different directions, but she was too afraid. Time and circumstance, and her own fears, always conspired against her.

As soon as Kara's presence dissipated, Lena's sanctuary crumbled, leaving her adrift in a sea of restlessness and longing. The haunting image of Lex's face returned to torment her once again. Lena sat down on her living room floor and closed her eyes, seeking solace within the darkness, grappling with the demons that relentlessly haunted her soul.

--

Lena's world felt shattered as she remained huddled on the living room floor, her thoughts consumed by the overwhelming weight of guilt and uncertainty. Her mind was a whirlwind of torment, constantly questioning whether she had truly killed her brother, or if he was still out there, a looming threat, plotting his next move. Each possibility carried its own brand of torment, but she didn't know which outcome would be worse.

Lena could sense Kara's presence behind her before she even heard her voice, and she realised then that she had spent hours sitting there, on the floor. Kara's arms encircled Lena, almost immediately calming the storm raging within her.

"Lena?" Kara's voice was soft, cutting through the haze of Lena's torment.

Summoning every ounce of strength, Lena managed to lift her gaze and meet Kara's eyes. "Hey," she whispered, her voice laden with weariness and vulnerability, "You're back." Kara's mere presence offered a glimmer of comfort amidst the chaos.

With gentle care, Kara lifted Lena from the floor and settled her onto the couch. Kneeling before her, Kara's eyes bore into Lena's, their intensity captivating her. Lena yearned to lose herself in the depths of Kara's gaze.

"Lena, I know you're hurting. What you had to do—I can't even imagine having to do something like that. But I need you to know that it's not your fault, okay? Lex made his choices, and he chose darkness every time. And he tried to force you to choose darkness too, but you resisted. You chose to save lives, to save me." Kara's words penetrated Lena's shattered spirit, cutting through the darkness, offering some absolution.

Tears streamed down Lena's cheeks as she finally spoke.

"I killed my brother, Kara. My own brother. I should have tried harder to save him, to bring him back."

Kara sat down next to Lena and pulled her closer.

"You loved him, but he wasn't the Lex you knew anymore, okay? He lost himself a long time ago and he didn't want to be saved. Believe me, my cousin tried. And you saved so many people, Lena. I wish I could take this all away, all this pain, but all I can do is tell you that you didn't do anything wrong. And we don't know that he's dead. If he's still alive, I'll find him and bring him back to you, okay?"

Lena nodded, acknowledging Kara's words, and they sat in shared silence. Amidst the weight of her grief, Lena's mind wandered, considering the alternate path that could have unfolded. What if Lex had succeeded in killing Kara? The thought alone devastated Lena. She realized then, with unwavering conviction, that she would willingly traverse the same harrowing path if it meant protecting Kara. For her, Kara's safety was worth any sacrifice, even if it meant sacrificing her own life.

Finally, Lena mustered the courage to look into Kara's eyes, her heart laid bare.

"You know, if it meant saving you, I would do it all over again."

The words hung in the air. Kara's breath hitched.

Lena reached out, her fingertips gently caressing Kara's cheek. The moment crackled with an electric energy. However, the abrupt interruption of the elevator's ding shattered the intimacy of the moment. They instinctively pulled apart, Lena's desires restrained by the intrusion of their friends from the DEO, who entered Lena's apartment, their voices jarring against the backdrop of the emotional maelstrom that had enveloped Lena and Kara.

Lena couldn't look at Kara, afraid of what she would see in those eyes. So she stood up, plastered a fake smile on her face and turned to face their friends.

--

Hours had passed since her friends departed, leaving Lena alone in her apartment. She stood on the balcony, a solitary figure against the backdrop of the illuminated National City skyline. A mixture of emotions swirled within her, longing for Kara's comforting presence, even though she understood the demands on her friend's time. Lost in her thoughts, the sudden thud behind her drew Lena's attention, and she was shocked to see an exhilarated Kara standing behind her.

"He's alive," Kara's words tumbled out, rushed and filled with urgency, causing Lena's heart to seize in her chest. "He's alive. I found a camera pointing at where he fell, and the footage shows him getting up. He's hurt, but he's alive, Lena and I'm going to find him for you. He couldn't have gotten far. I'll bring him to the DEO, and we can figure out what to do from there. I just wanted to make sure you knew that you didn't kill him."

Lena's breath caught in her throat as relief mingled with disbelief. Lex was alive. Despite the pain he had caused her, a part of her couldn't fathom being responsible for his demise. But she didn't care about saving his soul any longer- She understood now that he had willingly given himself over to the darkness. She didn't kill him and that's all that mattered. And she couldn't bear the thought of Kara placing herself in danger for her sake. All she could think about now was Kara- how much she loved her. Kara was willing to face her own enemy, to save him, just for Lena's sake, to place herself in danger at Lex's hands just to offer Lena some relief. What had Lena done to deserve such unwavering devotion?

"Kara, I--" Lena's voice faltered, her words lost in the torrent of emotions coursing through her. Before she could find the right words, Kara cut her off, her voice laced with determination.

"And also, there's something I've wanted to do."

In an instant, Kara closed the distance between them, placing her hands on Lena's waist and capturing Lena's lips in a searing kiss. Shock and surprise coursed through Lena's veins. Kara's lips were soft yet demanding, a revelation- a thrilling revelation that Kara reciprocated her feelings, that their connection ran deeper than mere friendship.

As they kissed, tears welled up in Lena's eyes, spilling down her cheeks and onto their lips. The tears were not of sadness, but of unadulterated happiness, a release of the pent-up longing, years of yearning and the countless nights she had spent grappling with her feelings. She had longed for this moment, and now it was here, making everything else fade away. Time seemed to bend to their will, allowing this moment to stretch into eternity.

In that kiss, Lena poured all her hidden feelings, her love that she had guarded so fiercely, into a single moment of pure vulnerability. She felt her doubts and fears dissipate as Kara kissed her back with the same intensity, affirming that this was real, that her love was reciprocated.

Lena's hands desperately tangled in Kara's hair, pulling her closer. As the kiss deepened, the world around them faded into insignificance. There was only Kara and only Lena, and every hidden feeling now laid bare.

As they reluctantly broke apart for air, breathing heavily, Lena's voice trembled as she finally confessed,

"I love you."

And in response, Kara kissed her once again, with an intensity that spoke volumes.

And as they finally pulled apart, their foreheads resting against each other, Kara whispered,

"I love you, too."

[sleeplesssmol]

Reverse 1999 Analysis: Why did Jessica go with Vertin in the Green Lake event?

Note: This was originally an Ask but I feel like posts are easier to find in my messy blog. Also I can fix typos and make edits when new information comes out!

The answer to this lies in Blonney and Vertin’s proposals to Jessica. Blonney offered her a life as a human where she’d be forced to hide and Vertin offered a life as an arcanist where she can embrace her true self. The Green Lake event builds up to this conclusion in subtle ways more noticeable in hindsight. The main theme of the event is embracing your true self. This applies to Jessica as much as it applies to Blonney.

From the beginning of the event, we see how the humans treat Blonney. With limited access to the outside world, this gives Jessica her first impression of humans beyond Green Lake. They belittle and tease Blonney. In Jessica's eyes, Blonney is the most amazing person she knows (not that she knows many) and she still gets treated this way. Not only that but Blonney resented her arcanist blood because of this mistreatment.

If someone as amazing as Blonney is being rejected by humans, what hope could a Changeling like Jessica have fitting in? Instead, Jessica would rather make Green Lake a place they can be happy together. She expresses no desire to see the outside world.

Later, she meets Vertin and the others. She notes they are different from the people she normally deals with. They are arcanists who embrace their roots and the weirdness that comes with it. As the story goes on, the team falls into “roles”. Tooth Fairy is the mediator. Sonetto is the one who gets stuff done. Horrorpedia is an information bank. Vertin is the problem solver who puts all the information together with Horrorpedia's help.

While Jessica was acting the entire time, the team's reactions are genuine. Vertin being the emotional support after she kills the butcher and asking her what her wishes are later are genuine acts of kindness. Jessica even mentions she's grown to like Vertin when they are talking about wishes. This is important because while Blonney is lying to herself throughout the event (hating horror movies, denying her heritage, etc) everyone else has been straightforward and honest (too much in Horrorpedia’s case).

Then we have the ending. What makes Blonney and Vertin's proposals different?

It starts here:

Blonney tries to bargain with her without truly understanding the problem. Jessica explains that in the time Blonney was away she grew up and changed. She doesn't want to wait anymore.

Here Blonney tries again, making an offer she may not be able to uphold (parents). She lists a bunch of things she likes to do to try and convince Jessica but Jessica had a taste of the outside through Blonney's colleagues. Jessica brings up the fact one day her true form will be revealed and she'll be treated like a freak. She also doesn't understand a lot of the things Blonney is bringing up. Overall the proposal feels flimsy. Blonney is not only saying these things to try and escape. She truly wants Jessica to be happy too but she doesn't know how to accomplish this. Also, while Jessica loves Blonney a lot, it doesn’t negate the fact that up to this point Blonney has been in denial about a lot of things (though she shows a lot of growth). If Blonney doesn’t believe in her own words, how can Jessica?

Vertin tries another route with similar intentions. She walks Jessica through why it wouldn't work because even if she stayed, things would get stale for Jessica. Keeping people here is not the key to her happiness, it only numbs her loneliness.

Vertin the problem solver addresses her fears of rejection, loneliness, and boredom. After this, she brings up the crazy things she's seen around the world to entice her interest. She is not using discos or malls to convince Jessica, but instead the dreams she has of music, meadows, and arcanist tomfoolery. She is offering her the life of an arcanist not the life of a human like Blonney did. Blonney is beginning to embrace her heritage, but she still has that human lifestyle etched into her persona. The things she offered are more associated with humanity than arcanum.

Then Vertin says this:

She promised to give what she can offer. There are no grandiose claims like Jessica who thinks she can be everything someone needs or Blonney who wants to offer things but she doesn't have the means to realize them. Vertin is offering to do what she can. That is also why she is the only one able to make a promise. I don't even think Jessica used the word "promise" when she was making her offers meaning there is extra weight behind the word in her eyes. In Vertin’s department, she can truly be herself without fear of rejection or feeling like a monster.

Note: Jen and Jess are gay af for each other. I don't think Jess choosing to go with Vertin invalidates her love for Jen. Jennifer needs to come to the Suitcase once she graduates! Jess couldn't go to her, but she can come to Jess. It all works out!