#mention of bullying

[awakefor48hours]

Something I love so much about TOH is that it shows very accurate depictions of bullying. I feel like when it comes to bullying, it gets so washed down in most stories that it doesn’t make an actual impact to the story or the characters but it’s the opposite for TOH.

Camila was bullied for her interests and caused her to have a hard time growing up. Since she didn’t have the same support system that Luz did, she hid that part of herself her basement. Later when Gus and Hunter found it, she panicked.

When it was grudgby season, not only was Boscha allowed to bully and harass Willow, Luz, and Gus, she was encouraged to do it by everyone around her (students, staff, and even strangers).

Luz almost ruined her chance to date Amity because she couldn’t stand the idea of Amity potentially laughing at her. Also when she first met Vee, she got scared and panicked about Vee interacting with them. The bullying Luz endured was so bad that she would rather destroy an amusement park ride and talk to magic rats than get picked on.

Whenever Willow gets depressed, she reverts to calling herself the name that her bullies call her, Half-A-Witch Willow. This was also a big part of her slowly becoming suicidal and calling herself Half-A-Witch Willow was almost one of the last things she ever said.

The bullying in TOH is a very accurate form of bullying that you don’t typically see and it’s a nice change.

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 115: May 2018

The last three words of the note were the most terrifying ones. Melanie could handle Running down something for a statement, even if she really wished he hadn’t gone alone. She could handle Be back by nine, even if—maybe because—she didn’t know what time he’d actually written it. She could even handle NOBODY PANIC, underlined seven times, because at least he’d been smart enough to know that leading off with that was the surest way to cause panic.

But Love you all—that was low-key terrifying in a way she couldn’t adequately explain. Martin didn’t just write things like that. He said it all the time, of course, and he meant it, but for him to write it in the letter like that…Melanie couldn’t shake the feeling he was writing it in case he never got the opportunity to say it again.

Which was silly. It was the rest of them that were in danger outside the Archives, not Martin. Sure, things would probably want to get at him—he was the Archivist, after all—but also, he was the Archivist, he could handle himself just fine. Gertrude Robinson had survived fifty years, and she’d done it more or less on her own. Surely Martin would last at least that long, if not longer, since he had all of them supporting him. And he wasn’t stupid, she told herself. If he’d thought it was truly that dangerous, if he was worried something might happen to him, he’d have waited until the rest of them woke up. Or if he felt like it couldn’t wait, he’d have woken someone else up to go with him.

She tried to quell the niggling feeling that, actually, he probably hadn’t thought that far ahead.

It was early enough that they could all pretend the Institute’s quiet stillness was because nobody else had arrived to start the workday yet rather than the Lonely’s influence, but late enough that even Sasha was awake. The cats had been fed and were chasing one another around the Archives—even Nod was awake and participating in the game. Melanie had managed to convince Jon to let her do something about his hair and wrestled it into something approximating a braid. Sasha and Tim had put together breakfast for everyone and were currently engaged in an argument with Gerry over why he needed to eat actual food and not just pass it up because he didn’t get a lot of sustenance out of it.

“You wouldn’t let Martin get away with this,” Tim finally pleaded, setting the squat bun in front of him. “Just…at least pretend you’re eating something.”

Gerry nodded at Melanie and Jon. “They’re not. And they actually need food.”

Melanie looked guiltily at Jon, who had the same expression on his face. She hadn’t realized she was too worried to eat properly, but…

“We’ll wait until Martin gets back,” she said decisively. “It can’t be that much longer now, can it?”

“He said he’d be back by nine,” Jon said, a bit uncertainly. “It’s only quarter to eight.”

“You know Martin. He said ‘back by nine’ as a really, really outside chance. He’ll be back any minute.” Melanie spoke with as much authority as she could muster. It wasn’t so much that she believed it as it was that she needed it to be true. The longer he was gone, the more she worried about that Love you all.

Jon didn’t look particularly convinced. He cradled his mug—cocoa, not tea, Melanie had decided they both needed it after seeing the note—and pressed it to his lips, but didn’t take a drink. He seemed to be staring at a point in the middle distance, or perhaps at the past, or perhaps simply willing Martin to appear by sheer force of thought. Suddenly his eyes focused on something in front of Melanie, and he lowered the mug with a frown. “Were you recording?”

“No, I haven’t recorded in ages, why?” Melanie followed Jon’s gaze and blinked in consternation. Sitting in front of her was a small handheld tape player.

But not just any tape player.

“What the fuck?” she said softly, reaching over to pick it up. Without conscious thought, she slid her hand under the frayed strap of PVC canvas and curled it around the black plasticine back. She traced the scuffed and faded red front with trembling fingers. “How…?”

“They turn up all over the place,” Sasha said with a shrug. “I’ve never seen that one in particular before, but they just tend to turn up.”

“No, I know this one. This was mine.” Melanie turned it over slowly, and sure enough, there it was, scratched onto the bottom in sharp, angular letters: MELANIE B KING. “It was my last Christmas present from Alastair. I had this huge collection of punk tapes I got at swap meets and charity shops, I used to listen to them all the time. But it quit working after a few years and by then everything was on CD anyway and…”

It wouldn’t work. It couldn’t work. It had to be just a broken piece of junk, and how it had ended up on her desk she had no idea. There wouldn’t even be a tape in it, and if there was…

She hit the EJECT button. The tape deck slowly puffed open, revealing a tape that could easily have been an underground band’s demo but could just as easily be a statement. Either way, it looked like it was about halfway through the tape, so at the very least, she could take a listen and see if it was worth rewinding. Scarcely knowing what she was doing, she pushed PLAY.

Gertrude Robinson’s voice came through, sharp and clear. “Get out of my Archives.”

There was a click, which made Melanie think the recorder had stopped, but then someone took a deep breath and Martin’s voice began a summing up, and she realized it was something he had listened to and made a recording of. His brief supplemental made her glad she hadn’t listened to it.

Then he said the words Hill Top Road, and she suddenly felt nauseous.

She jerked open her desk drawer and began rummaging through it as quietly as she could while still listening to the tape. Tim’s lips pressed into a thin line as Martin started enumerating all the ties the lot of them had to Hill Top Road, especially when he started listing off the Entities they knew had been active there. His revelation that the Dark had been what was after him struck her like an almost physical force, momentarily stilling her explorations, and she could tell from the long silence after he revealed it that it had struck him just as hard.

Then he recovered and spoke in a voice that sent a chill down Melanie’s spine, for reasons she couldn’t explain. “Right. I think this is a thread I need to pull. I can make the next train to Oxford and probably be back before everyone wakes up properly. It’s time to finish this once and for all. I’m heading to Hill Top Road.”

Click.

“Fuck,” Gerry spat. His hands were trembling. “Of fucking course it was the Dark. He wasn’t afraid of us leaving him behind, it was because he stopped to wipe off his glasses—I should have guessed, back then that was one of his biggest fears…”

“Martin? Afraid of the dark?” Sasha said incredulously.

“Of going blind. He’s worn glasses since he was three, and every year the glass gets thicker—he was afraid he’d eventually—” Gerry broke off. “Where the hell did you get that?”

“Aji Susie.” Melanie thumbed the switch on the password journal her mother’s youngest sister had given her at the funeral—you deserve a secret place to put your secret thoughts—that she’d never used until she started working for the Institute. She rattled off an old Cantonese tongue twister, and the journal opened with a faintly warped beeping sound, exposing the actual notebook.

Melanie’s written Chinese wasn’t going to win her any scholarship prizes, and probably even someone who read it properly wouldn’t be able to understand hers—she was sure there were errors in her characters that changed them from what she’d actually meant to write into something wholly inappropriate—but it served her purpose, which was to make notes about things she didn’t want anyone else to know about. She paged through a bit until she found the section she’d marked off to write down notes about all the statements around Hill Top Road. The first time Martin had mentioned it, she’d made the connection to the Halloween party and decided that might be something worth being concerned about, so she’d started jotting it down every time it came up and trying to make connections.

“Ivo Lesnik,” she murmured, running her fingers down the characters. “Desolation with hints of the Web. Father Burroughs, he felt the Desolation but something had already Marked him, so whatever that was he brought with him, probably the Web. Ronald Sinclair, opposite of Lesnik’s, heavy on the Web with the appearance of Agnes Montague as the Desolation. Anya Villette, definitely the Web, maybe a bit of Spiral flavor…shit!” She read her notes twice to make sure she wasn’t mistaken.

Jon had suddenly gone ashen, which told her he was thinking the same thing. “Anya Villette. Didn’t she mention a crack in reality? And we couldn’t find any record of her existing. You don’t think—”

“There’s no basement in that house,” Daisy said. She shrugged uncomfortably at Melanie’s look of surprise. “I’ve been trying to clean up the bits Basira left unfinished when she…went upstairs. Found her notes on that one a couple weeks back. Took me a while to figure out what she was getting at, but I pulled up the house plans. Poured concrete foundation. Something about a fire risk.”

“So he’s probably not in another reality,” Tim said. “Which is great. But you’ve mentioned the Web four times in a row. And whether he meant to or not…”

“There were an awful lot of Web-based metaphors in that summing up of his,” Sasha completed. “Why did he even need to go?”

“We’d have to listen to the statement to figure that out,” Gerry said slowly. “Probably.”

Melanie slammed her password journal shut and stood. “Right. You do that.” She turned and started across the Archives.

“Where are you going?” Sasha asked, sounding bewildered.

“Where do you think?” Melanie demanded without turning around or slowing down. “I’m going to find Martin.”

“Melanie, wait, I’m coming with you.” Jon scrambled after her and caught up halfway to the door.

“Neens!” Tim’s voice was sharp and commanding. It actually stopped Melanie in her tracks, and she turned around—just in time to catch the set of keys Tim had thrown at her. He looked worried but resigned. “Take my car. You’ll get there faster. We’ll try to get hold of him. Just…be careful.”

“Sure.” Melanie jangled the keys and continued out the door.

The first part of the journey was done in relative silence, with Melanie concentrating on getting out of London as fast as possible and Jon concentrating on not letting the seatbelt cut him in half when she took a turn too fast. Once she hit the M40 and the more or less straight shot to Oxford, and had time to think again, she said, “Martin’s was blue.”

“What?” Jon started and turned to look at her.

Melanie didn’t take her eyes off the road, which would have been dangerous at the speed she was driving, but she watched him from her peripheral vision. “The tape recorders. Alastair—Granddad—that’s what he gave all three of us for Christmas that year. It surprised all three of us, because he usually gave us each something different, something a bit more personal, but…he’d just had a stroke, so we assumed he hadn’t been feeling well and went for something easy. Martin’s was blue. Gerry’s was this weird mustard yellow, I think.” She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel briefly. “Martin used to record himself practicing his pieces on it, and later on he’d record his poems sometimes. Dunno if Gerry ever used his.”

Jon hummed briefly. They traveled a bit further in silence before he said quietly, “He hasn’t told me about the Halloween incident yet. I guess he didn’t want to think too hard about the Lonely, but…if it was the Dark…”

For a moment, Melanie debated telling Jon that it was Martin’s to tell, but…really it had been all of them, and it wasn’t like Martin would get mad if she did. Probably. “We’d gone to a party. Mum and Dad met in a support group for single parents, and one of the other parents hosted a party at her dad’s house on Hill Top Road—not 105, it was something like 118—for Halloween every year. I found out later it was inspired by the Agatha Christie book. Anyway, the year before Mum and Dad got married, they agreed to let Gerry be the responsible one for the three of us, so we went alone. I loved Halloween back then, loved getting to dress up and be—something I wasn’t, you know? The party was fun—or at least I was having fun—games, dancing, spooky stories, the lot. They were getting ready to do a snap-dragon—”

“Is that the game where you try to snatch raisins out of a pan of burning brandy?”

“Yeah. Martin was right, it would’ve been dangerous with my costume. I was dressed as the Beast—you know, from the Disney movie—and I had way too much fake fur, I definitely would have gone the way of the king and his cronies in ‘Hop-Frog.’ Anyway, we didn’t end up doing it, because Gerry grabbed us right before it started and said we had to go.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t say then. Later, when we finally made it to the train and were on our way home safe, he told us he’d overheard two of the girls in the washroom talking about how annoying I was, saying they’d only invited me because Martin wouldn’t have come without me, that kind of thing, and it got his back up, so he dragged us both out of there.” Melanie sighed at the memory. She’d idolized both Judith and Helen, tagging along after them like a puppy on the rare occasions she wasn’t spending time with her brothers, and finding out they’d been secretly laughing at her the whole time had hurt—not as much as it would have if she hadn’t been so relieved they made it out, but enough. “We cut across the park. It was raining to beat the band, and Gerry and I were under the umbrella—Martin had this big old coat on as part of his costume that kept him dry enough, so he was trailing along behind. We were holding hands, but…well, I had gloves on, and it was so cold I was going a little numb, so I didn’t notice at first when he let go and stopped to wipe his glasses because he couldn’t see. I realized we’d lost Martin somehow—and we shouldn’t have, we were in an open field on top of a hill—so I made Gerry stop. We went back for him, but…everything got so far away and muffled. We were shouting his name, but he couldn’t hear us, or we couldn’t hear his answer, and…” She swallowed hard.

Jon swallowed, too. “How—how did you find him?”

Melanie glanced at him briefly as she changed lanes to go around someone who was driving sensibly under the conditions. “Started singing.”

“A sea shanty?”

“Heh. No, we hadn’t started using those yet. It was ‘Somewhere Out There.’ You know, from An American Tail.” Melanie took a deep breath and started singing. Her voice was better than it had been at nearly ten, but the song was a bit higher than her usual range. “Somewhere out there, beneath the pale moonlight…someone’s thinking of me and loving me tonight…”

Jon nodded and surprised her by singing the next line, quietly enough, but with absolute sincerity. Melanie jumped back in when her part came around again and knew they were both thinking of it bringing them to Martin.

The rain had stopped, sort of, by the time they got to Oxford, but it was still grey and gloomy and, in Melanie’s opinion, mildly foreboding. She pulled Tim’s car to a stop in front of a house with a sign proclaiming it to be for sale, two houses down from their destination, then paused with her hand on the gear shaft, staring at the shrubbery.

“Jon?” she said quietly. “What’s today?”

Jon blinked at her, obviously confused, the door half open. “The twenty-fifth, why?”

“Just wondering.” Melanie’s sense of foreboding only increased.

She stepped out of the car, locked it, and put the keys in her pocket. Before she followed Jon up the block, though, she reached over and snapped a lilac bloom off the laden bush in front of her, then tucked it behind her ear.

105 Hill Top Road was a perfectly ordinary house. Two stories with what looked like a half-story on one end, no porch, a poured concrete foundation as Daisy had said. It was painted an innocuous grey, the door a slightly faded red. There were no curtains, no shutters, and no lights. For all intents and purposes, it was completely abandoned. For a moment, they stood at the end of the walk.

Jon stared up at the house. “Martin would hate it if we gave in to Fears trying to claim us just to save him.”

“Yep,” Melanie said, eyeballing the door.

“But he’d be the first one to bind himself to something in order to protect us.”

“Yep.”

“So we’re going in.”

“Yep.”

“Whatever it takes?”

Melanie met Jon’s eyes and saw her own feelings reflected there. “Whatever it takes.”

Jon nodded. “Good. Just so we’re on the same page.” He frowned and touched the lilac behind her ear lightly. “What’s this?”

Melanie shrugged. “‘Makes a spanking plume, even if you can’t eat it,’” she quoted.

“Oh.” Jon obviously didn’t understand, but just as obviously, he seemed to get it. He turned around and reached for a lilac bush nearby, hesitated, then shifted to a different bloom and broke it off. As he was tucking it into the end of his braid, Melanie spotted the cobwebs, sparkling with rain, spread over most of the shrub.

Great.

She squared her shoulders and reached into her jacket. “Full frontal charge, or are we trying to be subtle?”

“Because that worked so well when we tried it at the Trophy Room.” Jon balled his hands into fists. “Let me be the one to slam face-first into the wall this time.”

Either Jon had better luck than Melanie did or whatever was in here wanted them to come, though, because the door opened easily under his hand. Melanie drew her trusty knife as they stepped in and closed the door behind them.

The interior of the space was actually quite nice; if not for the long commute, and the fact that the Web had too much to do with it, Melanie might have been tempted to find out how much it was per calendar month. The walls were painted a delicate shade of cream, the floors seemed to be genuine hardwood rather than laminate, and the light fixtures were quite nice as well. There was no furniture in the house, unsurprising as nobody lived in it, but it didn’t look terribly abandoned.

Except for the thick layer of cobwebs.

“When was this house built again?” Melanie asked. Despite her earlier thoughts about subtlety, she kept her voice low. It seemed appropriate.

“2008,” Jon said, and he, too, barely spoke above a whisper.

“Ten years’ worth of cobwebs would be a lot,” Melanie said. She heard the lie as soon as it was out of her mouth and added, “But this isn’t natural.”

“No.” Jon looked around, gnawing on his lip. “I wonder…”

Slowly, carefully, he reached out and brushed one of the cobwebs, almost like he was plucking the string of a guitar. He stood stock-still for a minute, almost like he was listening, then huffed a humorless laugh and shook his head. “I don’t know why I thought that would work. I’m—I’m not part of the Web. I thought if I gave in a little…but, but I don’t know if I can use what’s here without giving in a lot.”

“I’ll keep you from falling too far into the manipulation if you keep me from going full red rum on whatever we find in here that isn’t Martin.” Melanie looked around the room, then grabbed Jon’s arm tightly. “Look, over there!”

Jon looked in the direction she had indicated. “Stairs. You think they’re on the upper story?”

“Positive. It’s a spiral staircase.”

“You think the Spiral is involved too?”

“No, Jesus. Don’t you know the poem?” Melanie started dragging Jon towards the stairs.

“Poem?”

“‘The Spider and the Fly.’ It’s the third line. ‘The way into my parlor is up a winding stair / And I’ve a many a curious thing to show when you are there.’”

Jon swallowed. “I, ah,    take it that doesn’t end well.”

Melanie paused on the first step and smiled grimly at Jon. “‘Oh, no, no,’ said the little Fly, ‘to ask me is in vain / For who goes up your winding stair shall ne’er come down again.’”

“If Martin’s up there…” Jon looked up, then stepped onto the stairs himself. “Let’s go.”

The upstairs hall seemed just as abandoned as the ground floor, albeit shorter. There were doors on either side, firmly shut, and at the very end of the hall a door that stood ajar. Melanie glanced at Jon. “I hate being led.”

“Me, too,” Jon agreed, “but I also don’t want to waste time. If Martin’s here, he’s in there.”

“Agreed.” Melanie sighed. “Spooky door ahoy.”

She thought she was prepared for whatever she would find in there. She wasn’t.

The first thing that struck her was the size of the room. It was a bare, unfinished gable attic that took up fully half the upper story, with a high roof that extended further—the source of the potential extra half floor they’d noticed from the outside—and unlike the other rooms had only a single high window, through which only the weakest of light came through. In fact, the room looked far, far older than the rest of the house, a feeling that was only enhanced by the cobwebs. The second thing that struck her was the woman standing a few feet away, watching them with a playful smile on her face. She was quite pretty, really, with dark skin, bleached blonde hair, and what looked like a short lace veil covering one side of her head. Other than that, the only thing she wore was a kind of white gauzy scarf that wound its way around her and only barely concealed her breasts and genitals. In each hand, rather incongruously, she held what looked like some kind of wands, and she almost looked like she was posing for an artist.

The third thing that struck her was the enormous thing dangling from the ceiling.

To call it a thing was a bit of an injustice, really. It was clearly human, or at least human-shaped…and from the size, it was almost certainly Martin. But it—he—was entirely encased in a thick white cocoon of silk, wrapped up like…well, like a fly in a web. Rather than a solid cylinder, though, it was as though each limb had been thoroughly wrapped individually after being posed in a way that had to be painful. He dangled upside down by one ankle, the other leg bent to cross perpendicular behind the first, his arms seemingly bound behind his back but remaining akimbo.

“Martin!” Jon and Melanie yelled in unison. The thing that was undoubtedly Martin did not respond, but, thankfully, he was at least moving.

The woman laughed and stepped forward, slowly and carefully, somehow neither dislodging nor shifting the scarf that Melanie could now tell was also woven from cobwebs. Her low, warm voice was almost seductive as she recited.

"Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing; Your robes are green and purple — there's a crest upon your head; Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!"

Jon turned cold eyes on her, but Melanie could feel him shaking slightly. Still, he spoke bravely enough. “Who are you? What have you done?”

“Who am I? I’m hurt!” Poem notwithstanding, the woman’s eyes glittered with amusement. “Don’t you know my name by now, Jon? Can I call you Jon?”

“Does it matter if I say yes?” Jon’s hand found Melanie’s. “You’re—y-you’re Annabelle Cane.”

Melanie recognized the name—it had come up in a statement before she’d joined the Institute properly, and later there had been mention of a woman in statements that almost certainly matched her description. Definitely a Web avatar. She squeezed Jon’s hand in return as Annabelle smiled again. “I am. As for what I’ve done…nothing I wasn’t asked to do, I’m sure.”

“By who?” Melanie snapped. “The Mother of Puppets?”

Annabelle’s smile indicated they were sharing a joke, and Melanie felt slightly sick. “Do you really think I could have captured your brother if he didn’t want to be caught?”

Melanie stood her ground, with difficulty. “Yes.”

Annabelle laughed, but she didn’t argue with Melanie, which told her she was right. Jon’s grip on Melanie’s hand was almost hard enough to hurt. “If you’ve hurt him, I swear by all that is holy you won’t live to regret it.”

“Now, Jon,” Annabelle remonstrated. “What makes you think I want to hurt anybody?”

“He’s tied up in your fucking web!” Jon blurted. He yanked his hand from Melanie’s as he said this, balling his hands into fists once more.

“Is he? Look again. Tell me what you see.”

As much as she didn’t want to, Melanie complied. Something about the pose was familiar…

Annabelle began humming merrily. Melanie was about to tell her to knock it off, that she didn’t understand sea shanties at all and anyway that wasn’t a shanty, when the tune struck her. It was “Lannigan’s Ball”, a jaunty Irish folk tune…and one that had formed the basis for one of the songs on High Noon Over Camelot, her favorite Mechanisms album—Jon’s, too, it was one of the things they had bonded over that first day, and they’d both agreed it remained their favorite album even after The Bifrost Incident. She looked at the wrapped form of Martin again and knew exactly what it reminded her of.

The Hanged Man.

Melanie wasn’t super familiar with tarot. She’d had exactly one reading, just before leaving for college, and she’d honestly been a bit dismissive of it. But when she’d realized the songs on High Noon Over Camelot were named after tarot cards, she’d looked them up, and even though she didn’t remember a lot about them, there was one thing about the Hanged Man that had stuck with her: The rope keeping him hanging was not very tightly bound, and he could easily free himself if he wanted to. He was exactly where he wanted to be.

She glared at Annabelle. “You fucking posed him. I don’t think he could get himself down from there in the state he’s in.”

The gleam in Annabelle’s eye indicated Melanie had passed some kind of test. She swallowed down on the surge of anger that rose up in her. Giving in to the Slaughter wouldn’t be good; she might hurt Martin, or Jon, if she couldn’t pull herself back in time. Things felt…thinner here, harder to resist, and she knew if she gave in she wouldn’t be able to pull herself back.

Still, she tightened her hand around the handle of her knife.

“Maybe you’re right,” Annabelle allowed. “But I think he prefers being the one being there.”

“To what?” Jon demanded.

Annabelle tilted her head and studied Jon. Her smile now was almost pitying. “To you, of course.”

“Is that a threat?” Melanie growled.

“Perish the thought!” Annabelle laughed. It was an engaging laugh, the sort of trill you were tempted to join in with, but Melanie was more tempted to start attacking. “It’s the opposite, actually.”

“What?” Jon and Melanie said in the exact same tone.

Annabelle’s expression grew serious all of a sudden. She gestured to Jon with one of the wands, which Melanie realized now were knitting needles made of some kind of bone. “I hope you know this is for your protection. You wouldn’t like the consequences if Martin hadn’t chosen to do what he’s doing.”

Melanie tried very hard not to look at Jon. That was a little too close to the conversation they had had outside for comfort, and there had been an awful lot of spider webs. Annabelle had probably heard them. She was probably using it to manipulate them. That wasn’t happening. Not on her watch.

She brought the knife up to a usable position. Jon spoke before she could. She could feel how scared he was, but he sounded pissed. “His choice or not—or whatever you’re trying to claim—we’re taking him home. Now. Let him go.”

“I’m hardly keeping him captive.” Just like that, Annabelle’s mischievous smile had returned.

It took every ounce of control Melanie had to keep from going full Slaughter. She took a deep, slow breath and angled the knife forward.

“Get out of my way,” she enunciated clearly, “or it goes in your neck.”

If anything, that just made Annabelle smile more broadly. She didn’t say anything, just stepped grandly to one side. She kept backing away without a word, until she stepped into the mass of cobwebs in the corner and seemed to fade into them. The silence in the room, save their breathing and the faint creaking as Martin’s cocooned body fought to get free, told her that Annabelle Cane had gone.

Melanie took another breath, then looked over at Jon, who looked shaken and frightened. She didn’t blame him.

“Come on,” she said shortly. “Let’s get him out before he suffocates.”

[ilikealotoffandomsandstuff]

Mention of bullying I need to let it out school system is shit

I saw some girl that bullied me at school on the train I thought I would be fine….but I had a panic attack because of her I missed most of 5th and 6th gradthe because I was so scared to go to school also in 7 gradthe it got worse but I defended me what did got from it? I got suspended with them. The whole schook knew I got bullied for years and what did they say? „Handle it own your own“ or they ignore like okay they throws water over me called me names tried to trick me someone had a crush on me obviously I didn’t belive it. They throwed my usb at the trash I needed for school and my sport clothes too called me names threatening me i told the school that what did I got? „Don’t be a sneak“ like sorry i was scared for my live. School system is shit and has to change. The school did nothing!

[jourquet]

i'm self-taught in most, and i totally get it. people tend to gatekeep skills (i won't, i can teach graphic design to my level and also help with english where need be, etc). i've always shared the philosophy of sharing knowledge. like the old greek philosophers did. bullying made most of my school days useless. but instead of not ending up completing high school as that class did, i picked up the books myself and taught myself reading on my own. now, most of my bullies are off-grind, unpopular, and toxic to people around them. is why i could come off as a native-english speaker online when i'm not. hell, i barely passed my english classes in second grade. but you wouldn't know unless i told you. because i've reached a high skill. is why i dislike people who come of as patronizing or saying my english is "simple". not everyone got the chance to learn from the best teachers or had good classes to stay in. i hate that attitude. we can all learn from each other. arrogance is a huge turn off, i don't care who you're. if someone makes me feel invalid, i'm leaving. i can't be bothered with people who act like they're the best and only right ones. there is the door, and i'm not opening it for you.

Not enough jobs are willing to do training anymore, no matter what the situation. Grocery stores won't teach you to work a cash register, businesses won't teach you how to use their programs, even the arts won't teach you anything

Everyone wants a triple threat, expects you to just have those skills. In the old days? you could show up to a random theater barely able to dance and they'd teach you, and then the incel living in the walls would make you a world class singer and actor and you'd be headlining your own show in a few years

[aspenforest732]

Mortem ad Wrens Chapter 15: Our Brothers Must Bear

Summary:

tw: mention of bullying, gang relations (positive), drug use mention, addiction first patrol starts a little early

Notes:

‘text’ JSL Text thoughts

Akira leapt to their feet, snatching their journal, suddenly very aware of where their decoded notes were. Of where they were. Glancing out the window, Akira quickly confirmed that the nearest roof was close enough to warp if they needed to.

The door burst open as one of the monitors called out “Sir, there’s a bank robbery in progress at…” the man stopped as he took in the room. “I can send the backup evening patrol if you need-”

“No, we can go,” Fat Gum interrupted. After the man gave the address and left, he continued, “We’ll discuss this later.”

Torn between Aizawa being called and potentially carrying out the threat of expulsion and going on a mission when their teammates knew, Akira forced themself to nod and their feet to start moving as the trio rushed out of the agency. The early evening sun painted beautiful hues of red and purple across the sky as Akira ached to run along the rooftops. The group slowed as they approached the police barriers, and Fat Gum asked the situation.

“Thanks for starting a little early tonight,” a detective with colorful freckles said. “We’ve got two quirked individuals confirmed inside with twenty hostages. One of the tellers is following orders a little too exactly, so we suspect one of them has a Master quirk. The other’s quirk is unknown. Good to see you again, Suneater, and is this your new intern, Fat Gum?”

Mortis nodded, fighting to keep their face neutral. ‘I’m Umbra Mortis,’ they signed, Fat Gum interpreting.

The detective looked a little confused but shrugged. “Well, let us know if you need anything from us or want to talk with the perps.”

As the detective walked away, Mortis signed to Fat Gum, ‘Isn’t it possible that the second is under the villain’s control as well? I can try to get a higher angle to see their face, or I can warp in. I’ll have ten minutes of invisibility.’

“Try the higher ground first but be careful. If you can’t get a good look, come back here and we’ll discuss options.”

As they warped to the top of a lamp post, Mortis focused on their mindscape and noticed a new shadow next to them. Interesting… later. Mortis carefully crouched on the post’s thin head before leaping to the next one, testing their braces’ boost to cover the lack of momentum. There was a whisper of a whirring noise, but it shouldn’t be audible from more than half a meter away.

After jumping around a few spots, Mortis finally got a decent look at the second assailant’s face. With only the bottom half clumsily covered by a mask, Mortis took in the person’s face and posture and deemed them likely under the other’s control. Too-relaxed shoulders, blank eyes with an underlying tension, and gun in a death grip.

Ten minutes nearly up, Mortis softly made their way back to Fat Gum and stepped into their clone from behind. ‘The one with the hostages is most likely under the other’s control,’ Mortis signed. ‘His body language and eyes gave it away.’

“Do you think the control is weak enough to break with an emotional shock or blunt force?”

‘Unknown, although the victim is straining against the control so it’s possible the villain needs the appropriate distraction.’

Fat Gum nodded, and Suneater activated one clam and one octopus arm, what seemed like his usual shtick. “Stay behind us,” Fat Gum said. “I’d feel better if you were invisible, but don’t strain your quirk too much. Only engage if necessary.”

Mortis nodded, leaning up against a building before warping behind them and putting a hand on Suneater’s back. They paused briefly in curiosity as the constant burn they usually felt was still the moderate discomfort it had been since lunch. It did flare a bit with their active quirk use, but not nearly as much as what had become their norm. With his acknowledgement, the trio headed for the front entrance, and Mortis waited a moment before warping in through a window, dispelling their clone with the step’s motion. They’d still technically be behind the pair but in a better position to help if needed.

As Fat Gum rushed the first victim, Suneater extended his tentacles out to grab hold of the mind controller, only for him to freeze moments before he touched the man. Looking between the two, Mortis noticed that Suneater had met his eyes. Darting forward, they ducked behind one of the pillars before warping closer to the villain. Keeping their eyes around the man’s midsection, Mortis darted to the side and shoved him hard as a knife sliced at their costume. He stumbled, and the first victim started to slowly come to awareness, dropping their gun in the process.

Dancing back, Mortis saw Fat Gum directing the victims out the door while lightly shaking Suneater, who remained unresponsive. Mortis activated their capture scarf and snapped it out to coil around the villain, slamming him to the floor on his back. As the wind was knocked out of the villain, Suneater blinked back into focus along with the teller, and Mortis maneuvered the scarf to keep tension while leaving their shoulders, making it visible, before walking over to dispel their clone.

Fat Gum raised an eyebrow at the floating capture scarf, and Mortis acknowledged with a dip of their head that he knew they were keeping the villain occupied. ‘I wasn’t sure if he’d have control of quirks and him potentially controlling Sun Eater’s was quite dangerous, so checking the physical disruption theory seemed logical.’ Recoiling their end of the capture weapon, Mortis set the villain on his feet and covered his eyes with his own mask before maneuvering him to Fat Gum. ‘His quirk might be initiated on eye contact, and he either dropped his first victim by default or the connection was more tenuous due to being active for longer.’

“He also either can’t control quirks by proxy or was unsure how mine worked,” Suneater added. After Fat Gum checked them over for injuries, the trio made their way outside and handed off the villain to the police. They gave statements and filed capture reports before finally starting patrol now that it was 18:45.

“Most situations won’t put the burden of a judgment call on you,” Fat Gum explained while eating from a tray of yakitori. “Unless I specifically give you the choice as I did back there, remember to wait for my instruction to engage. Self-defense is permitted, but paperwork gets complicated when students use quirks without a license.”

Mortis nodded, munching on a few of the treats even though they weren’t hungry for once – usually a warning sign, now a sense of security. ‘May I ask a question about your quirk, Fat Gum?’

“Sure, kid,” he beamed.

‘Are you always hungry or do you constantly eat to keep your optimal percentage?’

Fat Gum laughed and Mortis cast a worried glance at Suneater, who just tucked into himself. “Most people don’t think to ask about the difference. I only get hungry when I’m running low on body fat and after patrols, so I eat to make sure I don’t lose ground. And you?”

Mortis shrugged, ‘I’ve always been hungry since I got my quirk. The only times I’m not are when I’m reaching the bad end of starvation mode, sometimes when people make comments about how much I eat, and since I ate lunch today.’

The heroes frowned, and Suneater said, “What do which people say?”

‘Mostly students from other classes, some random people, and Rich- one of the girls in my class. And they don’t say much, just comments about weight gain and not thinking about others with how much food I take.’ Mortis noticed their right hand starting to reach for their left so moved it beneath their costume to ground themself with the tassels instead.

Fat Gum stopped, rounding in front of them and kneeling to get on eye level. “Umbra Mortis, you have a good, brave heart and deserve so much more than the basic necessities.” At Mortis’s hesitation, he slowly put a hand on their shoulder, riding out the flinch. “You do. You’ve been dealt one of the worst hands in life, and I’m here to bring some good into it.”

After a moment, Mortis realized Fat Gum was waiting for a response and nodded, signing 'thank you' as they looked away.

As the large hero got up, Suneater asked, “Did the visualization help?”

Mortis grinned, pushing aside their confusing tangle of emotions for the time being. ‘I think so! I noticed something as I was warping, although I didn’t want to focus on it while there was an active hostage situation.’

Fat Gum grinned. “That’s great! And good judgment call, I know discovering something about your quirk can be a little distracting.”

Suneater offered a shy smile before hiding back in his scarf. They continued patrol for a few hours, busting a couple petty criminals, when Fat Gum got an alert on the Hero Network.

“Gang dispute,” Fat Gum sighed as he started sprinting in that direction. Suneater and Mortis quickly followed suit, the latter quickly getting frustrated at the sheer number of people who almost stepped into them. “Umbra Mortis, take the rooftops if you’re more comfortable, but stay close.”

Immediately, they did so as Suneater elbowed them to dispel the clone. Almost flying across the gaps, Mortis had to hold back to stay even with the grounded pair. They still arrived on scene a few seconds faster and observed the rising tension before warping back down next to Fat Gum and Suneater, dispelling their clone with some pocket sand.

‘No shots fired yet, but multiple Changer and Brute quirks active. 10 versus 8 over border dispute. Jets versus Sharks.’ Mortis quickly informed them.

“Leaders or lieutenants?”

‘One lieutenant on each side, quirks don’t have a visual component or aren’t currently active.’

Holding up a hand for Mortis and Suneater to stay back a pace, Fat Gum walked up to the entrance of the alley and sighed. “Haya, Hikaru, I thought it might be you two.” The closer lieutenant whipped around to face the hero, both faces flushing in… embarrassment?

What the hell? Akira looked to Suneater, who seemed done with the situation but still held a little tension.

Fat Gum put on a disappointed dad face as he continued, “This is the Jets’ week to protect blocks 14-16. If you need help remembering who’s supposed to protect this section when, just ask anyone from my agency. If someone got hurt, you know I’d have to report it, and remember your families for kami sake.”

Both lieutenants wilted and grumbled an acknowledgment, a few members looking confused as they dispersed.

‘You… work with gangs?’ Akira asked hesitantly.

“It’s more of a recent development, but as long as they provide proof of weaning people off drugs and sending them to hospitals when they can’t provide the needed help, I’m willing to work with them. They protect their own, and it didn’t take much for them to see the community as part of ‘their own.’ They also help report FQM and other dangerous activities from outside groups.”

Akira nodded, glancing at Suneater, who had a pensive but curious look on his face.

“You’re not concerned about that?” the boy asked.

‘You know what I come from, and you know what school I go to. How do you think I survived long enough on the streets to get in?’ As Fat Gum went to speak, they added. ‘It’s a good group, we protect our kids. We have a little more drugs going on than this situation, but none of the minors have access to them. I just wasn’t expecting a twilight to be so open about working with gangs. Usually that falls into more of an underground’s purview.’

“Has Eraser Head not taken you in? I know he’s helped vigilantes find placements in good homes before,” Fat Gum looked at them confused.

‘I don’t want to be more of a burden. I tried living with the partner and rehoming systems my group has, but I’m too expensive for most of them and bring too many risks for the others.’ Akira shrugged. ‘Eventually, I found it best to just live on my own.’

Suneater sharply sucked in a breath, “You were reworking your budget.”

Akira cringed but nodded. ‘Can’t get a legal, much less stable, job with just a P.O. box, and to get more of an address, I need a stable income or savings.’

“And U.A.’s assistance programs require an address and a guardian to sign,” Suneater murmured. Fat Gum looked perturbed, starting to say something before shaking his head.

The rest of patrol passed largely without incident, the trio only stopping a couple petty thieves and helping someone the older two seemed to know back to rehab. Akira tried to put thoughts of the Wrens out of their mind, but the nagging worry of now two people knowing the key to their past wore down the edges of their nerves as they grew jumpier than usual.

Notes:

Fun fact: based on how tall Kirishima is in comparison to Fat Gum, Akira at most comes up to his waist. I also googled Japanese street widths to determine that, especially since the opposing roof seems relatively close in the anime, the street size including sidewalks is at most 60 ft. I feel a little silly lol I decided to do that little collection of oneshots I asked if y’all wanted the other chapter, and I was thinking up a name. At first, I was like oh I can do a play on Memento Mori and do Memoirs Mori since their surname is Mori… wait. I double-checked the meaning of memento mori (remember you must die), and it finally hit me. Mori not only means “forest” in Japanese but “death” in Latin. I feel like my friend definitely commented on that once but it didn’t stick I guess lol I’ve got 3 ideas so far, 2 of which are or would have been canon and one is pretty light. Each short story will say where in the timeline it's placed (if at all), so check the summaries for tw and if you want to avoid spoilers I probably won’t get a sensitivity reading for them unless I feel a strong need to for particular ones. As always, I’m very open to feedback. If you ever have a concern or question feel free to comment or dm me.

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[chloesimaginationthings]

The real reason Michael has a British accent in FNAF…

[1ddiscourseoftheday]

Liam was a boy, and then a man, who suffered so much trauma and pain. He was bullied as a child and then lived a nightmare that I think none of us can really imagine of having that triggering experience replicated on a literally global public scale. He became a man who inflicted trauma on others. He was an addict who was unable to find a way out of that disease, and now never will, but who was open and vulnerable about his struggles. He was an incredibly talented musician and artist and an absolutely integral part of one of the most important bands of a generation; his voice and songwriting and skill in the studio shaped every aspect of what One Direction became at their best. He loved that band and being a part of that experience with his whole being and would never have stopped celebrating what they meant to us and to the world. He had problems and did bad things; that doesn't mean he was a bad person who didn't deserve to be loved and helped to heal- everyone deserves that- and the fact that that's not something that can ever happen now is devastating. I was very distressed by many of his actions; and I cared deeply about this man I didn't know and wished for better for him than this outcome.

I'm so deeply, deeply SAD tonight. I'm sad for Liam, who will never now have the chance to look back on this hard time and reflect on how far he's come, and for Liam's family, for his parents and his sisters who loved and supported him so much, and for everyone in the 1D band family and circles. And I'm sad for us. It feels like nothing will ever be quite the same, and that's hard and sad and shocking. It's a special kind of doubled grief, to mourn the loss of the person, and also of what he meant to us in this strange world of parasocial fanning, for the real him and also for the version of him that we made up and attached so much meaning to and for the escape that brought us. For him, and also for the easy uncomplicated joy of listening to those beautiful songs from happier times, which might never feel the same again. For the other boys, who we love so much and wish we could shield from suffering and loss and pain. For our fellow fans, who we also worry about the impact of this on. Everything about this is terrible, and I am sending so much love out to all of you. We are not alone, and it's okay to feel complicated emotions and it's okay to mourn and it's okay to care about how it effects you and your life, whatever you're feeling- it's okay. We are here with you. We are 1D family.

[a-most-beloved-fool]

makes me a little sad when star trek ignores IDIC. like. vulcans are logical. that is true. But 'logical', for vulcans, does not amount to 'without compassion,' and it definitely doesn't amount to 'racial superiority.' Belief in 'infinite diversity in infinite combinations' should NOT result in the weird racist/speciest stuff we're getting in some of the newer treks. It does make sense that some vulcans are discriminatory. They're still flawed. But that should not be common or expected, like it seems to be in SNW. If it is, then it's a race of hypocrites, which. doesn't seem very true to Star Trek's message.

I think TOS Spock does a pretty good job of embodying this. Not always, it was the 60s, after all, but mostly. He was often trying to find non-violent routes, and get by without killing - even if they were in danger or had already been attacked. (See: the mugato, and the horta (until Kirk was the one in danger, lmao. t'hy'la > IDIC), the Gorn ship). Kirk, in his eulogy, calls him the most human soul he's ever known, and I've always read that as Kirk calling out Spock's overwhelming compassion.

It's just so much more interesting when Vulcans get to be radically compassionate. I want them to believe that everything and everyone has value. I want them to respect all ways of being. I want them to find ways for even very non-humanoid aliens to exist unfettered in society. I want them to see hybrids and think that it's amazing. Also, like, disability rep. I want Vulcans to have The Most Accessible Planet and available resources because they want everyone to feel accepted and valued. It makes for better characters and more interesting stories.

[licollisa]

In which life ditched Jerry

(full version)

Bonus:

I thought it would be funny if Chara had some past grudge regarding Jerry, hence the mildly hostile narration in their encounter.

[langernameohnebedeutung]

school-bullying is one of those things where it's horrifying how normal it is and how we just accept it as a part of kids' lives. It's just one of those things that is considered entirely normal and we see it in media and sure, there's anti-bullying programmes and you do some seminars when you study to be a teacher - but that the fundamental core of it, it is entirely normal and expected that kids go through or witness severe physical, emotional, and sexual abuse in their 'workplace' and even if this is known and documented and on the record, it is not uncommon that they still have to work with their abusers and spend several hours every day in the same room with them, go on trips with them etc. And yes, bullying also exists in adult workplaces, obviously, but I don't think it is normalised to the same degree (a lot of people don't believe it exists for adults - meanwhile, think how basically every school movie features bullying as some aspect of every day school life). I just think it's up there with corporal punishment as one of those things people expect aren't that bad or serious when it happens to 'just children'.

[awakefor48hours]

"Being fat is SOOOOOO unhealthy. Just to make sure fat people know they're unhealthy, I'm going to bully them into an eating disorder to make them healthy."

[electoons]

I love the college of winterhold. everyone there is casually deranged and there's like an alarming number of students and staff who threaten you immediately when they meet you. it's always one of the first questlines I do. which makes it even funnier when you get made the arch-mage of the college. I'm level 12 and got through this questline knowing exactly 3 spells. what do you mean you want me to lead the college. this school CANNOT be an accredited institution

[beanzbeanz001]

Evolution of Micheal’s friend group (even tho it’s sorta mark focused whatever)

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Started a new book series, and has been a journey...an Odyssey, if you will.

[shokujin-art]

Was on the way give Whitney some milkshake, forgetting I was kidnapped for a week by Remy. Didn't expect the hug 🥹 —

[sharkenedfangs]

— ☆ “IT SHOULD BE ME, YOU LOOK AT — NOT HIM.”

#. — synopsis. this, he has to admit — is entirely on his part, for foolishly falling for such baseless fantasies, for stupidly expecting an ever-changing person to stay the same as he had intently molded to his desired shape.

#. — content warning! jealousy and possessive behaviour, handjob, some clumsy thigh job, lots of ‘darling’ and ‘doll’ thrown around, best friend yandere robin that may or may not be out of character, pushover male reader and mentions of whitney who robin claims is undeserving of you.

#. — word count? 3.0k words.

#. — extra extra! ashes snippets. : “..yeah, normal stuff.”

This, he has to admit — is entirely on his part, for foolishly falling for such baseless fantasies, for stupidly expecting an ever-changing person to stay the same as he had intently molded to his desired shape.

Yes, Robin should’ve known better than to mistakenly assume that despite the difficult circumstances at hand, you would’ve remained the same old you as he has always intricately known. Wouldn’t have long grown past the distant, forgotten memories you’ve shared alongside him in that filthy town you both grew up in. That vivid moment of instant connection as he so happily recalls back on it, the eventual development of your childhood friendship that gradually took on a completely different meaning for him. Inevitably bloomed into.. as embarrassing as it is to bashfully admit, an innocent crush. Love, in the cheesiest of terms.

All of which he so deeply cherishes, blissfully reminiscences upon, only to be thoroughly ruined, savagely ripped to shreds by one person, and one person only.

Whitney. Your newly found friend, you’d say. That local bully famously known for terrorizing a variety of poor students reluctantly attending the school. Yes, whatever is his name as if he’d bother to properly memorize it, whether or not it’s rightfully articulated in his mind. Not that he gives two shits about who is who, just that, well, beneath his evidently awful influence, you’ve seemed to have taken on that same shitty behaviour in turn, too. As younger friends usually do, following forth in their admiring, older figure’s footsteps, right? The instinctual need to impress, to seek out sweet approval from others nearby, yeah?

But, you’ve gotta understand, you’re really heading off in the wrong direction, here.

That nauseating scent similar to that of used cigarettes, the swirling cloud of smoke that should’ve surely surrounded your curled frame when standing so closely — far too close, in fact — next to the blonde. Disgusting, makes him wanna vomit to visualize the mere thought of you two comfortably acting so intimately around each other. Fag snugly tucked between the delinquent’s accommodating lips, friendly arm casually thrown around your shoulder all the while sweetly whispering utter filth in the shell of your delicate ear. Is that why you’ve been crudely stinking of cigarettes lately? Been frequently remarked by several acquaintances and other friends that the fabric of your attire smells awfully familiar? Because you and Whitney, your little, new ‘friend’ by the way, are in constant close proximity at all times, are sneakily concealing a hidden, sinful relationship underneath that underlying facade of an amiable bond? Is that it?

Would’ve that been in part, used as a reason for your noticeable shift in the absence of your calls? Cmon, your best friend or so-called one, isn’t a moron and y’know better than to have him decisively fall for such tactless excuses hurriedly tumbling out of your lips on the other end of the line. Busy, you unnaturally stammered. Had to tirelessly study for an upcoming exam was the next on the list, which he has to mask the subtle smirk of disbelief briefly marking his lips since you’ve never been much the studious type, have you? Huffing out a sigh of disappointment as you expectantly decline to another one of his proposals, an occasional offer to possibly hang out further down the line of this weekend, maybe?

‘Course not, a family outing had already been planned long before, stubbornly blocking his initial intentions simmering deep within the back of his mind, no matter how twisted it is to fervently lust after his supposedly close friend. Contradicting the very words you had dutifully uttered out on the day you were faithfully bound to depart, move out of this cramped place— “Promise I’ll call you everyday.” Yeah, whatever happened to that shared commitment the both of you had enthusiastically agreed upon?

Liar, you had easily given up on the engagement, hadn’t you? Hence why the lack of calls-in he awaited to receive were gradually declining to none at all, accompanied by the already limited interactions between each other. It was becoming increasingly clear you weren’t going to return his persistent check-ups for another update.

To say, he expected better of you. After that beaming grin you happily shined him back with time and time again, the one he had grown used to seeing whenever he came out of that run-down orphanage, only to be greeted by the sight of your form patiently awaiting for his arrival. Hand in hand, habit having thickly settled in, walking forward to the nearby school all while the years steadily passed by. Meant nothing to you, did it?

And truthfully, under any other position, the sanest decision to be made would be to simply let it go, to move past this unfortunate situation and obliviously pretend like none of it had taken place to begin with. Not whatever he has done— Consequently arriving to your doorstep out of the blue, hastily pushing past your exclaimed questioning as to why or how he’s suddenly decided to show up here. Why? Is there any real reason for a best friend to happily visit his distant own? Ah, another coated lie to plainly convince himself that whatever he is doing at this moment isn’t wrong, isn’t downright immoral to be sullying a dreadful stain upon your precious friendship like this.

Still, isn’t this what he’s been due lately for having been such a good, willing and patient friend for you? The ushered praises he’d like to intimately exchange with you in turn, falling short due to his drooling mouth currently being occupied by the tender flesh of your neck. Always been so soft— so damn fragile within his well-intentioned grasp, how he’s been longing to finally be given a taste of you. And now, he has.

Whether to greedily relish in your hitched gasps or muttered series of words in utter bewilderment of what he’s currently doing is beyond Robin’s feeble mind. Too caught up in the fact that you’re comfortably sat upon his lap, well— not necessarily the most convenient of seats, but he can contentedly make up for such a trivial matter, can’t he? Solely focused on pleasuring you over here, like a good friend properly should when occasionally visiting them, no? Cmon, he’s just being fortunate with the fact that he gets to witness this firsthand, beneath his watchful guise and heated palm steadily jerking you off. So, so cute..

Really make the cutest of expressions when you’re being so cruelly stimulated like this, but not without some hint of affection sneakily laced in his careful movements! After all, despite having been such a filthy, ungrateful friend on your part, he’s still faithfully serving you as best as he can.

Slippery glides of his tight held fist rhythmically stroking up and down, thumb discreetly hovering above the leaking tip to rub along your dribbling slit and coax out more beads of pre. Look at you, stupidly losing your mind over a mere handjob like some virgin prude who’s never been generously given the addictive touch of another in his life. Familiar fingertips desperately clutching at his shoulders for proper stability, as if that might actually reel your hazy mind against his softened coos, lazily circling at your sensitive head all the while.

“Does it feel good?” Huskily muttering in the shell of your flushed ear, acutely aware of the dizzying effects he holds upon you right this moment, this instant and, god— It feels so right. As if faith itself had initially intended for this to play out precisely as he had originally anticipated. Endlessly thanking the divine deities from above, not that he truly believed in religion to begin with, with his bleak upbringing up till now, but today, perhaps he will for lovingly gracing him with the adorable sight of your fucked dumb face.

Scrunched up features, furrowed brows deepening in pure concentration with the sole intent to hungrily drink in every minor detail, commit them to memory. The quivering of your rosy, pouty lips, scarlet flush adorning your cheeks to prettily match with the faintest of tints along the nape of your neck. Sheer embarrassment rendering your form immobile beneath his cupped palm, writhing legs deftly locking themselves further around his slouched waist.

And, the sounds— fuck, the sounds are honestly the best part he gets to excitedly experience with every steady stroke of his tightening fist, breathlessly gawking in awe at the staining mess of sticky slick smearing across the softened pad of his thumb. Strangled whimpers involuntary exiting past your lips, your helpless blabbering unfortunately muffled in the crook of his neck, that laidback demeanour of yours he’s grown used to knowing, now stupidly reduced to a mumbling mess. “R-Robin— ah, fuuu— s-slow down—“ Pleas falling upon deaf ears, gets his cock all achy underneath the tightening confines of his pants, straining bulge undoubtedly twitching against your sat ass who isn’t helping matters here.

That’s fine, though. Not only does he get to selfishly jack you off, there’s also the downright desperate opportunity to tentatively roll his hips upwards, frantically grinding his hot, soaking tip between your widening thighs to his content leisure like a dumb mutt in heat. Fuckin’ feels so good just to mindlessly hump away against your plush ass— wonder if you’d even offer him a thigh job in return if he were to consequently ask, ah— shit, he’d like nothing more than to be enveloped by that soft, warm heat, sneakily slide his throbbing cock in between the slim gap of your cum coated thighs and relish in your muted moans.

You’d like that, wouldn’t you? By the looks of it, eyes instinctively rolling to the back of his skull with a pouted huff since it isn’t fair, y’know? Not fair at all that you’ve been secretly hiding those pretty expressions of yours and adorable noises from him all along, selfishly depriving him of such a pretty picture he’s repeatedly visited in his perverted mind. Deceitful friend, aren’t you? It’s merely logical to reach for what was initially his from the start after all, besides what Whitney has flimsily offered you in the past.

Oh, but he can be so much better than that brute who savagely takes what he so pleases, gentler in his careful strokes to loyally get you off. Promise he’ll make you feel so, sooo good— hah, just give him a chance and that’s all it’ll ever take to decisively prove himself to you. Promise to provide you with nothing but utter pleasure as long as it means he gets to be only one to gaze upon you like this, witness your helpless ruin beneath his moving hands.

And, ah god— the things you do to him, no better than Whitney with how they collectively both leer at you in the same hungry manner. Impulsively shifting positions so at to hover above you, pin you further underneath his tight held grasp willingly refusing to loosen any more cuz’ no way is he letting you go from now on, ‘kay? Bitterly huffing over the crook of your neck, savagely panting like some dog in heat as he instead settles on spreading your legs apart for his viewing enjoyment and specially, with the intent of fucking himself between those soft, milky thighs and rub against that swaying cock. A whimpering boy, but you have the thighs of a girl— not that he’s necessarily complaining about that minor aspect.

“S-Sorry, I wanna— ah, make you feel so good. Make you feel so, so good for me.” Truth is, he isn’t sorry in the slightest nor does he feel any ounce of creeping remorse for his downright, desperate behaviour. Tumbling off in another direction entirely, a whiny mess just as much as you in his frantic thrusts accompanied by a shuddering gasp, clumsily fumbling with the hem of his jeans— stupid zipper, really — stripping himself bare before finally, plainly kicking his pants off to carelessly land amongst the messy heap of already spread clothes. There you are, darling. So good for patiently awaiting his next move, supple fingertips timidly curling in the softened fabric of his shirt. Needy baby needed Robin that bad?

He’d be nothing more than content to quell that quivering ache pooling in the pit of your tummy, leaking cock springing free, hefty weight resting against your own drooling dick to smear the melding globs of pre-cum together in a gasped moan. Effortlessly slipping his slicked length between the squish of your thighs, overly sensitive tip oozing pre and provokingly peeking out from the warm enveloping of your soft flesh tenderly wrapped around him. Just being neatly nestled in the welcoming heat of your thighs has him dizzy, hitching a held breath. What would it feel like to be fucking your hole instead? Ah, he’d cum on the spot simply from shoving it in, rendered dumb from the feel of those slippery walls tight around his throbbing girth.

“Push your thighs together for me, please— yeah, just like that. Good boy.” Wistfully whispering praises to you ever so sweetly, a tentative thrust of his and it’s all he truly needs to have him going. Quick, steady snap of his hips following suit with a shared whine spilling past each others parted lips, one hand securely placed around your hip to absentmindedly pinch at while the other rests atop your knee to easily guide himself deeper. “You really feel so good like this.. Ah, I should’ve done this sooner— hah, should’ve done it before he did.” Drooling mutt humping himself stupid between your shivering thighs, reflexively tightening in return from every sloppy buck of his hips against your backside, fat balls repetitively meeting yours in a sickeningly loud slap! to both audibly groan at.

If Whitney is the big, bad wolf deftly awaiting for your clumsy self to consequentially fall into his open maw, then Robin must be nothing more than a huffing puppy in a rut, practically mounting your heaving frame beneath his. Taking advantage of this cherished bond you’d dumbly call friendship when ultimately, a good friend probably shouldn’t be out here openly taking advantage of his own convenient status to slide himself between your legs. Crude, isn’t it? Yet, feels so fucking good— can you possibly blame him so for shamelessly moaning down the curve of your shoulders? Baring teeth instinctually seeking for the nearest source of relief which merely happens to be your sweat slicked flesh underneath his lolling tongue. Not wanting to be too rough either with your quivering figure, instead settling upon peppering warm kisses along the edge of your collarbone.

Plus, how could he so bitterly refute you when you hazily gaze upon his scarlet cheeks with glazed over eyes, glistening lips glossy with spit parted lightly just begging to be intimately kissed and pleasantly tended to. So very responsive in your every shivering twitch, cautious fingers carefully shifting up to cup your warming cheeks in his heated palm to have your pouty mouth eagerly accept his. Pink, wet tongue tentatively swiping along the puffy flesh of your bottom lip in a silent plea to further open up for him, mingling saliva pervertedly dripping into your wanting throat as you two share spit. The surprisingly soothing gesture of his thumb tenderly rubbing across your skin, sneakily coaxing you out of those crumbling walls you’ve narrowingly built around yourself, bit by agonizing bit.

Sometimes, one can’t help, but to eventually cave in when faced with ushered platitudes and cooed niceties wistfully uttered into his ear. Only human to break, isn’t it? Little doll. So— “Hah, shit— I think, I’m gonna—“ Helplessly sputtering off into a broken moan and maybe, it’s the way you breathlessly call for him in a meek ‘Robin’ like he’s all you could ever need — ah, what is he thinking? Evidently, he would be! — that has his hips stuttering, drawn further back where his sopping tip coyly rests at the edge of your plush thighs only to sloppily shove himself in one last time before sticky cum comes to coat at your tummy. Honestly, he didn’t mean to! It was an— ah.. accident that his cock automatically squirted out white strings of cum for you to pitifully whine at, intent on getting you off too as he deliberately reaches down to take ahold of your poor, neglected cock between his soft fingers. Just a bit more, a bit more.. Poor baby didn’t get to cum, huh? He can easily fix that, absently squeezing at the base of your cock, whining just as stupidly as you once he luckily catches sight of your contorted features, the wet squelch drawn forth from every clumsily made stroke of loosely tugging at the tip.

The things you do to him, shakily moaning in tandem with you from the sheer, puppy love his thudding chest occupies for you, bent over in a hasty need to finish you off and fuck, look so pretty when cummin’, darling— drawled out whine of a pathetic ‘wait!’, pulsing squirts of your cock shot out to add onto the already sticky mess staining your bare stomach, head dumbly thrown back in which he can’t help, but etch to his memory for later use. Isn’t this proof enough for you? Of his unrelenting devotion, sweetly planting a brief kiss upon each of your sticky with sweat fingertips in another display of his unwavering loyalty, need to throughly worship you for what you so prettily are.

“Only look at me from now on, okay?” And, if your wandering gaze does ever dare to stray too far away from his unmoving one, then, he could always forcibly direct it back to its rightful place, can’t he? You, in his loving embrace, supposedly where you truly belong in his wishful mind, deserving of every ounce of giddy affection he has to gleefully offer you with a tender kiss of his own. Cupped palm earnestly stroking along the length of your heated cheeks, so prettily pink for his selfish eyes to dote upon only. As it should be, little doll.

So, when he does boldly utter out an easy order for you, one meant to be readily followed and faithfully promised to— don’t break it this time, alright?

Because it’ll only offer him another, self-serving reason to continuously break you in return.