#only to do the psychological equivalent of being unable to get it up because he only want her

[extasiswings]

Currently rereading (via the audiobook) The Duchess Hunt by Lorraine Heath, and maybe it’s just enhanced by the narration but I had forgotten the sheer Comedy of Kingsland’s obliviousness at the beginning, wherein every time he mentions the fact that Pettypeace is handling his search for a wife someone is there to be like “…my guy…” #judgment because the only person who doesn’t know she’s in love with him is him.

[cilil]

𝓐𝓝 ~ So I have a Thuringwethil fic coming up soon (origin story kind of thing) that is heavily based on and will feature my own headcanons about the Void as well as Thuri herself, so I thought it might be a good idea to compile my notes and ideas for you guys to enjoy in one convenient place. I'll start with the Void as a general basis and the Thuri headcanons will be down below in the rbs.

.𖥔 Conceptually speaking, the Void is nothingness, and that's the extent of what most people, including most of the Ainur, know. Melkor describes the Void as a paradox, because due to other things coming into existence - Eru, the Ainur, later Eä and everything in it - it too is dragged into existence, as it can now be perceived and is even a place that can be visited.

.𖥔 As a thing that doesn't exist, the Void naturally doesn't come with a "consciousness" per se, but it is "content" in its state of non-existence, and only because other things have now started existing it becomes "active" itself. There may even be some sort of Eru-equivalent being inside it or associated with it.

.𖥔 The Void's first primitive "instinct" so to speak is to corrupt and devour matter/things that are. However, the Timeless Halls are safe thanks to the Flame Imperishable, the primeval light and power of creation that cannot be snuffed out, and Eru's ability to wield it. By extension light and fire in general are perceived as the essence of existence and therefore the enemy of the Void.

.𖥔 Generally speaking, beings with fëar or ëalar are at least somewhat safe from just getting consumed, since they were kindled with the Flame Imperishable and carry part of it inside them. The Void can, however, still cause quite a bit of damage through prolonged exposure - aside from its damaging influence, just the sensory deprivation alone is psychologically damaging - and eventually corrupt and/or feed on them.

.𖥔 If a living being with a fëa or ëala enters the Void, it may try to communicate and even manifest in some way to do so, but it's unlikely to do the latter if nothing has been consumed beforehand. On its own, the Void has little to no knowledge or understanding how to construct any sort of form since that is part of creation and existence which, again, is fundamentally against its nature.

.𖥔 The Void may also (unwillingly) come into existence when parts of it claw through the fabric of reality and enter Eä. Ungoliant is such a manifestation of the Void, a Void creature so to speak. The reason why Ungoliant is a spider is because she - the Void fragment that ended up becoming her - consumed a random creature she found (in this case a spider). The Void "learns" via consumption and assimilation. This is also why her unlight is different from darkness and gives the Valar a lot of trouble.

.𖥔 While fire and light are the main enemies of the Void and also the best way to fight it, they are also the main target of its attention. This is why Ungoliant didn't dare to enter Valinor on her own and fled from the Balrogs, but also hungered for the Trees and the Silmarils.

.𖥔 Melkor was very bright and filled with light in the beginning, but his own corruption caused his spirit to turn dark and eventually cost him his ability to wield and use light effectively - while said corruption was of a moral and spiritual nature, his journeys into the Void have also certainly not helped matters. If he hadn't lost his light, Ungoliant would've never dared to attack him and also been unable to do so effectively.

.𖥔 The reason why Melkor will eventually able to return despite his imprisonment in the Void is because, as Tolkien himself said, he's actually so great and powerful as a spirit that he will slowly recover some of his strength over the ages. Additionally, a great part of his essence being within Eä would actually keep it out of the Void's reach while being something he should be able to tap into upon his return.

Still, being in the Void can damage even a Vala spiritually and psychologically, which is the reason why a few other authors and I have alternate takes and timelines in which Melkor is actually progressively weakened and in further decline and may need to be rescued or return to Eä to recover (and maybe find a bit of healing, if it's that kind of verse).

I'll reblog with the Thuri part as well as a few fic recs for those who would like to explore these themes more in writing and I also invite and encourage you to share your own takes on the Void, Thuringwethil, Ungoliant, Melkor etc. You can also take inspiration from this for your own Void-related works, just kindly give a small shout-out if you do~

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

8, 18, 25

common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about

c!tommy's flaws! everyone gives him a completely inaccurate set of flaws for some reason! he's not a selfish, malicious person who cares only about items and deliberately seeks to cause chaos and hurt people. he's a deeply insecure and self loathing young man who trusts way too easily and sacrifices himself for everyone he trusts, even if they’re not good for him or anyone. he uses objects as a physical manifestation of his care for very immaterial things, and his attachment to them comes from mental illness leading him to believe they literally are those things to a degree. he's paranoid but not intentionally violent- his true flaws are his impulsivity and tactlessness, and him being unable to be honest about himself to himself leading to him being rude and thoughtless when he really does care. and this hurts people! it hurts him! these are not lesser flaws because they’re not intentional maliciousness! he is not flawless, he is a deeply flawed human being who’s done many things wrong, but I can’t blame people for thinking he is because the flaws everyone brings up are the exact opposite of his real flaws!

it’s absolutely criminal that the fandom has been sleeping on…

c!prime. y'all shy away from making it properly fucked up when it’s one of the most fascinating dynamics in fiction. whatever love it gets isn’t enough, and it’s skewed by weird misconceptions about c!tommy, c!dream, or both!

common fandom complaint that you’re sick of hearing

it’s pro-police brutality and punitive justice to want c!dream in jail. in a modern society maybe but the dsmp has 30 people! the dsmp has no licensed therapists or doctors, only amateurs who want to help and often don’t! the dsmp is not equipped for modern systems of justice, even. it’s more equivalent to historic societies, and on that basis it’s doing a lot better than many of them! thinking realistically, with the tools they have available, prison is the only option other than killing c!dream, since they don’t have anyone trained to help rehabilitate him, and he's not willing to cooperate with an exile or anything similar. in an ideal world, yeah, c!dream would be receiving therapy and help. he's a deeply troubled person, and he could be better if he got the help he needed. but there is no one equipped to do that, and with the resources they have, unfortunately, imprisoning him (without the human rights violations of Pandora’s vault, obviously) was the kindest option. i fucking hate the justice system and prison system, but i am being realistic, and a society of less than a hundred people who still uses bows and swords and has no one trained in criminal psychology doesn’t have the options we have available to be more humane. they basically have the option to let someone they walked in on trying to kill a child and kidnap another go free when he was actively continuing to try that until physically forced not to, kill an unarmed man who was trying to plead for his life, or imprison him. it was not a good solution. but there were no good solutions. and what c!sam and c!quackity would do was awful, but imprisonment doesn’t necessarily equal torture and starvation. c!dream could have been imprisoned without that, and i don’t think it’s apologising for harmful systems in the real world to acknowledge a society in a very different situation to any modern country might have only had bad options.

[davosmymaster]

Fallen from Heaven, Grown on Earth -Part 3-

Part 1, Part 2.

TAGS AND WARNINGS - +18, Minors DNI, very obvious hints to Marc’s alcoholism, alcohol consumption, underage drinking, Marc’s parents, panic attacks (mentioned), weapons (mentioned), near-death experiences, dialogue heavy, smut, very graphic descriptions of sex, nsfw, blood, injuries.

PAIRINGS - Steven Grant x fem!reader ; Marc Spector x fem!reader

WORD COUNT - 22k

A/N - I decided to divide it again (please don’t kill me) part 4 will be out this week. Probably in the next 3 days or so, maybe even sooner. Epilogue too.

FALLEN FROM HEAVEN, GROWN ON EARTH - PART THREE

June 2006

 Marc's very much awake when he receives the call.

 He is sitting in his desk chair. He is all nerves and stiff muscles as he fills out the application papers for military service. It's late. Almost four in the morning. He woke up from an anxiety-driven nightmare two hours ago, chances are it has something to do with the maths final he failed and the fact that he's so stressed out that he can barely hear anything beyond his own thoughts these days. He needs a good night's sleep, maybe drink something apart from energy drinks and coffee; but his worries continue to keep him awake at night and drinking the equivalent of a half-kilo bag of sugar is the only thing that keeps him lucid. So his body will have to suck it up.

 Not like he cares if he has a heart attack, anyways.

 He decided to do something to distract himself. Be productive, in a way, anything to avoid lying in bed wide-eyed until seven in the morning. That's why he took the papers and started filling them up. He had no trouble with the first few pages, with his basic information and the section about his overall physical health. It almost surprises him how easy it is. He was born in Illinois, in 1987. He has double citizenship. No surgeries. No allergies. His eyesight is perfect.

 And then they ask him if he has any mental illnesses.

It's like his mind reboots when he reads that, because he wasn't actually expecting it, although he should have. Marc could write a whole essay about how his DID was more of a blessing than a curse, even though he had just recently started to think that way. Steven allowed him a moment of peace when he was unable to function. Sometimes he felt as if his conscience was simply turned off, which was exactly what he needed in those cases. Other times, he was not as far in the headspace and he could actually see and hear through Steven, and even feel his emotions sometimes. Having Steven Grant in his head was a relief. Even for his parents. His mother treated Steven with more attention and affection than she had ever given Marc, even if it was not much. His father was more attentive to him, gentler. More than once Marc had found money in his pockets that his father had given Steven, right after he told Marc he would not give him a single cent.

 He felt like a parasite in that house. He was unwanted. He almost would have preferred to live knowing that he was an accident, a broken condom, rather than knowing that he was a wanted child until he wasn't. When Randall was born, Marc had that typical jealousy older siblings have (not like he remembered that, but his mother had reminded him over and over again), and he thought that Randall was their favourite child.

 Well, if Randall wasn't their favourite back then, once he died, he sure as hell was.

 So he checked the 'no' box next to the question, despite having read the warning at the beginning about lying in the form being a reason to be expelled. He needed out, and the military was one of his last options after the rest didn't work. He knew he would have to pass a psychological test; but he wasn't too concerned about that. If he was able to lie to all the therapists he had ever had, then he sure as hell could lie to some psychiatrist too bored to do their job properly.

 He looked at the page, getting lost in the black ink and the white background. He didn't even wonder if he would regret his decision; he knew from the beginning that he would. Not because of the lies, that didn't matter to him, but because of the future he was giving up on.

 The university application was abandoned on the board, right next to the papers he was filling up instead. Marc had driven all the way to London Metropolitan University to get them for both of you. He didn't know what degree to choose, but as ironic as it might sound, the idea of teaching young children didn't entirely leave him cold. He thought he might even like it. His other options were philosophy, sociology and archaeology. The last one was more of a Steven thing than his, but given the choice, he preferred studying something Steven liked rather than a degree neither of them were interested in. Besides, if Steven liked the ancient world so much, maybe he would too.

 He looked at both piles of papers, painfully aware of the two futures he could unfold. But as much as he wanted the second one, he couldn't afford it. Maybe when he came back from the service. Maybe in another life, if he was killed in action. Who knows.

 His ringing phone brought him out of his stupor. It was violent, the way he jumped on the chair and his nerves spiked through the roof. The house had been completely silent until it rang, and he hurried to answer the call before his parents woke up, part of him wondering if something was horribly wrong. It wasn't as if people got plenty of good news at four in the morning. Plus, the only person who had his phone number apart from his parents was you.

 A ragged breath was all he could hear on the other end of the line, music playing in the distance and people arguing in the background. He heard a faint sob for a split second, but it was so low that he wondered if he had imagined it.

 "Marc?" you asked. "I'm... so sorry," he heard how you slurred the words. "I didn't know who else to call. I didn't know what to do. I'm so-" your voice broke. "...s-sorry I woke you up."

 He heard you crying, his heart breaking in his chest and getting nailed like splinters in his lungs. He was standing up a second later.

 "Hey, hey," he said, trying to sound calm, although he was the furthest from calm. "Hey, listen to me, okay? Take a breath, calm down, okay? Do it," he waited, listening to the way you breathed in a shaky mouthful of air. "Now tell me what’s wrong."

 "I know it's selfish of me to ask..." you started, and he rolled his eyes. "... but I need a lift. I don't have any money on me, and my friends all left."

 He cursed under his breath, but before you finished the sentence he was already grabbing his favourite jacket and shoes. He usually slept with an old t-shirt and he didn't mind being seen in his pajama pants either. He took the military application and hid it under the mattress.

 "Where are you?"

 As he heard you speak, he grabbed the keys to his father's car in the hall. It was in moments like these that he missed Chicago, because he'd have gotten his license way earlier than he did in the UK, which was barely a few months ago, and he'd probably have his own car by now too.

 He didn't put his shoes on until he closed the front door behind him. He didn’t want to wake his parents up.

 "Don't hang up," he said, holding the flip phone between his cheek and shoulder as he opened the car door. "I'm coming to get you."

  There's a fight outside the club when he arrives. He can feel his heartbeat hammering behind his ears, in his wrists when his hands grip the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turn white, in his forehead when the vein there swells. He doesn't even park the car, but simply switches off the engine in front of the main door of the pub. He's sure he has more adrenaline in his veins than blood, and gets out of the car ready to punch his way in and out if he has to.

 Then he sees you. In his peripheral vision, you are just a shadow coming out of an alley. In other circumstances, he would gawk at you in that tight black dress, but not now, not when you're shivering and a light drizzle is beginning to fall.

 He closes the space between you in a couple of strides, his legs responding before him. His fingers dig into your shoulders as he searches for your gaze, your eyes locked on the dirty pavement beneath your heels. Your arms hugging yourself.

 "Are you hurt?" he asks, anxiety pouring from his mouth. And you shake your head, finally looking at him with teary eyes and an unfocused gaze.

 "I'm sorry," you whisper.

 He wants to shake your shoulders, to let you know that you're not a burden, that he doesn't mind being there, that it's the least he can do as your friend for swallowing up every single one of his problems. He has always wanted to tell you how much you mean to him, but he can never find the right words.

 He insists.

 "I didn't ask that. I asked if you're hurt. Did someone touch you?"

 "No."

 He sighs, relief washing over him.

 "How drunk are you?" he says, but he watches as the corners of your lips turn downwards and a black tear stained with mascara falls from one of your eyes. Your gaze is so unfocused, restless, that he wonders if you're even looking at him or behind him. "Hell, you’re wasted."

 He’s affirming, not asking. You nod.

 He sees a shadow out of the corner of his eye. Marc turns around, practically pushing you behind him. His nerves are on edge because he’s not a fan of the atmosphere the place holds, even if he can no longer hear the screams or the fighting. But when he turns around, there is no threat behind him, just a bouncer with an ID hanging from his neck.

 "I need you to move the car, kid," he says. Then, he squints, looking directly at you. His gaze shifts from your face to where Marc's hand is squeezing your wrists behind him. Marc assures him that you are both leaving, but the man is not paying attention. "Do you know this guy?"

 Despite the fact that he is the one on the line here, Marc cannot help but feel glad that there's people out there who still care for others.

 "He's my boyfriend. He came to pick me up," you say, Marc eyes widen for a split second before he remembers he has to follow your lead, or the man will probably not let you go. Neither of you can risk to have him ask for your ID. After all, you're still seventeen, and as much as your parents have always treated him well, he's not sure what they'd do if they see you in the state you're in.

 Luckily, the man lets you go.

 "Get in the car, come on," Marc whispers, holding the door open for you as you get in.

 He even goes the extra mile, in case the man isn't quite convinced and decides to look back. Marc's upper body looms over you as he gets inside as well, reaching for your seatbelt and securing it around your hips. He's secretly wishing his fingertips brush the fabric of your dress. What he does, instead, is touch your cold thigh with his hand, just over your knee. He hopes you see it as a comforting gesture, but the truth is he just wants to feel you close.

 Marc barely registers when your fingers brush the hair out of his face. It's 2006 and he keeps it long, a few inches above his shoulders, but he knows he will have to cut it all off once he gets accepted into the military. You kiss his cheek.

 "Thank you."

 He feels his heart flutter.

 "A-anytime," he mumbles.

 Then, he leaves a kiss on your forehead. He's pushing it, a little too much, but when he looks back and the man is looking at the scene, he feels glad he let himself act on his impulses, for once.

   Marc's driving. He's been doing it for a couple of minutes now. Although you're not sure how long you've been in that car. It's like there's a dirty window in front of your eyes. You can see, but you're not sure you're really watching or focusing on anything. You close your eyes when the car bounces into a sinkhole, your head lulling to the side when it weighs too much for your neck to hold. You almost moan when your temple hits the cold window.

 "Shit," you hear Marc say. His fingers are brushing your leg immediately after. "You didn't faint, did you?"

 "No, Marc," you reply, mouth dry and eyes still closed. Your sweaty forehead resting on the window. "I'm just resting my eyes..." you purse your lips, you keep slurring the words. "Where are we going?"

 "I was driving to your house," he says. "Not anymore, though. I can't take you home like this."

 You're happy with his response because you didn't feel like being alone in your room either. If his parents weren't as strict as they were, you'd even work up the courage to ask him to crash at his house. You told your parents you'd spend the night at your friend Sarah's, but she left the club ages ago, and if they see you at home in the morning they will ask you. You don't know what you're going to say, but you do know they are not going to trust Sarah anymore.

 You'd say they will love Marc instead for what he is doing, but that they already do.

 "Then, what?"

 "This is the plan. We're gonna stop at some store, buy you food," he says. You grimace. "Don't look at me like that, you're gonna eat something because you'll be dying in the morning if you don't. You're gonna drink a bunch of water too. Then I take you home. How does that sound?"

 "I guess that's okay."

 You don't sound convinced, but he doesn't care.

 "Great," he says, still gripping the steering wheel as if he wanted to choke someone. Then, he whispers. "I wasn't asking for permission anyway."

 Marc keeps his promise. He parks the car but doesn't wait for you to follow him, so you guess it's okay if you stay there. You don't feel like moving from your seat either, and your feet hurt like hell because of the high heels you were wearing. Marc buys you your favourite snacks and a huge bottle of water. He buys a beer for himself and shares a bag of sour patch, his favourite candy.

 While you're eating, he asks how you even got in the club. It's not the first time you drink, he took care of that at eighteen, when he gave you a taste of his beer in the shed in your parent's backyard; but it is your first time in a club. Which makes sense, having in mind you're only seventeen.

 You tell him about Sarah. He knows her because he joins your group of friends sometimes. Marc said from the beginning that he didn't like her, but you didn't listen. Her boyfriend is a couple of years older than her, and the two of them wanted to go clubbing with other friends. You were the only one who wasn't legal yet, and being surrounded by people who were older gave you an advantage when it came to not being caught red-handed when you entered the club. It worked, but honestly, you now wish it hadn't.

 "Did you already fill out the application papers?"

 For a second, he thinks you refer to the military application; but then his muscles relax as he remembers that there's no way you knew about that.

 He takes another sip of his beer.

 "I'm on it," he responds. "but I got stuck on the choose your degree section."

 You respond with words of encouragement that he doesn't hear. He usually doesn't have trouble lying to most people: his parents, teachers, anyone... But it does hurt him to lie to you when he hides the fact that he’s not going to attend university. The words get stuck in his throat before he says them, and he's thankful that you never notice.

 Marc forces you to drink half of the water. He also witnesses how your eyes start to focus, how the fog slowly disappears from them and your tears dry. He knows you were only crying because of how drunk you were, he's seen you cry for the silliest things while drunk -and sober-, but he had never seen you this drunk.

 Having in mind you almost exclusively drink when he’s present, so he’s been a witness of every time you’ve gotten hammered, to say that he has never seen you this drunk is to say something. For a moment, when he had just picked you up, he thought you'd throw up all over his dad's car.

 Marc's distracted while you finish eating. And yet, somehow, he keeps giving you some sour patch when he gets one himself. You take a sip of water, making sure there's nothing in your mouth or teeth. It takes both you and him as a surprise, when the alcohol makes all the ignored feelings impossible to avoid and you call his name. He answers, barely whispering but completely focused on you from one second to the next, and before you can process it, your lips are pressed against his.

 Marc has his eyes closed, but doesn't reciprocate.

 There's a moment, a single second of pure bliss when it’s over. Marc ravishes in the feeling before absolute dread sets in. The feeling, the good one, is nowhere to be found. It abandoned his body as soon as it arrived. Marc sighs through his quick heartbeat and the trembling of his hands, suddenly aware of what he's always known: he's not made to be loved, he doesn't even think he has that ability.

 If there's anything he fears more than losing control, that's loneliness. Marc already suspected that you liked him, but never had the guts to say anything about it. There's a reason why dread is stronger than pleasure, why the bliss vanished so quickly. He knows love and hate are very closely related, he often experiences the former before it eventually fades into the latter. It's happened with almost every person he has ever formed a meaningful relationship with. And that's something he can't risk with you. He just can't.

 It's not that he doesn't love you, he does. That he has always known. Just maybe not in the way you need him to. Maybe it is in that way and he's only lying to himself because he can't cope with the idea of his selfish ass yearning for such a kind and loving soul. He could not forgive himself if he corrupted that with his messy ways.

 But he can't let himself drown in those fantasies, either. Having his brother's blood on his own hands, there's no way in hell there's a happy ending waiting for him, and the last thing he wants is making you suffer.

 "Well..." your voice is the only thing to bring him back from his own personal hell. "There goes my first kiss."

 There's a kind of sadness in your voice, the kind that leaves you wounded for life. It's no secret for him that you've always been a hopeless romantic. You love rom-coms, st. valentine's, flowers and chocolate. You were watching Love, Actually when you told him how you wished your first kiss to be. It had nothing to do with his dad's old car, the smell of alcohol in your breath, or Marc's resting bitch face as his brain processes what just happened.

 Oh, guilt. His old friend.

 "Not like that could be considered a kiss, anyway."

 He watched as your eyes filled with unspilled tears. He told himself he was an asshole, but he hadn't even meant it to sound so harsh. It was a fact that he didn't consider a peck on the lips to be a serious thing.

 Marc leans forwards, his knee digging on the fabric as he maneuvers his own body so he is kneeling over the seat, his eyes never leaving yours. And then, the sensation of falling into a void, not a single hand for him to hold, nothing he could reach as he fell. Fear, again, stronger than ever. He lunges forward without thinking, knowing that if he hesitates he would never do what he is about to do. And he kisses you.

 It’s just a gentle brush at the beginning, little more than a peck. Then his hand landed on your neck, urging you closer. He parted his lips slightly and you followed. It was a dance that he expertly led. His tongue licked yours, gently, slowly, savouring the bittersweet taste of candy. He almost moaned, almost.

 It felt like the kiss lasted years, in the best of senses. He'd later wonder how he would ever get over it. Forget it, move on. Truth be told, he wouldn't.

 Before separating, his teeth caught your lower lip, pulling gently and sucking on it. A current of pride settled in his chest as he heard you moan. Your nails digging into his arms.

 Just like that, it was over.

 It took all of his willpower not to kiss you again as he watched you, lips parted and eyes closed as you breathed in shaky breaths. When you finally looked at him, your eyelids slowly opening as if they weighted a ton, your pupils had almost entirely swallowed your irises. If you were someone else, someone he didn't care for as much, he'd have laughed and said some cocky remark. But this was you, and his own heart was beating so fast that when he finally spoke, he had to put a lot of effort into not looking out of breath.

 "Now, that's a kiss."

 Marc sits properly in the driver's seat again. He starts the engine, his fingers still trembling on the gear lever as he reversed out of the car park. He needs to do something, keep his mind occupied, eyes on the road. Anything so he doesn't look at you and falls into the trap of your lips.

 "Seatbelt," he orders.

 "Okay."

 The seatbelt is merely a distraction. All so he could make sure you were not looking when he pulled at the fabric of his pajama pants. He checks the bulge there isn't visible. It's embarrassing, really. He's half hard in his boxers with just a kiss.

 He can't wait for his hormonal teenager years to be over.

 "We never talk about this again, okay?"

 He's been such a prick, but can't afford to give you any hopes.

 "Okay."

 He hates himself.

 "I'm sorry."

 "Don't be, that's okay," you respond, there's a smile on your face when you look at him. No trace of resentment or hate. "Thank you for being my first, Marc."

 He hates himself even more, if that is even possible.

   Marc Spector doesn't like breaking his own rules, but when he sets foot in your house after promising himself that he wouldn’t, that's the second time he does in less than an hour, counting the kiss. If he could be completely honest —and that's absolutely a him problem— he would say it out loud. He would praise you for being capable of achieving such a thing.

 You ask him to keep you company. His chest still feels sore for your okays and your thank yous, so he says yes despite the threat of your sleeping parents on the first floor.

 Before he knows it, he's in your room. He's been there a thousand times before and yet he still surprises himself by looking at everything as if it was his first. He looks at your posters, your notes splashed all over your desk, your pictures nailed to the wall. He takes a moment to admire the photos. Marc sees Sarah's face in some of them and all he wants is to rip them off and tear them to pieces. There's also a picture of him from last year. Marc's holding a guitar despite not knowing how to play a single chord. In his defence, he was just playing around with it.

 Marc appears in most pictures. While some of your friends appear and disappear throughout the years, he sees himself in almost every single photo. Some of them are just pictures of him alone. He cannot help but wonder how he didn't see it sooner. It's so painfully clear how much you love him. He doesn't feel deserving of it. In fact, he has never felt deserving of any of your attentions. To this day he still wonders why you chose him as your friend.

 "I'm gonna get changed," you announce, and before you can say anything he's already facing the wall.

 Once you're done, he encourages you to wash your make-up off while he gets everything ready. Marc is so used to being in your house that he doesn't ask anything as he dives into your wardrobe and gets a thick blanket. The fabric will be an improvised mattress for him, given the fact that he's not supposed to be there and cannot get the couch instead. There's also a cushion. He does not get another blanket because if he does, he'll fall asleep, no doubt. His father leaves for work at seven o'clock. The car needs to be there by then and, if he can get home sooner than that and avoid questions and arguments, that'd be lovely too.

 "Marc?" you ask as you come back from the bathroom. "What are you doing?"

 He's sitting on your bed, but you're looking at the blanket on the floor.

 "I don't plan on staying," he says. "I'm just gonna rest my eyes a little bit until you fall asleep."

 He made sure to get the blanket as close to your bed as possible. He wants to make sure you're fast asleep before he leaves.

 "You're not sleeping on the floor."

 He blinks. He's trying really hard not to think about the alternative. He cannot believe you'd ask him to sleep with you, that's not even a possibility in his mind. He wonders if you're still drunk enough to make such a proposition.

 He'd love to argue, but this is your house and if you don't want him messing around with your things, he won't. He's not used to sleeping on other people's houses. Hell, he's not used to be in other people's houses. And he's always been extremely respectful when it comes to your living space, your parents and their rules (or lack of them, if Marc compares your rules with his rules). That's why he says nothing as he puts the cushion back in the wardrobe.

 "No resting my eyes then," he says, his lips pursed trying to hide his discontentment. At least, it's Sunday. He will get some sleep when he gets home. He kneels, about to start folding the blanket again.

 "Marc, you can get on the bed with me."

 He chuckles.

 "Are you out of your mind?"

 "Why?" you ask him. Your face is full of amusement as he watches you wide-eyed. "Can't two people get into the same bed without having sex? You're my best friend, I thought we were past that."

 There's a stupid grin on his face when you finish the sentence. Your best friend. It sounds good, even better when referring to him. He always knew you were his best friend, but he was never sure about that feeling being reciprocated. He would lie if he said he didn't feel self-conscious when you talked and hung out with other people, but he never acts on his feelings because he knows it's a fucked up thing to say, think and do. Marc always knew you were his friend, but the way in which you said best friend leaves him feeling butterflies all over his body.

 "Are you sure?" he asks.

 He refers to the proposition of sharing the bed. He doesn't have the strength to keep pushing you away tonight.

 "Why? Are you planning on touching me, Spector?"

 He's trying really hard not to fall for those bedroom eyes of yours.

 "Nineteen," he says, pointing out at himself. Then, he points at you. "Seventeen. Don't wanna go to jail yet."

 There's only one thing on his mind as he says that. The age of consent in the UK is sixteen yers old. But he will not do it. Not only because he doesn't want to, he just can't. He was trembling just from you pecking his lips. He'd probably faint if you kissed him again now. Not like he'd ever admit that.

 "Just give it a few more months," you respond.

 "Think I'm gonna stay on the floor," he finally says, kneeling on the blanket and turning his back to you when he lies down. "Good night."

 "Marc..." you chuckle. "I was kidding. Get on the bed, come on."

 He knows you were. At least, that's what he chooses to think. He wasn't kidding, though.

 "No."

 "Okay, then."

 There's a brief moment of peace in which he thinks you will listen to him and just go to bed, but he should know you better than that by now. Next thing he knows, you're cuddling up with him, hugging him from behind as he becomes the little spoon. All his muscles become impossibly stiff as he feels your warm touch on his naked arms.

 He feels powerless. His heart is aggressively hammering in his chest, and his worst fear right now apart from losing control is that you might hear how his body reacts to yours.

 "Get on the damn bed,” he groans, shifting his arms gently, away from your touch.

 "No."

 He snorts.

 "Okay, okay, fuck," he finally gives in. "I don't see the fucking point of sleeping on the floor if no one's taking the bed."

 He tries to ignore your giggles as both of you get on the bed and under the covers. You're now facing the ceiling, while he keeps looking at your face. His hand grips your shoulder as he encourages you to face him. Your body moves slowly, turning until you finally catch his attentive gaze on your features.

 "Never sleep on your back when you've been drinking," he says, although he's probably exaggerating a little bit, but one is never sure. He doesn't want anything bad happening to you. "you could choke if you throw up during the night."

 You whisper back. "Okay."

 Marc crosses his arms, trying not to fall asleep as he watches you, but also because he feels that’s the only way he can keep his hands to himself. Your body's warm against his, despite the minimal contact both of you share. Your pillow smells of you. He could get drunk on it. Marc's only wish is that you fall asleep soon, before either his willpower or his desire to sleep falters and he ends up doing something that he might regret.

 "Sleep now," he whispers, then yawns. You do too. "Come on..."

 It's not difficult to fall asleep while looking into Marc's chocolate eyes, the warmth of him right next to you. You smile, unaware of how terrible the next months will be, once the two of you get to Brighton and he confesses his plans for the future, once he leaves and never comes back.

 When you wake up, he has already left.

 That night you dream of bittersweet kisses and cars taking you home.

Marc had no idea why all of those memories were torturing him now.

 Steven almost fucked everything up, almost got the two of them killed tonight, but Marc was smarter than blaming it all on Steven. In fact, he wasn't blaming Steven at all. He should've followed your advice and talked to him before something like a jackal attacking them happened. But he never listens, does he? No, he has to hit rock bottom at least twice, before he even considers it.

 It was a close call. But if he's absolutely honest, Marc never thought his fronting problem would go as far as not being able to front even in life or death situations. Marc didn't think about God much these days —except the one god of the moon that permanently called him ungrateful in his mind, that is— but he did thank his God, the one he's always believed in, that Steven had been lucid enough through the panic attack to let him front.

 Of course, he had to get alcohol after that.

 He went directly for the beer. He's been drinking too much whiskey lately, and even if he didn't care what happened to him, he hated having to witness Steven taking care of a body Marc was slowly but surely getting rid of. That's how he ended up looking at the beer cans on the fridge, in a store just in front of the museum. But once he had in his hands the cheapest brand of beer he could find, he remembered that it was the same beer he had you try when he turned eighteen. You hated that specific brand of beer, hated it with a passion.

 Marc remembered then you were in Steven's flat, waiting for your beloved ex-boyfriend to come back home. One thing led to another and now it seemed that Marc was reliving each and every single one of his core memories with you.

 All because of a fucking can of beer.

 "Are you gonna get the beer or not, mate?" a man appeared next to him, complaining because he was taking too long choosing if he wanted it or not. Marc sent him a deadly look, one that forced the man to take a step back and get lost in the crisps aisle.

 If he was going home to you, then he might as well get something stronger than beer. He was going to need it, after all the memories he had remembered and his own heart breaking for the millionth time when he compared the happy memories —even the not-so-happy ones, the ones in which he was a complete asshole— to the situation you both found yourselves in.

 The one friend, the one person he had always loved, the only one who was always there and the only one who he couldn't risk losing... you. Well, he had already lost her. It took you a while, but you eventually ended up hating him like everyone else did, just like his parents, just like all the friends he had ever had, just like Layla, just like Steven.

 Yeah, he definitely needed more than a few cans of beer.

 He left the can where he found it and grabbed a bottle of whiskey from a nearby aisle, telling himself that once Harrow got taken care of, he would stop drinking so much. It wasn't until he reached the counter and saw a bag of sour patch, that he decided he was getting one of those too. Marc started drinking before he even set foot outside the store.

 You were half asleep when you heard the metallic click of the door lock. It wasn't until Marc got in that you got startled, jumping slightly on your end of the couch —the furthest from where he was standing— and rubbing your eyes to get rid of the remnants of sleep. You weren't one to get sleepy easily in difficult situations, but you hadn't had a proper night's sleep since the night before you broke up with Steven.

 "Didn't mean to scare you," he said, almost a whisper.

 "Marc?"

 He was wearing Steven's clothes, but that was the only thing that could lead to confusion. The rest, it was all so indistinctively Marc. His demeanour, the squared shoulders held high, the dark curls brushed back because of his hair-pulling mania, the wrinkle between his eyebrows that Steven never had, that constantly annoyed expression on his face, even the way he walked. The accent, despite being the most obvious difference between the two men, was also the most irrelevant.

 "Yeah," he said. He walked in, carrying a plastic bag and little more than a three-quarter full bottle of whiskey. "Not who you were expecting, I know. I'm not gonna bother you much. I'll just eat something and put Steven to sleep."

 The way in which he talked, pure misery pouring from his lips, made you nauseous. You had heard that tone a few times before, but never strictly linked to you as a person. All you wanted to do was grab him by the shoulders and ask him how was it possible that, after so many years of friendship, a friendship that had survived the distance and the traumas and the heartbreak, how could it possibly end like this. How could he talk to you as if you were a stranger, how the two of you could be at square one once again, not knowing how to talk to each other or what to say. At the end of the day, it had been walking on eggshells that was killing the both of you.

 You didn't know what to say, so you followed him to the kitchen.

 "I ordered Indian take-out," you told him as he opened the fridge looking for something to eat. "I was expecting Steven so it's vegan food, but you can have it if you want."

 He took the container out, inspecting it, and held it in front of you as he locked his eyes on yours.

 "Is it poisoned?"

 You chuckled, shaking your head slightly.

 "No, I forgot to poison it, but you should totally remind me next time."

 He smiled too, a little smile that barely reached his eyes. He got the food into a plate and tried it before deciding that it was, in fact, too cold to be edible. Then, he pointed at the bottle of whiskey on the kitchen table.

 "Do I pour you some?"

 "Sure," you answered, taking a seat. He grabbed a glass from the cupboard and served you some whiskey just before he grabbed his plate, and you took a sip and said. "Maybe I should do that, having in mind your history of burning the popcorn."

 "It was actually you who almost burned the house down every damn time."

 And as he said that, he was putting his plate of food, fork included, in the microwave.

 "Marc!" you shouted, rushing to his side and almost smacking his hand when he tried to turn it on. You opened the microwave, got the fork out. "You can't put metal in the microwave, you idiot," you said, chuckling just a second later. "So I was the one to almost burn my house down, right?"

 Marc crossed his arms over his broad chest, leaned back against the counter.

 "You got me distracted."

 "Yeah, it's always my fault somehow, isn't it?"

 The flat fell into a strangely comfortable silence. Marc didn't respond as he kept giving large gulps of the bottle of whiskey, until you finally reached for a glass and served him some. Not because you were disgusted at the sight of him drinking straight from the bottle, but rather because, seeing the state he was in, you wanted to at least keep track of how much he was drinking, which already seemed to be a lot.

 "I already bought another coffee table for Steven," he responded so casually while he ate, now sitting on the kitchen table, right in front of you. "He was the one to clean the couch, though."

 "I'm so sorry about that," you responded, a blush quickly settling on your face. "I'm sorry about all of it, actually."

 Marc swallowed and cleaned his mouth with a napkin before responding.

 "You have nothing to be sorry for."

 "That's not true, Marc," you said.

 It had always angered you the way he always let you get away with anything and everything, the way he never stood up for himself when it came to you and things that were really important. Some stranger on the street telling him to fuck off? Hell, he was already snapping back before the other man even finished. But when it came to friends that betrayed him or you accidentally saying something that really hurt him. Well, he always went silent. Marc Spector was a walking contradiction. He was too much of a fuckboy with any girl that showed interest in him, but with the one he truly loved… Oh, that's a different story.

 You wanted to say that you were sorry for all you said. You wanted him to clarify what had happened the day Layla's dad died, because you hadn't given him the chance to explain himself. He got shot, you had just experienced how frightening it was to have a gun pointing at you, and you could not even begin to imagine how hard it had all been for him. Maybe some part of you wanted to defend him, give him the chance to say why he did it, or even tell you he didn't do it. You just wanted to have an excuse, to find out Marc was still the same good man you had once admired.

 He talked first.

 "I-..." he started. His hand flew to his face, he brushed the skin over his mouth with his palm, an almost nervous tick that he used to give himself the courage to say something. "I am sorry," he said. "I don't even have the words to express how much I regret putting you in the middle of everything. I know why you're here. I know about Harrow. And I'm sorry for what happened. With me, with Steven," he said. He took another mouthful of alcohol as if he needed it to breathe. He was actually choking with his own words. "I'm really sorry for what happened the other night. I'm not sorry about what I said, though. I'm not sorry for falling for you," he breathed in, brought the glass to his lips again. "I will never be sorry for that. I don't care how selfish it might sound."

 One of your fingers touched the rim of the glass, not allowing him to bring it to his lips. When he stopped, you took it in your hand and left it aside.

 "Was that so hard to do?" you asked him. "We could have saved ourselves so much trouble if you had said that earlier. Because you already knew how I felt, didn't you?"

 "Of course."

 "Since when?"

 "I always knew," he responded. His eyes didn't look at you when he next spoke. "Do you really think I would have worked up the courage to kiss you that night if I thought there was the slightest possibility that you might reject me?

 You shook your head and brought your own hand to your eyes.

 "You fucker," you whispered, eyes squeezed shut. "You made me suffer so much, all these years..."

 "Believe me, you weren't alone in that," he said. "I didn't even know what I was feeling, not until I understood the meaning of wanting to be with someone. Ironically, it was Layla's aunt who made me wake up. It's ridiculous, I know, but the lady just said the right words at the wrong time and then I knew, but it was too late. And by then you had suffered enough and I had just gotten married, so I decided that letting you go was the best for both of us."

 "You could've talked to me, at least."

 He shook his head.

 "I've never been one to talk things through," he said. "I've always been better at hiding or running away."

 "And you did both."

 He looked at you in the eyes, for the first time in a few minutes. Marc pursed his lips, just then realizing that it was true. He had hidden his feelings for the longest time, even from himself. When his relationship with his parents became impossible, and what he felt for you was so confusing that he could barely talk to you before he left, he fled under the pretext of his military service. He hid his feelings, then he ran away.

 "Yeah," he said. "I guess I did."

 After a few minutes, once he was finished eating and pushed the plate out of the way, he spoke again.

 "I can see why you prefer Steven. I don’t blame you for that."

 You couldn't help but laugh, it erupted from the back of your throat, started small and only grew as Marc's confused stare kept getting more intense.

 "What?"

 "Steven said the same thing earlier about you," you drew circles with your index finger, over the rim of your own glass. "You two are so different, and so exactly the same sometimes." When he didn't say anything, you explained the situation. "He found your phone and asked me what I knew. I couldn't just keep quiet, he thought you were blackmailing me."

 Marc just nodded.

 "Marc...," you played with your own fingers over the table. "when you told me you worked for your old commander officer, I thought you had stopped after what happened with Layla's dad..."

 "I didn't kill him," he said, his eyes suddenly wide, looking at you with such an intensity and fear that it was impossible not to believe him. "I know that's what you think, but I swear to God I didn't."

 You held his nervous gaze, finding no trace of lying on his words. And he visibly relaxed under your watchful eye when you caught his fingers in yours, gently caressing them.

 "So you didn't kill anyone," you said, but it was more of a question than a claim. The way he sat in silence before you, made your heart sink to the ground. "Did you?"

 He wetted his lips, seemingly thinking twice about what he was about to answer.

 "Not because I wanted to."

 "What is that supposed to mean?"

 Marc made a gesture, his touch slipping away from yours. He tried to reach his almost empty glass of Jack Daniels, but you got it out of the way.

 "Marc," your voice sounded desperate. You couldn't believe you had just talked and fixed so much just for him to keep lying to you, hiding things from you. "If you were having money troubles, if you needed help, you could have told me before going to your old commanding officer. He shot you, and now you're back at stealing things for him... and, and- now Steven and I, and Harrow..."

 Your voice broke, your mind was rushing so much you had no idea what you were saying, or if it even made sense.

 "Hey, hey," he said, grabbing your hands in his, drawing comforting circles over your palms with his thumbs. "Calm down, okay? What are you talking about?"

 You took a shaky breath, your unspilled tears making it difficult for you to keep looking at him. The image around you distorted.

 "Are you not working for him?"

 "For Bushman?" he asked, he grimaced as if the idea repeled him. "Of course not."

 You furrowned, a perfect question mark drawn on your features.

 "They told me you stole something from them," you whispered, as if they were there to hear you. “I thought you had stolen it for Bushman. Why else would you steal?”

 Marc almost instantly regretted denying your words. It was probably easier to explain that he still worked for Bushman, that he stole relics and ancient artefacts for a living, rather than going into details about how he was resurrected by an ancient Egyptian god of the moon who tasked him with killing and stealing from all sorts of people.

 "That's what you kept talking about," you said. "Wasn't it? When you said you'd explain it all to me when it was all sorted, when everything was over."

 He silently cursed himself, now that you had seen the recognition in his eyes, you wouldn't stop until you got the truth. He sighed, letting your hands go and pulling his hair back, his fingers getting knotted in his own messy curls.

 "I told you," he tried to reason with you, tried to get out of trouble without explaining a single thing. But you were so dangerously close to the truth, and he could not risk that either. "I told you, I promised I'd told you everything once it was over. It's obviously not still over, is it?" he said, a pleading look into his eyes. "So please, it's not time yet."

 "It's not time?!" you almost shouted. Your hands slammed on the table. "They almost got the three of us killed, Marc! I think it's very much time."

 The tip of his tongue wetted his lip just to bite his lower lip later, a desperate look in his eyes. This time, he did reach for the whiskey and swallowed the entire contents of the glass as if it were water.

 "This is what you kept talking about, isn’t it?" you tried again, hoping that he would finally snap out of it. While you talked, he rose up from his chair and walked a few steps, brushing his hair back, until he finally turned around and shouted.

 "Yes! Yes, it is!" he said. "And frankly, (y/n), the less you know the better."

 "You're just so impossible, Marc," you responded, shaking your head. "Can't you see? We already played that game! And look where it got us!”

 He took ragged breaths, his chest repeatedly rising and falling as if he had run a marathon.

 "I don't care about your fucking opinion!" he raised a hand in front of him, considering the matter closed. "If you dont trust me that its better this way, I don't care. I'm not telling you shit this time.”

 His words shook you to your core. Would it be possible that Marc had closed off again because of what happened the first time, when he told you everything that happened in the tomb? Was he still mad at you for telling him he should feel guilty?

 "I- I know I hurt you Marc, but I said sorry- I thought..."

 "It's not about that," he said. "You could not say a thing that kept me away from you, or made me hate you, or whatever. It's not about that," he sighed, now leaning against the kitchen counter. "Listen, this is heavy shit. This is a world I don't wanna drag you into. I tried very hard to keep both you and Steven safe and very far away from it, I did.

 "This is the kind of thing people will torture you for if they think you have information about it. I cannot let that happen. They won't touch you, I swear, but you have to do as I say and not ask questions. Then you’ll never see me again, I promise, and you’ll have Steven and both of you will live the rest of your lives happily ever after and pretend I never existed. That’s what you want, that’s what he wants. Your wish is my command. Now, do we have a deal?"

 You could not believe the tone in which he spoke to you, nor the words that came from his mouth.

 "That's..." you whispered, taking a step back. "That's what you think I want, to get rid of you?"

 Marc bit his cheek.

 "Is not?"

 "Of course not," you responded. "I want you with me."

 He shifted his gaze, now looking at the tiles under his shoes.

 "More than you want Steven?" he asked, you didn't respond. He pursed his mouth into a thin line just as his lower lip started trembling, shivers taking over his body. "That's what I thought."

 Marc closed his eyes shut, biting his lip trying not to spill the tears piling up behind his eyelids. It was fair, really. He wasn't crying because he wanted to, but because even though he understood, it still hurt. He could only compare it to when he hit some furniture by accident. He was okay, he didn't have anything broken, he wasn't bleeding; but the damn thing still hurt like a bitch. It was exactly the same thing. He was okay with your decision, he understood it, maybe even more than you yourself did, but that didn't mean it hurt any less.

 You walked up to him, quickly getting your arms around his form. Soon his tears were flowing, his tired and weak body falling forwards as you caught him in your arms.

 "I'm sorry," he sobbed, burying his face into your neck. "...for everything. I'm sorry. If I could take all the pain I've caused you, I'd gladly do it."

 You grabbed him by the shoulders, trying to get him away from you, just a few inches so you could look at him. You cupped his cheek, wiped away his tears with your thumbs.

 "Marc," you said. "I love both of you, the exact same amount. The only thing keeping the three of us apart is the lies, the confusion, all the pain we've inflicted upon the others. I'm no saint. I lied to Steven, lied to you when I thought you'd turn me down, lied to myself when I convinced myself that I didn't want you anymore. But I do, I always do.

 "I'm not just asking you to be honest," you said. "I want to help you, because I know you're too stubborn to ask for help. Even if all I can do is being there for you, I want to do that. Can't you see that I'm trying to forgive you?" you asked. "I'm willing to forget everything, to start over as if you've just arrived in England again, but I can't do that if you're not honest with me."

 His glazy eyes widened, a new and restored hope filling them. One final tear fell from one of his eyes.

 "Do you understand that?" you asked.

 He nodded profusely, biting his lip, his teary, blood-shot eyes never leaving yours.

 "Would you do that?" he asked, whispering, his voice the most frightened you'd ever heard him speak. He almost looked like a lost child, like the Marc you'd first met. "Would you have me?"

 Now biting your own lower lip, you considered his words. You didn't want to break his heart, not after seeing the spark of hope in them. It had been a long time since you last saw him so alive and full of hope, so hopeful. But the truth was, there was a long list of conditions that'd have to be met in order for the two of you to be together.

 "Will you be honest with me?"

 He nodded once again, his hands digging into your waist, bringing you close.

 "Give me a few days, okay?" he asked, then looked at the disappointment in your face. "Okay, okay, give me a day. Just a day. And I'll tell you everything, I promise."

 "Okay," you responded. His forehead rested against yours, the smell of alcohol in his breath didn't allow you to drown in him, in his smell and his warmth, but the closeness still filled you with comfort. "I don't wanna give you false hope, Marc," you said, separating from him. He frowned. "You have to know that I don’t think I could get into a relationship with any of you now. Not if the other doesn’t agree with it. Surely you understand that, don't you?"

 He nodded.

 "I don't wanna hurt Steven. I can't keep any more lies. I need the two of you..." your voice broke, and you swallowed. "...to be okay."

 Marc hugged you, his strong arms securing you tightly against his chest. A few tears fell from your eyes, staining his shirt.

 "I don't want to hurt him either," he said, his hand stroked your back, up and down. "There has to be a way to fix this mess. We'll find a way. That, I promise."

 It took the both of you a while to recover from the rollercoaster of emotions you had just experienced. At this point, neither of the two knew who was holding who. Both souls felt as shattered as the other, both bodies were just as tired. It had already been late when Marc appeared on the front door, but it had now become an ungodly hour in the morning.

 Marc was the first to talk, almost dragging your body to the bedroom.

 "Let's get some sleep, c'mon," he whispered over your ear. "Promise I'll get on the bed with you," he said. You smiled, and he mirrored you. "Yeah, I remember. No sleeping on the floor."

 It was as if he could read your thoughts. He knew exactly what you were thinking.

 A moment of lucidity came over you both just as your bodies hit the mattress, suddenly aware of the fact that you were going to share a bed again, for the second time in your whole lives. Neither of you did as much as getting rid of one piece of clothing. For you, it was your jeans, too uncomfortable to sleep in them. For him, it was his jacket and shirt. You wrapped yourself under the sheets and duvet, and despite doing it yourself, Marc's fingers brushed your shoulder as he secured the sheets over you, just to get his body under them a second later.

 Marc found himself lying next to you for the first time since he was nineteen. Everything had changed, neither of you were children anymore, and despite that, he still felt like a helpless teenager when his eyes met yours. His desires weren't childish, either, not anymore. Now what he wanted to do to you went beyond what the flesh could offer.

 Everything had changed, yet it all remained the same somehow. You had the same glint on your eyes he had always admired, the same expression even if your face had changed over the years. If he squinted he could still see the little girl he met in secondary school, the first person who befriended him when he had just moved from the states, the only person who dared to stay despite his many flaws.

 He wanted to touch you, in a much more frenetic way than he did before. You were not seventeen anymore, neither was he. You're just two grown-ups who don't know how to unleash their feelings because they have bottled them up for so long that they're not sure if it will all explode in their faces once they remove the cap.

 He wanted to touch you. You wanted him to touch you. In fact, you were secretly wishing for it, not daring to make a move in case you scared him away. If Marc wanted, he could slide his fingers inside your panties and not only would you allow it, but you'd be waiting for him, so deliciously drenched. He could make you come in his fingers without breaking a sweat or getting rid of one single piece of clothing. He could taste you then, undress you and bury his tongue in your wet folds as you repeatedly clenched and relaxed around him, still massaging your clit so you kept squirming under him.

 Then he would whisper how long he's been waiting for that, how many times he had to take care of himself when he couldn't stop imagining your flavour, or the way you'd scream his name, eyes squeezed shut, fists gripping into his sheets as you came. He'd be embarrassed to admit how many times you were the main character of his wet dreams, so he'd keep that to himself. He'd tell you someday, eventually. You'd kiss him. He would kiss you back, put one of your legs above his shoulder, your lower back resting on his thighs as he entered you.

 He wanted to. You wanted him to. Your eyes were begging him to ruin you, show you how much he cared. There was nothing to stop him now.

 And yet he was still too scared to touch you.

 So he closed his eyes under your watchful gaze, rejecting you, and after a while, he drifted off.

 Some things never change.

  You might have fallen in love first, but Marc fell harder and all at once. On his wedding day, out of all days, and with the person he was not getting married to.

 He didn't believe in that feeling back then. He thought that, in the end, all love came to be was another imbalance in the chemicals of the brain, different to the one that had fractured his own mind to create Steven, and very different to the one that pushed him to almost put a bullet in his skull the night he became Moon Knight, but an imbalance nonetheless.

 Contrary to all the other beliefs he had, he could proudly say that he himself had put that thought in his brain; no one else. This time there wasn't an abusive mother to blame, or an absent father, or a traumatic experience serving in the military. The thought was all his, his own work. And he was madly proud of it.

 Because when he was younger, he craved it. He craved all kinds of love: friends, family... He craved it so much and it was so obvious, that he was terribly embarrassed by all the things he'd done trying to earn it. Because when you're a kid and your needs aren't met, you become an adult way too soon, desperately trying to give what you need to yourself.

 Marc had read once, somewhere, that when you're not fed love on a silver spoon; you learn to lick it off knives. He hated the fact that the sentence shook him to his core the way it did, that it felt so intimate and raw, yet so accurate. To this day, he has yet to find a better way to describe his childhood.

 After many years of seeking the feeling, begging for it, he got tired in the end, as we all do at some point. When this happens, some people turn to religion and different systems of beliefs, saying things like god will provide, and everything happens for a reason. But he didn't believe there was any other reason beyond the suffering itself, and God sure as hell hadn't provided. So he had nothing, not even a comforting thought. Nothing.

 After the third stage of grief: bargaining —trying to make people like him, trying to love her mother so she would love him back—, came depression, but he had been juggling between those three stages —anger, bargaining and depression— for so long that the sadness and emptiness were already there, and so he jumped straight to the fifth, acceptance.

 There was not much to accept other than the fact that he was unloveable. He got to the conclusion that he didn't deserve happiness, that he was too different and too broken to fit in. He believed himself to be a piece of glass; someone broke him, and now he couldn't stop hurting people with his sharp edges. But he also believed himself to be a bomb: he had swallowed so much anger trying to be the good kid, that he couldn't stop the imminent explosion falling over the heads of everyone around him.

 Then he met you, but he was way too far gone by then.

 For some time he thought he loved Layla. She was smart, beautiful, and brave. Layla had wanted Marc from the very first moment she saw him. And it didn't take him long to find out Layla was one of those people that got everything they wanted. Neither did it take him long to find out that what she wanted, was in fact, him. She liked to tease him, even in public. The first time they had sex, Marc wanted her to know they weren’t exclusive, told her he didn't want her to think he was using her either, and she chuckled and said:

 "Too bad, because I am using you."

 He didn't feel used. In fact, those words only turned him on more.

 They had been dating for a year when Layla mentioned something about wanting to get married young. Marc didn't want to, he had never understood those kinds of rituals, he didn't get the point of them. He wanted to wait some more. In fact, he never thought about getting married before. It also didn't feel right to get married to someone he always felt only half-full with, but she insisted and he wanted to make her happy. He let her father die, after all. She deserved all the happiness he could provide.

 Now they were getting married, and even then, there was something still missing. He had always wondered why he couldn't fully love Layla. She was wonderful, precious, perfect, they had many things in common. She could have anyone she wanted and she still chose him for some reason.

 And he still did not love her.

 He felt affection, sure, something along the lines of what he had once felt for his brother Randall before his mother tortured him into resentment, but there was no romance in his relationship with Layla. There was good sex, sure, but no unbridled love, no butterflies in his stomach, no burning in his flesh, no sense of belonging.

 And yet there he was, giving his vows surrounded by a crowd of people he didn't know the names of, and the only family, the only home he had ever had. You.

 The reception took place at a venue on the outskirts of Cairo, near the banks of the Nile River. It was far enough away from the metropolis for no one to bother them while the music became almost deafening. Once anyone stepped through one of the glass doors into the terrace, decorated with artificial grass to give the feeling of being in an oasis in the middle of the desert, the pyramids of Giza and the Sphinx stood proudly in the distance.

 Marc felt sick to his stomach being there. He wanted to get married in England, maybe in Brighton, by the beach; but those desires were never voiced. The tomb of Pharaoh Seti wasn't far, either, and that was yet another reason behind his constant discomfort.

 For Marc, it was the place where he had been enslaved by Khonshu. But for Layla, it was just the place where her father died. She said she felt closer to him there, near the pyramids and under the watchful eye of the noseless Great Sphinx of Giza.

 Marc could almost feel the judgemental look on the back of his head.

 "Oh, Marcus you look lovely today."

 Layla's aunt took him by surprise, her hands on the collar of his white shirt brought him back to Earth in an instant. He had to actually put some effort into understanding her accent, but he was thankful because she wasn't speaking Arabic. Although he might have prefered it.

 "Don't scare him away, auntie," Layla responded in her language. Marc let out a relieved sigh, one he didn't know he was holding "And for the last time, his name is Marc, not Marcus."

 "Surely the name has to come from somewhere, right?" she insisted in Arabic, her voice the most high-pitched he had ever heard. Then she switched to English again. Marc wondered if she didn't know that he spoke Arabic just fine. "Tell me, aren't you excited to share the rest of your life with our Layla? Should we expect children soon?"

 The rest of his life? Children? He hadn't thought about that. He just stood there, his eyes wide for a second before he relaxed his featured and looked for an appropriate answer in his brain. He had swallowed the concept of marriage as just signing a paper for so long that he had forgotten what it usually meant: a life together, shared hopes, dreams and goals; in most cases, children.

 In the first place, he didn't expect the rest of his life to be much longer; not if he kept serving Khonshu, at least. And children? It's not that he hated children. He actually liked them, but on other people's laps, with other people's DNA and being the responsibility of someone else. If he wasn't going to be a good father, then he didn't want to be a father at all. As long as he served Khonshu, children were not on the table.

 He couldn't say those answers out loud, though; especially not to Layla's aunt. He panicked, hands wet with sweat.

 "Uhm..."

 "We'll see about that," Layla answered, giving him a look of concern. "We just got married, there's time."

 Marc felt that presence, those eyes on the back of his head as he nodded, and he turned on his heels hoping to find Khonshu, but it wasn't him. It was the Sphinx again, looking at him.

 Then his eyes caught something, a pale pink dress opening the sliding glass door to the terrace and walking outside.

 You.

 He hadn't stopped looking at you since he picked you up at the airport, and once you had shown up at the ceremony with that dress, he sure as hell couldn't.

 One of the reasons why he wanted to get married in England, was that he wasn't so sure about you being able to attend if it happened in Cairo. The thought made him miss a few nights of sleep until your boss finally responded. He couldn't get married to Layla if you weren't there. He needed you, in every big step of his life, the same way you'd always been there before.

 He wanted you for the rest of his life; however long that was.

 The thought was simple, yet so revealing. It came to him in the most natural way. Accepting it was easy too. It felt like breathing or blinking, something you're not always aware of, but sometimes something happens and there it is, hidden, the only difference was he couldn't consciously stop it.

 Perhaps it was more like his beating heart. There, occurring unbeknown to his eyes and mind, yet beating all the same. With you he felt full, he felt free from judgement, he felt a better person. With you, he forgot about the rest of the world.

 If that was what love meant —the longing, the feeling of finally being at home, the desire of being alone but together, the comfort, the safety— he knew then, he finally knew, he loved you.

 "Marc?" Layla said, pulling him from his elbow. "Shall we go with them?" she gestured to where the rest of the crowd was, but he didn't listen.

 He loved you. He loved you, he loved you, he loved you. His mind couldn't let go of that thought, clinging to it as if it was the only thing keeping him sane. He felt himself falling. From where? He didn't know. But the abyss behind his feet looked terrifying. He looked at his hands and he felt small, a little child, a scared child with his hands clean again; no trace of blood. Forgiven.

 "Marc..." Layla said, again. Her eyes showed a type of concern that's there only when you truly care for someone. "Marc, you're panting."

 He remembered it then. Something so obvious yet so easy to forget; the reason why he, you, and all those people were there, the wedding.

 His wedding.

 Marc felt how his heart skipped a beat, but tried to keep himself calm, fearing that Steven would make a sudden appearence. For a second, he wished he flatlined. He wished this whole situation was some kind of cruel joke, finding out he loved someone else the day of his wedding; but it wasn't, and his heart kept beating nonetheless. The Earth kept spinning.

 He breathed in and out for a second; trying not to freak Layla out.

 After a short while, Marc smiled —it was crooked, forced— and took Layla's fingers out of his shoulders. He didn't remember her grabbing him, but her nails were buried in his shirt. It was too late to pretend nothing happened, so he told a half-truth.

 "I'm not feeling so good," he said, his voice was barely a broken whisper. "I think it's just the heat. I'm going to get some fresh air."

 "Do you want me to go with you?"

 "No, no," he responded, perhaps too quick. "No, I'm fine. I just saw (y/n) outside too. I'll talk to her for a minute. Don't worry."

 The sky was full of stars that night. The full moon was surrounded by endless sparkling spots. It was beautiful, not even comparable to the polluted air of London that barely gave a chance at stargazing. You thought it was a pity no one was enjoying the view outside, but you guessed that if you were having a good time, you wouldn't be giving any attention to it either.

 There was no way of denying it; being there was one of the most painful things you had endured, and you were also horribly uncomfortable. But all those people were there because they loved Layla, and you had to be there because you loved Marc, even if you didn't know anyone, even if no one spoke a word to you, even if the only people looking at you were nosy relatives.

 "Hey."

 You almost jumped at the sight of Marc next to you. Instead of apologizing, he leaned on the wall while you scolded him for scaring you. He seemed not to be interested in that, so he crossed his arms over his broad chest and said nothing. He stood there, looking at you, and when your eyes looked for the night sky again, so did his.

 "I'm sorry for leaving you alone for so long," he said.

 You turned your head towards him. Marc squeezed his eyes shut for an instant, as if it was a pain reflex. He took a breath, held it.

 "What's wrong?"

 "Uhm?"

 "I know that face, what's wrong?"

 He froze. You witnessed how his mind became a blank canvas, devoid of any kind of thinking. His dark eyes became even darker if that was possible. Marc, from his perspective, felt his body failing him. Not a single logical thought crossed his mind, except for the fact that you were waiting for an answer.

 He had tried to bury his feelings, which usually worked with most people. You had seen through it, though. Marc didn't want to scare you, didn't mean to worry you; but you had unmasked that veil of arrogance he wore everywhere and he felt naked, exposed.

 "Marc..." you muttered, the words almost didn't reach his ears. "Why are you crying?"

 He felt a single tear falling from his eye. His pupils looked at you as if he was a startled animal. His relaxed posture —part of that mask of arrogance— vanished from his body language. Thankfully, no more tears followed. Thank god.

 He shook his head, then wetted his lips with the tip of his tongue. He said the only thing that came to his mind, the only reasonable thing, at least.

 "Everyone cries at weddings," he said; but you didn't look convinced. He'd have to try harder. "I'm fine. Really, I am. I'm just happy and very tired."

 You nodded, but he saw in your eyes that he could not fool you.

 "What happened to your date?" he asked. That was actually one of the questions he had wanted to make you. Not that he wanted you to come here with someone else, but all invitations were double. "You didn't use your plus-one. I thought you'd bring your boyfriend, what was his name?"

 You shook your head. Now that was unbelievable, the fact that you were in your best friend's wedding and he didn't even know the name of your last ex.

 "I don't know, you tell me."

 It worked, he successfully changed the subject.

 "Was it... Kyle?"

 "Not even close. James, actually" you said.

 "What happened to James, then?"

 Up to that point, Marc had never given much thought to the people you were dating or sleeping with. He'd always get a bit uncomfortable at first, yes, especially on those rare occasions when said men wanted to meet Marc for some reason. He sometimes got jealous, but never acted on his feelings because he knew it was not his place. Plus, he had always thought that all that jealousy had more to do with the fact that he felt protective of you, that he was scared of losing his only friend, rather than the fact that he loved you. It never occurred to him before, such a wild idea. He'd known you his whole adult life and half of the rest, for so long, and he had never suspected anything.

 You pursed your lips, a look of disappointment on your face; but no trace of sadness.

 "Oh you know, I blew him once or twice," you said, almost laughing at the thought. "...and for some reason he thought he owned me after that, so I told him to fuck off."

 Marc couldn't help but laugh. It was a relieved laugh, almost sounded like that too. And when it died out, he said:

 "That's my girl."

 It made you blush. Marc saw the pink on your cheeks and felt the urge to kiss them. He had never been very affectionate. In fact, Layla used to mock him saying he was one of the most frigid people she had ever met, except in bed, of course. He didn't consider himself to be a cold person, you'd never complained about that.

 "I'm so happy for you," you said. "You have a lovely wife. I might soon be an auntie, right? I don't know. You've found your other half. I'm happy for you."

 But Marc saw through your mask too, the same way you watched through his. Your words didn't match the tone of your voice, that trembling whisper falling from your red-tinted lips. Your smile was a sad one, deprived of all joy, of every good sentiment, lacking all that makes a smile something pleasant. It made him uncomfortable, the sight of you being miserable, hiding from him.

 "Why do you sound so sad, then?" he asked.

 Except he thought he already knew the answer.

 "I don't know," you shook your head, an absent stare on your face. "I guess I'm scared of losing you now that you don't need me."

 His heart sank, he could feel it dead and bloody at his feet. He felt many times that sour feeling, the same one that you had now. You didn't deserve that kind of pain, and he wondered, with awful terror, if he did something cause it.

 "Don't say that," he responded. "I will always need you."

 "You won't say that when you're changing nappies."

 He gave a long, discontented sigh, rolling his eyes. He bit on his lower lip.

 "Why is everyone so obsessed with us having kids?" he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else's ears. Then his eyes locked on you, his fingers gently brushed yours before taking them into his grip. "Listen, I will always need you. I'm not just saying that. I mean it, I really do."

 Once again, that blush on your face. He wondered at the sight, just as you looked away.

 Marc was having none of that. He wouldn't deprive himself of the pleasure of looking at you. Never again. If he couldn't do anything else, at least he would look, just look. That was something a married man could do without consequences, something that you'd allow, at least. The pad of his fingers barely touched your chin as he forced you to look at him again.

 "I hope you're enjoying and marking my words, 'cause I won't be saying them ever again."

 That made a laugh tore from your throat.

 "Things don't have to change," he said, releasing you from his touch as he turned back to observe the moon. "I'm not dying. I'm not going to vanish into thin air," he said. "you're my best friend, and you know I love you, right?"

 His head tilted to the side, closer to your own lips. There were mere inches between the both of you, and he could feel your breathing and smell your scent. It made him dizzy, so much so, that the desert started spinning around him. Terrified, he took a glimpse of your parted lips. He was too close.

 For a horrible, awful, second, he thought he'd kiss you.

 For a horrible, awful, second, you thought you'd let him.

 Gathering all his willpower and strength, he stepped back, blinking and staring as if nothing had happened. Those were the only good news, nothing had happened, he had not caused a scene at his own wedding. Although he couldn't care less about what all those people thought about him.

 It was at that moment that he knew it was too late. He'd have to live for the rest of his life with yet another thing to feel guilt for.

 "I know," you finally said. "I love you too, Marc."

 The words slipped out of his mouth. "You'll always have me. You're my only friend."

 "You know I don't like it when you say that."

 "But it's true," he insisted. He needed to say it, to let you know what he felt before the weight of everything crushed him down. He wouldn't be able to say it again after that, so he thought he'd enjoy it, savour it on his lips. "It's true, you're my best friend, the only one I've ever had, the only one I've ever needed. I love you, and I will always need you."

 Despite his words, the whole scene felt like a farewell.

 He squeezed his eyes shut once more, cursing all the Egyptian gods he knew the names of; specially Khonshu. If fate existed, he also cursed that, wondering why his destiny was so ironic and cruel, why the universe enjoyed seeing him suffer so much.

 He was actually kidding, though. He didn't believe himself to be so important to have a designated path, or have gods pointing and laughing at him.

 In the middle of his internal rambling, he heard a faint whimper. It broke his heart because it came from you.

 "Why are you crying?"

 You shook his head and wiped your tears. Then, another smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

 "Oh you said it yourself," you responded, putting the cherry on top with a smile. "Everyone cries at weddings."

  You left the flat in the middle of the night, before Steven could wake up next to you and everything became even more complicated than it already was.

 Steven didn't call you in the morning, although he was on the verge of doing so when he thought that everything that had happened the day before was just another one of his nightmares, albeit a horrible one. If just he wouldn't have waited until he got to the museum, and checked that everything was, in fact, not another one of his nightmares, you could have talked to him for the very last time.

 Instead, once he witnessed the mess the jackal had caused in the toilets and how Marc had saved both their lives; he decided that it was enough. Steven didn't know if you were aware of the supernatural that surrounded the life of your life-long best friend. In fact, there was still many things he didn't know about, but if he was sure about one thing, that was that he didn't want to put you in any more danger. Wether you knew everything about Marc or not —and he didn't trust Marc for one single second, so he doubted it— he wouldn't be the one to risk it.

 Marc was ready to step in if Steven tried to go to you for answers. He didn't have the need to, though. And that was the first time in a while that Marc really felt connected to Steven. That maybe, somehow, they could talk things through and become something more than two strangers who fought for the body.

 Steven, in turn, decided to seek the answers himself.

 "Khonshu?" he asked, looking at his own reflection in the metal wall, but the man in front of him didn't look as incredulous as Steven was sure he looked. "The Egyptian god of the moon?" he turned around. "Oh my god, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

 And it was, in fact, stupid. But as ridiculous as it might sound, a very low voice in the back of his brain told him that it did make sense.

 "Is that rubbish what you told her?"

 In other circumstances, Marc would have laughed it off, said something other than the truth; but right now he was forced to explain everything to Steven in the hopes that he would stop interfering in his matters with Khonshu. The sooner everything was over with, the sooner he could come back to you and fix that horrible love-hate triangle that had been summoned around the three of them.

 "No," Marc said. "I wouldn't drag her into this. She doesn't know," he said. "Listen, I can't have you interfering in what I have left to do. For both our own sake and hers. So this is what you're gonna do. You're gonna lay in that cot there, and take a nice nap-"

 "Sleep?" Steven could have hit his own reflection if he didn't know that all he would get in turn was a broken hand. "I'm never gonna go to sleep again!"

 That was the moment Marc knew they had a long way to go.

 The sensation became almost unbearable after Marc got rid of the second jackal, when Steven blamed him for eating parts of his life like a parasite, for making him lose his job, killing his goldfish, turning his life into a living nightmare, and taking away the only person he had ever loved. Little did Steven know that Marc believed it to be all the other way around. After all, Steven had gotten everything he always craved but never had: loving parents, an easy life, and the woman he had always felt undeserving of.

 Hours passed, and the more you waited for a call the more obvious it was that Marc had lied to you, again. Calling him would mean to risk your relationship with Steven further into the grave now that he had Marc's phone, and calling Steven would, without a doubt, also end in disaster having in mind that you had run away from his flat. With those odds, your hands were tied. In a desperate attempt not to hurt either of them, nor to exacerbate the hatred Steven now felt for you, you were inflicting worse pain onto yourself.

 Eventually, after endless hours of turning your phone on and off and walking back and forth the whole length of your flat, you couldn't take it anymore. Baby steps, you thought. You asked yourself what could be the smallest step towards easing that feeling of uselessness, what it was in your power to fix, and that's how you ended up surfing through teacher job offers. Because ironically, that was easier than thinking about Steven hating you for life or Marc lying to you and putting himself willingly in danger for whatever his reasons were.

 And yet, once day gave way to night, a strange sensation settled in your chest, too overwhelming to ignore. A few minutes later you were taking the tube on the way to Steven's flat. And it wasn't until you left the underground, finally a few minutes from the flat, that you saw that Marc had called you four times.

 "Where are you?" It's the first thing he said. "I need to talk to you."

 "You sure do. Give me a literal minute and I'm on your doorstep."

 Silence filled the line for a second before he agreed, not exactly comfortable with your angry tone. Marc sighed, tired of fighting, and the words slipped out of his mouth.

 "I love you."

 You hung up and walked faster. Something had to go terribly wrong.

  "Oh my god, Marc."

 He opened the first time you knocked on his front door, although hit might have been a more appropriate word. You heard him hiss under his breath once the door was half-open, and you couldn't help but push it all the way back into its hinges. Even under the dim orange light of Steven's flat, you could see the crimson on his knuckles. Blood pouring from the open wound, staining the door knob, Steven's colorful shirt and the floor as it flowed in large red rivers.

 "What the hell did you do?" you asked him, taking his arms tightly into your hands, avoiding the blood. He, on the other hand, brushed the skin of your forearms with the pad of his fingers, leaving blood-stained fingerprints. A look of pure longing in his eyes, ignoring his wounds as if he had barely a paper cut.

 "I have to talk to you," he said, almost in a dazed state. When you insisted, shaking his shoulders and looking for answers, asking him if he was hurt anywhere else, he shook his head. "No, no. I just came here and had to break all the mirrors. Steven was giving me a hell of a headache."

 "I'm gonna grab the-"

 "No," he pulled your arm as you tried to leave. "It's fine, really. This is perfect."

 You were beginning to doubt his sanity.

 You squinted in his direction, looking into his brown eyes for answers. There was a time in which you were capable of almost reading his mind, know exactly what went through his brain, his emotions. That was not the case anymore.

 "Please," he said with pleading eyes, his fingers digging into your flesh. Marc got closer, his nose almost brushing yours. "Please, trust me."

 And you nodded, because what else could you do.

 Marc gently kicked the door shut, barely pushing it with the heel of his shoe. He guided you to the kitchen, the place in which all your fighting and making up seemed to happen lately, the now designated place for ruining and fixing and ruining again your relationship with the two of them. You shivered, but it had nothing to do with the cold.

 "Did you speak to him?"

 "Yeah," then, he regretted his own words. "Well, not like speaking. More like screaming at me and telling me to fuck off. But you know the deal."

 With your lips parted, an incredulous expression on your face, you almost facepalmed. Anxiety boiling just under your flesh.

 "Oh, Marc... please, tell me you're having a laugh."

 He shook his head.

 "He became co-conscious earlier. Told me I was a parasite, kept being a fucking asshole, so I had to smash every single mirror here, just for him to vanish now," he said. His hand flew to his face, trying to soothe his own nerves, but he stopped it midway. "He can't hear us now. I know you wanted to talk to him, but it will have to wait. I can't give him the body now, or he won't give it back, and there's one last thing I have to do."

 You couldn't stop thinking about his bloody knuckles.

 "Marc," you talked with the gentlest tone you could harbor. He was anxious, restless, you didn't want to scare him further. "Marc, baby, listen. You're bleeding. Let me take care of you."

 He had a blood stain on his cheek that made him look even more animalistic, deranged, than his messy hair and mud-stained clothes already made him look.

 "That's the thing. I thought I could take care of myself," he said. His hands gripped the backrest of one of the chairs, right in front of you, as you stood next to the kitchen table. "Turns out I've never been able to do that. There's always someone looking after me. In my worst days, it was always you. And when something like this happens, now," he lifted his hands in the air. "Is Khonshu."

 You frowned, not knowing what to say or what he meant, and he went on.

 "You wanted me to be honest," he said. "I can promise you, this is the last thing I'll ever keep from you. I have no more secrets. I'm all yours from now on."

 You blinked profusely, not knowing if you could trust him.

 "No more lies?" you asked. The same hope in your voice you had heard in his a day earlier. "No more lies from now on? Can you promise me that?"

 "I can," he said. "and I do. But you have to promise me you won't freak out, and won't put yourself in danger. Okay?" you nodded, and he insisted, walking closer. "I wanna hear you say it."

 "I promise you Marc," you said. "I promise I won't put myself in danger," you repeated his words. Once he was mere inches from you, your fingers traced the line of buttons on his shirt. Something beyond reason urging you to slide your fingers under the hem of his shirt, but you didn't listen. "and I promise there's not one single thing you could say or do that could keep me away."

 A little smile appeared on his face. Then, he left a peck of his lips in your forehead. He stepped back, away from you, and even if you wanted to follow him you didn't.

 He stretched his arms on either side of his body and then you saw it. You saw the bandages rising from somewhere on his back, and quickly wrapping around his whole body, the hood forming over his curls until they weren't visible anymore, the cloak falling behind his back. His eyes began to glow, two bright moons growing into full moons and then covering his whole corneas. Everything in the flat seemed to be either broken or stained with blood; but not him. The suit was pristine white and gold. There were hieroglyphs written in black ink all over it.

 There was something mystical, ancient and out-of-this-world in the air. You could feel it, magic blooming around you, in every single atom that surrounded you. And even if you didn't understand it, how that was even possible, you accepted it, because it was your Marc the one who wore it, the person under the suit.

 Both the cloak and the bandages on his face disappeared in the blink of an eye. And Marc appeared underneath, now without a trace of blood on his face, as handsome as he had always been. He walked a hesitant step in your direction and you hit the table behind you when you backed off.

 It wasn't as if you were scared of him, you never could. It was the fact that your mind could barely process how intimidating, and majestic he looked. You were having serious trouble with keeping your thoughts on track. The suit hugged his broad shoulders perfectly, the muscles in his thighs too. He even looked taller, if that was even possible.

 "It's me," he said, his open palms, covered by the bandages, stretched out in your direction. "You don't have to be scared. It's still me."

 "I know," you said, your voice low. "I know."

 Marc walked his way back to you, as he always did. His covered fingers touched your hands, stained with his blood, but even then, the suit didn't get stained. You brought your hand to his chest, to the piece covering it, your fingers traced the golden moon there, and you swore you would've gotten an ugly cut if Marc had allowed you to reach the pointed edge of the half-crescent moon.

 "When I got shot in Egypt last time," he started. "when Layla's father died, Khonshu, the god of the moon, gave me a chance to live," he said. "He exchanged my life for my servitude. I owe him. Neither Steven nor I would be alive today if it weren't for him," he waited, trying to find some kind of recognition in your eyes. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

 You frowned, looking at him but still speechless. You said the first thing that came to mind.

 "Are you an Avenger?"

 That made him laugh, but he simply shook his head, a wide grin still lingering on his lips.

 "Are you even listening to what I'm saying?"

 Giving a hesitant touch, both your hands gently brushed his biceps covered by the suit. The fabric was strangely soft, but it was secured, attached to the body like a second skin. There was not one single thread out of place, and when you tried to pull from one end of the bandages, tried to find his own clothes or skin, you only found more cloth underneath.

 When you looked into Marc's eyes again, he had a cheeky expression on his face. His eyes weren't glowing anymore, but they had a glint in them that was so characteristically Marc's.

 "I think you like it a bit too much," he said.

 "Oh," you chuckled, "I do."

 Your fingertips caressed the fabric, travelling upwards until they reached the hem of the suit in his neck. Marc held his breath as your cool fingers made contact with his warm skin. He took your hand and pulled it away, placing it on his chest, close to his heart. He stepped forward, even if you thought it wasn't possible for him to be closer, cornering you against the table. One of his knees was now between yours.

 "I meant it," he said, the most honest expression you had ever seen on his face. "...when I said I didn't want to hide anything from you anymore. That's why I'm here, telling you this. I'm leaving tomorrow morning for Cairo-"

 "What?"

 "I have to. Harrow has the scarab, he's trying to unleash ancient powers he won't be able to control," his hand cupped your cheek. "I have to stop him. If this goes right, it will be my last mission for Khonshu. It it goes wrong... well, the whole world's fucked."

 You shook your head.

 "No," you bit your own lip, anxiety blooming on your pupils. "How- how is any of that your responsibility, Marc? That's- that's madness."

 "Shh..." he shushed you, his arms holding you tightly against him. "I'll be back soon, you don't have to worry about me."

 "What if you don't?" you tried to get rid of his arms around you, but no matter how hard you struggled, you couldn't do it. "What if you get killed?"

 He sighed, finally letting you free. Marc got rid of the suit. It shattered around him, disappeared without a trace, the bandages vanishing into thin air. Then, he held his knuckles high, just so you could observe the state of them. There was nothing there. There wasn't blood, or splinters, or one single scratch. Nothing, not even a thin white scar.

 "The suit protects me. See?" Marc gently grabbed your chin and lifted your face to look at him. "I swear I'll be back. We both will. Then, the three of us will have a nice and long conversation. No fighting, no more Khonshu, no more mercenaries or weird artefacts, no more lies. I promise."

 Your voice was barely a whisper when you spoke, the tears that had pricked your eyes moments earlier had vanished, but the knot in your throat did not suffer the same fate.

 "How long will you be in Cairo?"

 "I'm sorry..." he pursed his lips. His face pressed against your temple seconds later. He left a kiss on your hairline. "I don't have an answer for that. But I'm gonna call you every day and let you know we are okay, alright?" he smiled, now his forehead resting against yours. "How does that sound?"

 "Horrible, actually," you bit your lower lip again, eyes squeezed shut in front of him. "I don't want you anywhere near that... genocidal maniac."

 Marc's fingers caressed your skin, his gentle fingers barely touching you when he brushed some hairs our of your face. Despite everything, he was smiling.

 "You've always taken such good care of me," he said, "but you don't have to worry now. I promise I'll be back."

 You wanted to contadict his words, tell him that there was no way he knew how everything from this point on would unfold. Sure, his suit and god protected him, but to what extent? If Marc had these abilities, what were the chances of Harrow getting similar powers on his side? Still, you couldn't voice your concerns. It was a lost cause to argue with Marc when he was so sure of his decision.

 So you sighed.

 "I suppose you won't let me go with you."

 His lips formed a thin line. He shook his head.

 "Too dangerous," he said. "The only positive thing about Harrow having the scarab is they won't be here to bother you. They don't need us anymore," he paused, looked at his right, his eyes focusing on Gus' tank. "And I need someone here to take care of Steven's fish."

 You rolled your eyes, a huff leaving your lips. He chuckled for a second, amused by the current of emotions showing on your face. He took one of your hands, his fingers intertwined his yours. And your other hand was quickly buried in his curls.

 "You have to come back to me," you said, then he sensed a shift in your look, a more intense gaze, and he knew you weren't talking to him anymore, even before you parted your lips. "You too, Steven. You take care of each other."

 Steven wasn't conscious at that precise moment, and Marc didn't want to bring up chaos in that situation, so he didn't dive into the headspace looking for him, but he would definitely tell Steven about it. Marc owed you that, now that he wouldn't allow the two of you to do something as necessary as saying goodbye.

 Add to that the fact that Marc wasn't as sure of coming back in one piece as he made it seem, and the thoughts were soon tugging at his heart.

 Marc wasn't so sure about Steven covering his back, but Marc wouldn't let anything bad happen to him. He wouldn't let anyone take Steven's happiness if he was there to prevent it. Once he came back, Marc would give him everything he took from him, he would mend it all. How, he didn't know, but if Marc was something, that was stubborn.

 He wouldn't lose another brother. Or another part of himself, for that matter.

 It wasn't until he felt a gentle pull from his curls that he snapped out of it.

 "What are you thinking about?" you asked.

 There it was, those kind eyes on your face. Your tone, sweetened with honey-flavored affection. He shook his head before your question, getting closer, his nose brushing your cheekbone as he worked up the courage to kiss you.

 "Can we sleep together?" he asked, although he didn't mean it to sound as bad as it did. "Like we did last night. I really liked that."

 He sounded so Steven right now. So soft, so unlike himself. And it wasn't until then that he remembered. Steven was him, a more gentle and open and vulnerable side of him, but him nonetheless. Marc was letting himself be vulnerable and soft, for the first time in a long while, and he would not feel guilty about it.

 "Of course," you answered, your finger quickly crawling up to his neck, looking to start unbuttoning his shirt. It surprised both of you, even himself, when Marc didn't stop you. But his breath was still caught in his lungs. "What about your luggage? Do you need help with it?"

 He drew a breath, as the cool air of the living room hit half of his chest. His eyes looking down at where your fingers tried to unbutton the last pair of buttons.

 "All my things are in a warehouse in Central London," he said. "I'll grab a few shirts on my way to Victoria station."

 You sighed, not entirely convinced with the sound of that. He was most certainly going to forget many things behind, but you figured he would have to manage.

 He slid the sleeves of his shirt off his body. His now naked torso was warm, warmer than you remembered, and you had to fight the urge to bury your nose in the hole between his collarbones, looking up at his face instead.

 "Can I at least accompany you to the station?" you asked.

 Marc smirked, but shook his head.

 "Don't make things more difficult," he said, then kissed your temple. "But I really appreciate that."

 Soon, the two of you were back on Steven's bed, avoiding the sand on the floor as best you could. You took one of Steven's old t-shirts, expecting that to make you, at least, feel a bit closer to him. You needed them both with you, as you were sure Marc would leave in the blink of an eye; as he always did. And then you'd have none of them for god-knows-how-long. You also took one of Steven's shorts, even if they were most likely to slip from your hips. Part of you was begging for Marc to take those off as soon as you hit the bed; but you weren't so sure of that, having in mind how he had closed his eyes and drifted off the day before.

 You hated the fact that your last conversation with Steven before they both left for Cairo was so tumultuous, so full of hatred. But you should have thought that before, both of you, because we never know what your last words to someone will be.

 "Do you want me to say something to Steven?" Marc asked, knowing that you would have liked to at least say goodbye, and that he was taking that chance away from you.

 "Tell him I love him," you said. Marc's mouth turned into half a smile. "I love you too, you know that."

 Marc nodded. You might not be only his, but he is only yours.

 His head rested on the pillow. Both your gazes locked into each other. Marc got closer, his body warm with only his boxers on, his big hand crawled its way under your arm and got hooked on your back, splashed there, covering as much flesh as he could. His forehead rested against yours, eyes closed.

 "I love you too," he said.

 It was the first time he said those three words sober, meaning them, really, truly, meaning them. Marc had always avoided saying them, even the first time he let you know about his feelings a few days before, he had not used the verb love. And now that it was out of his mouth, out of his chest —finally— and lingering in the limited space between your mouths, he felt finally free from a baggage he didn't know was holding.

 "Say it again," you whispered, and he loved that.

 "I love you too."

 His warm breath was all you could breathe in, being in that position, body pressed against him, eyes closed and heart wide open.

 "Again, please."

 "No," he chuckled. "Words aren't enough. Let me show you."

 There were mere inches between your mouths, inches he closed as he threw himself against your lips with urgency. His hot breath in your mouth, so indistinctively him, tasted sweet in a way nothing else could. By then you had long forgotten how good of a kisser Marc was, and it took you by surprise when both of you found yourselves fighting for dominance, frenetically trying to taste each other as much as you could. His hand then left your back, that kept you pressed against him, and crawled its way to your jawline. The moment his fingertips touched your neck, and you moaned, Marc felt himself die and come back to life. You melted under his touch, and the kiss went from violent to lazy and wet and almost dumb.

 This time, it was you who nibbled on his lower lip. Marc moaned, fingers digging into your shoulder as he tried to find and keep his sanity. The other hand, the one under your body, fisted the sheets.

 Neither of you could believe what was happening. If you ever told your younger self —or even just a version from a week back— that you'd have some day Marc Spector moaning from your kisses, she would have lost her shit. If Marc had ever told his younger self, he'd have freaked out.

 He pulled himself away from you, barely enough to admire your face, with the last ounce of willpower he had. You were both panting, out of breath, a faint red colour adorning his features, curls pointing in all directions.

 "I think that's clear enough," you said.

 He frowned for a second, seemingly having forgotten what led him to kiss you in the first place.

 "Oh, yeah," he said. "Hope it is."

 "...because you won't repeat it?"

 His smirk grew bigger.

 "Who said such a thing?"

 He pecked your lips a couple times, with a big grin still on his face, just before he moved and kissed your exposed cheek, the one that wasn't against the pillow. His hand buried itself under the hem of Steven's shirt, finding your waist below and pulling you against him, once, then drawing gentle, lazy circles over your naked flesh with his fingertips. He fell like a deadweight over the pillow just seconds later, still drawing circles, caressing all the skin he could reach; legs entangled with yours.

 Goosebumps erupted on your skin, but he wouldn't be able to say if the cause were his attentions, the cold, or any other thing. Before he could stop himself, his touch dived further into your body, your stomach sinking away from his touch as he brushed the flesh there, but he didn't stop. Before he realized, his middle finger found the hem of your panties.

 His eyes were locked in yours, and they hadn't changed its expression, as if nothing else was happening beyond two lovers looking into each other's eyes. But you knew somewhere, deep down, he was asking for permission. It was either that, or he wanted you to beg. And you did.

 "Marc..."

 The sound that came out of your mouth was half a whisper, half a moan, but beyond that, it was clear as day what it really was: a plea.

 He parted his lips, drawing in a heavy breath. His fingers played with the hem, just to leave it alone and deciding to touch you —gently, without preassure— over the fabric.

 He faked a puzzled face, frowning, as if he didn't know exactly what you wanted from him.

 "What?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

 You closed your eyes, now laying on your back and hips looking for a friction you couldn't find because he retrieved his hand, slightly, but never too far away. You looked at him, head lulling to the side.

 "Marc... please."

 He could have played with you all night, teasing you, making you beg. You saw it in his eyes, that he was capable of that and much more. But that night he was too eager, too needy. He had waited and imagined that moment for years, and now that it was happening, he was hard as a rock in his boxers. He couldn't wait, and a voice somewhere in his brain told him that it was cruel of him to make you wait any longer. But that didn't mean he had to rush things.

 Marc leaned in and left a kiss on your clothed shoulder.

 "Want this?" he said, a breath getting stuck at the very end of your lungs as his fingers pressed and massaged over the fabric of your panties.

 "Yeah...," you gasped. "I want you. Marc, please."

 He caught your mouth in his, savouring not only your mouth, but also the feeling of having you under him moaning his name, having you exactly as he had always needed you, imagined you. His open-mouthed kisses only made the pleasure and excitement more obvious, a pool of warmth growing in your insides.

 Marc threw the covers away from you, leaving his laying position at last, now kneeling next to you on the mattress. With one hand he grabbed the hem of Steven's shorts, and pulled them so hard you could hear the seam unravel. You helped him pushing your hips over the mattress and prayed that the damage to the piece of clothing wasn't very serious. Not before you drowned in the sudden lightning bolt of pleasure that the sound brought to your body.

 Then, Marc leaned in over you, trying to find the light switch just over the headboard. The bedroom space, only lit by the moonlight that poured through the window, became brighter as an orange-toned light bathed both bodies. You had to actively retain a gasp as you looked at Marc. The shadows created by the light definitely suited him, created shadows and light points making him look broader and his eyes darker, pupils wider.

 His lips parted, breathing heavy as he looked at the way you slipped out of Steven's t-shirt. Your breasts on display, only for him to ravish on the sight.

 "Lights stay on," he said. "I wanna see your pretty face when you cum."

 He didn't even wait for a reaction, his fingers setting aside the fabric of your panties, his fingers now massagging up and down your naked flesh, not really with a path or a plan in mind. His other hand palmed his erection, hidden by the tent the fabric of his boxers had formed.

 Marc kept the fabric out of the way with one hand, while he brought the fingers of his other hand to his tongue, wetting it with his spit. He buried those fingers in your folds, once, a low grunt leaving his lips when you moaned. Once he had them soaked, the pad of his fingers drew tight slow circles over your bundle of nerves.

 "Oh, Marc..." you moaned. From your spot, you had a perfect sight of his shoulders and back, but also part of his face. Many of his dark curls fell over his eyes, but he didn't seem to notice. "...Ah... I-isn't it- better if you get..." he looked at you, not leaving his work unfinished for one single second and proud of the way you weren't able to finish a single sentence. "...get them off."

 He pulled harder from your panties, the fabric getting deliciously buried in all right places.

 "What's the fun in that?" he smiled.

 You gasped, the pressure too intense to keep any type of chit-chat. Panting, you tried to reach for his arm. As your grip tightened around his hot flesh, your head left the pillow to get a visual of what he was doing. You could barely see anything beyond your abdomen rising and falling with your spasm and heavy breathing, but that accompanied by Marc's stoic and focused face, was enough to send you back to the pillow, your body way too heavy for you to hold any of it, your muscles and bones melting over the mattress.

 "Marc..." he looked back at your face when he heard you whimper. "Marc, I need you closer."

 He left everything he was doing, earning a huff from you, but even then, you felt the luckiest woman on Earth when he leaned over you, this time resting his weight on his elbows at both sides of your body. One of his hands brushed a hair that you hadn't noticed on your face, and he kissed your lips, quickly pulling away just a few inches.

 "I'm right here, baby," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

 That was just a blatant lie, but one that could comfort you for the time being.

 He lowered his face to lick a long stripe of skin on your chest, in the valley between your breasts. The sound that came from your chest sounded like a wounded animal, but Marc didn't mind. He massaged one of your tits, creating the perfect preassure right before he caught the nipple in his mouth. He licked, sucked, until they were perky and standing proud in the cold room. Although the flat seemed everything but cold in that moment. He gave the same attentions to the other one, not wanting to neglect a single inch of your body.

 You buried your fingers in his hair as he did, massaging his scalp, pulling gently from his curls and drawing little moans from his mouth. When he was done —because it looked like he would give you a death glare if you interrupted his meal— you pulled his hair, trying to catch his lips again in yours.

 He kissed you again, wet, hot and heavy tongue playing with yours, the saliva falling from one corner of your mouth for a moment before he kissed it away. The palm of your hand slipped over his hard flesh, not even stopping against his abs but instead going even lower. When you finally found the fabric of his black boxers, your fingers touching over the sensitive skin of his head by accident, he let his head fall over your collarbone. His heavy breath on your skin making you shiver.

 You tried to reach for his member, but it wasn't like you had the best sight from that angle, so you failed. Luckily, Marc was too needy to behave as he normally would and guided your open palm to his covered cock, grinding against your touch.

 In his mind, he was being harsh, not letting you touch him without asking permission first, not having all those gentle touches, caresses and complicit looks he was having with you. It didn't even feel like fucking. And he figured that maybe he wasn't fucking. Not at all.

 He moaned when you pulled his hair, yanking his head back from your collarbones. You kissed his cheek, your lips never leaving his skin. And as you did, you touched him, pressing your hand and moving it up and down on his long shaft. When it became ridiculous the fact that he still had those boxers on, you pushed him back on the mattress, laying on his back so you could get rid of his boxers. He let you, looking at your much smaller hands pulling from the hem of his boxers until he had them around his knees. And he kicked it off of his body, while you took his heavy cock in your hands and gave him a stroke. His thighs trembled.

 "You're so good to me," he said, his thumb caressing your neck while his other fingers rested on your nape. "I don't deserve you."

 You quickly turned to him, almost snapping your head in the process.

 "Don't say that ever again," you said. Marc gasped as you stroked him, his head leaking pre-cum, coating your fingers. But even with that serious expression on your face, you didn't stop jerking him off. "You deserve me. You deserve good things."

 You leaned, now laying next to him on the bed. Marc's arm surrounded your body, he hooked his fingers in your waist. Reaching for his cock again, you kept giving him gentle strokes. He nodded in your direction.

 "No, I wanna hear you say it now."

 You increased the speed, barely, but even with that, he wasn't able to do so much as keeping his eyes open and take ragged breaths.

 "Say it, say you deserve good things."

 "I-" he tried, squeezing his eyes shut, panting. His other hand digged in your arm. "I deserve good things."

 How had he ended up in that situation, that he kept wondering about. He rarely ever let a woman take control, but for you he could get used to it.

 "That's my boy.”

 He felt the familiar rush, the ticking bomb inside of him trying to implode just as you said that, and he quickly yanked your hand out of his body. He couldn't come yet, he wouldn't.

 He behaved like a madman. He certainly felt like one, while getting over you and getting rid of your panties the same way he did with Steven's shorts earlier. He pushed your knees, your legs open for him; and before you could get used to the feeling of having nothing to cover yourself, he was already leaving wet kisses on the inside of your thighs.

 Your weight was resting on your elbows, because you wanted to be able to see his pretty face. Even if he did nothing, you still wanted to look at him. You never got tired of that face, of his expression and focused gaze. Marc's too perfect not to be admired.

 There was a moment of hesitation when he looked at you, as if he was asking for permission before lowering himself against your folds. You nodded for him to continue, and without breaking eye contact he buried himself between your legs, wet lips and skillful tongue eating you out, kissing, licking. Whatever he did, whatever pace he set, it felt like an thunderstorm suddenly bursting through your insides.

 Between moans, you saw him roll his eyes, close them. That was when you knew that he was doing it for his own pleasure, not yours. His hands stopped you in your tracks when you tried to move your hips, slapping the tender skin of your thighs and leaving an angry red mark with the shape of his hand. He didn't let you move, long fingers and open palms keeping you open, still and available under him. His heavy tongue felt as if he was licking fire into your skin. Then, he put two fingers in and pumped, opening you up and getting you ready for what was about to come.

 Marc said something, but you could hardly hear anything beyond your pulse, your own moans and half-hearted screams. You had never been as loud in bed as now, and it was frankly embarrassing how much you wanted —needed— him right then and there.

 Even when he spoke, he never stopped pounding his thick fingers into you.

 "You taste so fucking good," he said, before licking a long stripe between your lips. "I can’t believe I’ve missed this," he licked again, enthusiastically lapping at your bundle of nerves. "Come for me, baby. Come in my mouth."

 He curled his fingers, knowing damn well what he was doing, sending you directly to rapture. His praise was well-received, triggering one of the most shattering orgasm of your life.

 Marc held your hips, pushing you into the mattress as your thighs tried to close around his head. He moaned as if he was the one coming, his tongue licking around as if you were made of the most delicious sweet.

 "That's it, there you are," he said, chin glistening below the dim lights, a cheeky smile on his face as he propped himself on his elbows, took the fingers out of you and licked them clean. "...my sweet girl. You come so good."

 He lunged forward, looking for a kiss. You tasted yourself in his tongue, in the way he was passing the flavour into your mouth; and you couldn't help but moan into his mouth too. The whole thing was so nasty that it turned you on even more, the all-consuming fire burning in your skin —longing for his body— never fading, not for one split second.

 You pushed at his chest and shoulders back, guiding him on a sitting position in front of you. He had a frown on his beautiful face, and you couldn't help but lean in and kiss the small wrinkle between his eyebrows and the swelling vein on his forehead.

 "What you're up to?"

 Marc said it with a grin on his face, but even then you could see the confusion.

 "You'll see," you responded, crawling your way up to him, Your fingers looked blindly to grip the soft curls in the back of his head. Your lower body sitting over him, facing him, your thighs over his and his erection twitching when it brushed the inside of your thigh. "I think you'll love it. No one will ever fuck you like I do."

 Marc's breath was caught in his lungs, he never thought you could talk like that; and it was certainly a first that he wasn't expecting.

 He loves it.

 "Are you gonna ride me?" he asked, looking into your eyes with so much desire and impatience that even if you weren't, you wouldn't have denied him anything. "Are you gonna ride my cock like a good girl?" then he brushed your hair back, the pads of his fingers lingering over the skin of your neck for way too long. Then he whispered. "Do you want me to lay back?"

 "No."

 He hissed when you touched his erection, hard as a rock in your hand, and held his breath as he watched how you propped yourself on him, just to slowly —almost cruelly— lower yourself on his cock, inch by inch, until he finally bottomed out, your thighs once again sitting on his lap, your heels digging into his lower back as you hooked yourself around him in a tight hug.

 Marc had to close his eyes to keep himself from floating away, but still held your body against his chest. It wasn't until he felt your face against his collarbone, your ragged breath over his skin, that he came back to reality.

 "You okay?" he asked, almost whispering. His open palm caressed your back in a comforting manner, up and down.

 "Yeah, yeah," you responded. "Give me a second."

 "All you need."

 You were way too full, full to the brim. You could almost feel the pressure of him in your lungs, not letting you breathe. But soon the uncomfortable sensation faded, only leaving the pleasure and eagerness behind. Your arms embraced him over his shoulders, hugging his broad back and all of him as best you could. You'd never have enough of his boiling-hot flesh. You lowered your face against his neck and sucked and licked until he had a cute love bite blooming over his tanned skin.

 "If you do that again," he sucked in a breath. "...I'm not taking responsibility for the things I'll do to you."

 You chuckled, kissed the bruised skin and wondered if you felt like pushing his limits; finally concluding that maybe today wasn't the day.

 “Just a little gift” you whispered against his ear, goosebumps erupted on his neck and shoulders “to remember me by.”

 “I could never forget you.”

 Your forehead rested against his, heavy breaths coming from the both of you; breaths that became even heavier as you rolled your hips and slowly sank yourself into him. Marc grunted, fingers digging deeply in your hips as the pace picked up.

 "You'll be the end of me," he said between breaths.

 He then hooked one of his arms around your waist. He held your lower back, but also pushed you up and down on his length, quick to begin thrusting from underneath as best he could. Even with those odds, his hips didn't falter, his thrusts were hard, slow and deep. You moaned his name against his mouth, and that's when his hand grabbed your neck, thumb and index getting buried just under your jaw.

 Were those stars or black dots in your vision? You didn't know, maybe both.

 "So precious," he said, and his grip on your neck faltered as you reached for his wrist, nails scratching his flesh. "Do you like that?"

 You didn't respond, but your fingers cupped his hand and squeezed, urging him to do the same. Marc chuckled, and brought you in for a peck on the lips. "No, that's..." he gasped as he felt you tighten around him "...already too much. Fuck, I'm so close, already. What the fuck are you doing to me?"

 Finding strength in his words, you gripped his shoulders and rode him. Faster, deeper, if that was even possible. Marc opened his mouth to complain, but went silent as his own eyes rolled back.

 "F-fuck."

 He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to steady himself, trying not to cum yet. He clenched his jaw, a muscle ticking there from the force. His fingers dug deeper into your waist, succeeding in their task of trying to slow down the pace when, finally, your muscles started to ask for a time-out.

 "You little bitch," he complained, his hand left your neck and gripped your cheeks, a dull ache spreading beneath the grip that, unexpectedly., made you clench around him. "I'm not coming first. You are coming first. Am I clear?"

 "Y-yes," you responded.

 He didn't wait, couldn't wait. Marc reached for where you both joined, quick to find your swollen clit almost brushing his own groin, not without coating his fingers in spit. And he drew tight circles, his arm guiding you to keep sinking yourself around him. The head of his cock pulsing and hitting the right spot inside of you, time and time again. He was determined to wear you out.

 "Give me another one, come on," he said, muttering to himself. "I know you can do it. I can feel you."

 And so you did, the powerful blast of pleasure spreading everywhere from your centre, thighs stiff and unmoving over his, both your hands fisting his hair until a low grunt left the back of his throat. Your vision went blurry just before you closed your eyes and rested your forehead against his.

 "I got you," he said through clenched teeth, following closely behind.

 All he needed was a few more thrusts, feel your warm and tender skin against his. You were everywhere, all his senses could record were you against him: your back under his touch, your fingers on his nape, your body sitting over him, thighs drenched with a mix of sweat and cum. He grabbed your body closer, as if it wasn't close enough, and let himself fall into the void. His eyes squeezed shut as his own orgasm shattered everything around him. You heard him moan and struggle against your ear.

 Both of you panted as you came down from your high. Marc never let you go, he knew better than that now. Your hand slipped over his shoulder, falling over his heart and feeling his quick pulse underneath.

 Marc buried his head deeper into your collarbone, trying to quiet down a mix of contradicting thoughts clouding his mind. It wasn't until then that he realized he should've, at least, pulled out; instead of spilling himself inside of you without even asking. It wasn't until then, either, that he realized that leaving for Cairo would be a hundred times worse, that being away from you would be one of the worst things he would've to do. Again.

 And he would still not have it any other way. Never. Not in a million years.

 "You're alright, baby?" you asked him, caressing the back of his neck and shoulders with one hand.

 "Mine," he whispered, the sound so muffled you hardly heard it. "I can't believe you're finally mine."

 He felt tears pricking in his eyes, but didn't let go of them.

 "Oh, silly," you chuckled and kissed his shoulder. "I've always been yours."

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[meta-squash]

I’m in a mood tonight apparently because I have more In The Flesh thoughts which I’m sure have been said before and I probably read someone else’s meta on it back in 2014 but I’m too lazy to search anything up so here we are.

This is something that’s barely touched on in the show and even then it’s just barely, just Amy talking about it very briefly in the second to last episode but I do wish there had been more exploration about the PDS sufferers’ lack of sensation or less “concrete” senses. (I know it’s mentioned fairly often in fic.) They can only see and hear as clearly as they did before they died, and everything else is gone or severely dulled.

So not only are they treated as second-class citizens and targeted and generally treated like trash, and they have to deal with their own internal guilt about the things they did while rabid, and they have to deal with whatever mental health problems they either had from before or developed from the trauma afterward, they can’t do anything to let any of it out or get any sort of release. They can’t eat, or drink, or have sex, or touch soft comforting things, or self-harm, or even exercise for the feeling of burning off restlessness and/or the ensuing rush of endorphins.

No wonder so many of the people who end up in the ULA are boiling over with rage; they can’t do a single thing to express themselves and their feelings, good or bad. There’s no pleasure or release or pain in any physical things anymore.

It’s pretty easily inferred from series 1 and also the Walker family in general that they just weren’t a family that Talked About Things, and that Kieren in particular bottled stuff up and didn’t think he could talk to anyone about what he was going through. But now he, and every other PDS sufferer, have that tenfold. Because where there used to be some sort of physical escape, some sort of physical coping mechanism (whether healthy or not), now there’s just empty numbness.

So what can you do to feel again? Sheeps brains, although that seems to be the PDS equivalent to weed or molly, or Blue Oblivion and go rabid again, which is more intense but more risky. And even so neither of those things are going to be living human sensations, they’re not going to be the same as what any of them remembers when they were alive. They’re completely trapped in numbness to an extent that must be maddening.

I wish there had been more exploration of that trapped existence. Even if Kieren feels less fear than when he was alive, and Simon feels like things aren’t so pointless, etc, it still means that every experience they have, unless it is only sight and sound, is for the most part mental. And it must get so much, and so loud, mentally, to experience everything in your head without being able to comprehend it with the whole body, without being able to let all those neurons fire and the brain process it and then let it go.

Imagine being in a terrifying situation, and you can’t sweat, can’t really hyperventilate, can’t tame the psychological fight-or-flight response because there is no more chemical one, can’t bundle up warm or touch something cool or something soft or something painful in order to break out of the fear. Completely stuck physically which means all the mental stuff is turned up volume on high because there is no physical outlet for it. Scream, I guess? But that’s not much and not the same.

And they can talk but that doesn’t mean people are going to listen. Only a small percentage of the living with listen to them with any sort of depth or empathy. And other PDS sufferers will listen. But it’s probably almost impossible to adequately express anyway. The experience of dying and coming back and of flashbacks and of the weirdly energizing feeling of being rabid. So talking is almost kind of out of the question too.

So of course so many of them are frustrated and angry and hurting. With 2 out of the 5 senses working, they’re basically stuck, unable to find emotional or mental release through physicality. So they’re all bottling things up which means of course they’re going to clutch on to anything that might give them any sort of answer or something to maybe use as a vehicle for release, and of course something is going to give.

[fairestwriting]

okok this is not going to be my most coherent post and i KNOW how armchair diagnosing fictional characters sounds like but, ive been working on this leona fic recently and it just makes me kind of think harder about his character??? if youve been following me for a while you know i have beef with how they portrayed him in ch 2 and everything and how easily it seems the conflict is solved even though IT WASNT SOLVED AT ALL!

i dont like leona as a Person either like if i knew him irl i would try to beat his ass, genuinely, but i also watched lion king five billion times as a child and i thought scar was the shit, and im the kind of fandom person who always fixates on the idea of rewriting things, so i have been. Thinking. doesnt it kind of feel like leona has like?? clinical depression? i dont think it justifies any of his actions, not in the slightest, but i feel like i can get a much better understanding of his emotions under this sort of theory if it makes sense

he did have that “upswing” in chapter 2 when he tried to come up with that plan to cheat in the tournament, but he gave up on it so quickly, and the way he does clearly feel he needs to cheat to win showcases a very clear lack of self esteem in him. yes he has a superiority complex, but it comes with an inferiority one too, and hes constantly plagued with this thought of how pointless everything is and how “life is unfair”. like in his head the feeling of superiority from his own talent, skill and potential, WHICH REALLY IS A LOT, is just constantly fighting this everpresent lethargy from how nothing he does seems to get him any closer to his goals. that hamster wheel sort of feeling that looks very characteristic of a specific kind of depression case to me

again. doesnt justify his behavior at all. he shouldve gotten so many more consequences from doing the magical equivalent of mass doping and Trying To Kill Ruggie but also thinking about the sort of Situation his head is in plus that tendency towards the grandiose and lack of consequence sight that comes from his privilege in his society. yeah his actions make sense.

and in a way it makes me sort of? sad for him? because hes extremely talented and intelligent, hes clearly powerful enough to counter riddles unique magic, and riddle is said to be the top student in nrc. he has so much potential but hes so beaten down from the things his life branded into his brain that he doesnt really see it.

logically i think he knows that theres more to life than becoming king. again hes very intelligent, but with it having been his dream, him having believed he had the potential required for it (and maybe even actually being better than farena? we dont know enough about farena to be able to tell that though) and then having that torn away from him from whats implied to be a young age, plus the treatment from everyone in the afterglow savannah court. like that clearly did drill some emotional instability in his head. no stable guy whos aware of his potential would have the sort of mindset he does. its illogical he focuses on how he couldnt become king like this, unable to move on from that and the hit his self esteem took from it.

if he had been mentally healthy, being someone whos clearly a very clever and determined type, he would have found another way to make use of his own skills. who knows why exactly he wanted to become king, maybe he did believe in making things better for his country, maybe farena isnt as good as he seems, if it has been a longtime dream of his i have a hard time believing he just wanted it for the sake of wanting it, kids dont really crave power for the sake of itself after all and do tend towards being more empathetic and hopeful than older people, from a psychological standpoint. and he wouldnt have been groomed to want that position, since its clearly established that as the second son, he would only become king if farena died

with his emotional state too, i cant help but wonder the details of how his parents treated him. we definitely wont know that in canon but imo these major depression traits line up with a case of neglect. maybe he doesnt even recognize it as such, he strikes me as the kind of guy who would look back at his childhood attempts at seeking affection as weakness, so maybe he thinks his parents would be justified in not really fulfilling his needs especially as that abyss in his self esteem started forming from his dream being slowly torn down.

HOWEVER, AND THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT POINT OF THIS IMPROMPTU ESSAY: he is still a cunt and i still hate him. thanks for reading like and subscribe

[my-soul-sings]

kiss the girl: ch 2

Fandom: Tears of Themis Characters: Artem x Reader

Summary: Armed with a trusty book, Artem Wing attempts to win the woman of his dreams.

ch 1 | ch 2

*** 

“Surprise her with flowers.”

Artem has skipped to the second half of the book where the practical suggestions are, because he doesn’t have the patience to carefully read the lengthy explanations of the “psychology of love”. The practical tips are simple enough, but the explanations following each of them are unnecessarily long and repetitive.

Ignoring those, he highlights the ones that stand out—those that sound more doable for him, at least.

The first one he notices is a classic: flowers. Of course. He’s done it before actually—he’d given her a bouquet of garden cosmos because she told him that she liked them. She didn’t really show much of a reaction back then, but he recalls the warm smile it had put on her face for the rest of that day. He doesn’t mind seeing it again. 

But, would it be boring to do the exact same thing? Maybe he can change it up slightly… If he recalls correctly, the book said something about how to send a bouquet of flowers in a way that will “keep her on her toes”. 

It doesn’t take long for him to scan the book and find the relevant page. However, as he goes over the detailed suggestion, his brows gradually turn downwards into a frown. 

“Will this really work...” he mumbles to himself, pressing a finger to his temple. Frankly, it sounds unnecessarily cliched and cumbersome… not to mention embarrassing. No doubt, if Celestine catches wind of this, she won’t let him live it down.

But, he supposes, if he’s going to take relationship advice from a book, then he might as well go through with it fully. 

Having made up his mind, Artem picks up his phone and begins typing up a draft message. 

***

You’ve barely stepped into the office when you hear Kiki calling your name in an unusually high-pitched voice. Your first thought is that she’s managed to get tickets for the upcoming concert for her favourite idol group.

But then you arrive at your desk and realise a marked change from how you had left it the night before: your usually clean and neat desk now has a large bouquet of garden cosmos placed right in the middle of it.

Artem’s is the first name that comes to mind, but you dismiss the thought quickly. With his shy and reserved personality, it’d be strange to expect him to send you flowers out of the blue. 

Your sharp eyes don’t miss the little pink rectangular card sticking out from the side of the bouquet. Kiki spots it at the same time as you do, and her eyes widen with a playful gleam, not even trying to be subtle with the way she’s leaning over to you, to take a peek at the message.

With a cheeky smile, you lean away from her too, deliberately hiding the card from her view, which only makes Kiki kick up a fuss about wanting to see too. Thankfully, Celestine isn’t in the office yet. You don’t think you can deal with two overly-enthused friends this early in the morning.  

Ignoring Kiki’s protests, you open the folded card to read it. As it turns out, there’s not much to hide from her. The message is a simple and curt one:

I hope this makes you smile. Have a good day.

“There’s no signature,” you remark, handing the card to Kiki who practically lunges for it. Her disappointment at the short message is obvious. “Why would someone give you flowers without signing off on it?”

“Maybe they forgot?” you venture, although you carefully search the bouquet in case you missed something else.

“Don’t tell me… Did you send this to yourself?”

You’re unable to hold in your laughter at the absurd idea, and the both of you simultaneously burst into giggles. Just then, your finger feels the edge of another piece of paper hidden between the wrapping paper. You pull it out, and it’s just a small, square card with the letter ‘M’ written on it in fancy, embellished lettering.

“Maybe it’s the first letter of his name?” Kiki suggests. “Who do you think it’s from?”

The letter ‘M’... You don’t know that many people whose name starts with that letter, and a familiar face is already coming to mind—he’s the only one who would pull a stunt like this, especially after you told him specifically a few days ago that you did not want him to send flowers to you, and especially not to your workplace. You don’t want to be teased by your colleagues and worse, Artem might get the wrong idea if he sees it.

“I think I might know who the culprit is…”

With a clenched fist, you pull out your phone and search up the contact before hitting the ‘call’ button. Kiki is left behind, cleanly forgotten, as you storm out of the office to give the culprit a piece of your mind.

***

When Artem enters the office that morning, the first thing he notices is Celestine and Kiki whispering to each other at the pantry while stealing glances at a certain attorney’s way. He follows their gazes to her desk where she’s seated and doing work as always, although today there seems to be a frown etched onto her face, and the bouquet of flowers are nowhere to be seen.

He panics for a moment, wondering if something had gone wrong with the delivery, but then he notices the wrapping peeking out from underneath the table when he walks past her desk and heads towards the pantry, where her two friends are obviously talking about her behind her back—literally.

“What’s going on?” he asks in a low whisper after exchanging morning greetings with them. “Did something happen?”

Celestine discreetly points in the direction of their sulking friend with a grimace. “She’s been like this ever since she got the flowers this morning.”

Artem’s brows knit together, and his mouth opens and closes a few times before he finally manages to piece together his thoughts into a coherent sentence. “I thought... she’d be happy to receive flowers.”

“I thought so too,” Kiki nods, “but when I asked if she knew who the sender was, she suddenly got angry. Said she knew who the culprit was and stormed off. Then she came back and she’s been doing work like this ever since.” She finishes her explanation with a drawn-out sigh, and her eyes return to the back figure of the junior lawyer who’s furiously typing away at her computer.

Artem follows her gaze, and nervously swallows a lump that had formed in his throat without him realising. As always, Celestine is annoyingly quick to catch on to what he’s thinking, and she startles him slightly with an elbow nudge to his arm. “Shouldn’t you put your things down in your office? Or are you here for coffee again?”

He’s not even in the mood to humour her right now. With an absent hum, he nods and quietly trudges towards his office.

Once he’s inside and the door is shut, his bag falls to the ground by his desk and his jacket is flung unceremoniously onto the back of his chair before he sinks into it, fingers entangling in his hair.

He’s screwed. Did he send her the wrong flowers? But she said she liked garden cosmos and he had sent her the same flowers before, so that can’t be it.

Then, was it the message? But he took pains to make sure that it was short, simple and pleasant. Or was it because it was too short? Had she been expecting more?

No, no, but Kiki said she got angry after she figured out who the sender was… which meant that she was angry at him. Had he overstepped the boundaries by sending flowers to the office?

That’s probably it. He messed up horribly. Of course she would be upset that her boss sent her flowers to the office—that was inappropriate. Entirely inappropriate. Why didn’t he think this through properly? Stupid, stupid stupid…

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t even register the sound of knocking on his door. It’s only when he hears his name being called that he looks up, only to meet the gaze of his colleague whom he can’t bear to face right now.

Hastily, he fixes his hair from the crazed pulling and tugging just seconds ago, and sits upright in his chair while eyeing her cautiously. He’d better pick his words wisely here. “Yes?” The word comes out strained, as if he’s choking.

“I’ve completed the draft statement of claim for the Macrosoft employee issue—the one about the breach of restraint of trade clause and the conspiracy claim,” she says, placing a set of papers on his table. “I’ve also completed the legal opinion you requested for the resulting trust analysis on the Williams’ matrimonial property issue, and I will send you the draft affidavit for Mrs Jones’ case by the end of today.”

“Ah. Thank you…” Artem waits for her to say something else, all while scrutinising her face. She doesn’t seem as angry as before—although she does look a little confused when she meets his gaze.

“Did I miss anything?” she asks, already visibly starting to panic.

“N-No, it’s not that...” Should he just apologise right now and avoid letting the issue fester? He’s not sure if he should be happy or unnerved by how perfectly normal she’s acting. Is she not angry anymore? Or is she just doing an exceptional job of holding her anger in? All those reminders he used to give her about maintaining composure in front of clients and in court must have paid off.

“Okay. Then, if there’s nothing else, I’ll go—”

“Wait, just— just a second.” She peers at him curiously as he stands to his feet and walks over to her, all the while refusing to make eye contact with her.

“T-The morning... flowers… you...” For goodness’ sake, he makes a living off speaking before the court, and yet here he is, reduced to the equivalent of a blabbering toddler in front of his colleague.

“Ah... you saw those?” she looks away, and he sees the frustration from earlier returning to her face.

“You… don’t like them?”

“It’s not that,” she replies, twisting her lips. “It’s just a stupid prank to play on someone.”

“A… stupid… prank?” Each word is like a stab to his chest. Did he do something to give her the impression that he was making fun of her, or playing a joke? Most people think he’s too serious to crack jokes in the first place...

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve settled it with the culprit.”

For the first time in the conversation so far, Artem doesn’t sink further into his internal pool of self-pity. Instead, he’s now genuinely puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I just called him to tell him to not send me flowers to the office anymore. I’ve told him before, but he really doesn’t listen to people.”

“Who?”

“Marius. You know how he is.”

“You think… Marius… gave you the flowers?”

“Yeah. He kept denying it over the phone, but I know better than to believe him. Who else would send me flowers for no reason?”

She’s staring at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to laugh at her rhetorical question or respond to it in some way.

Artem doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how, because his mind has drawn a complete blank at this point, save for the one question ringing in his mind:

Where the heck did she get the idea that the flowers were from Marius?

In his stupor, Artem doesn’t realise that the silence in his office has been stretching on for far too long for it to be comfortable. And he doesn’t notice the realisation that clicks in her eyes after a while, until he hears a quiet, “ Oh .”

She sheepishly meets his eyes. “By any chance, was that letter on the card meant to be a ‘W’? As in, ‘Wing’?”

Should he admit it? If he does, will her anger shift to him? Should he just let Marius be the scapegoat and live the rest of his days in quiet atonement and regret?

Artem doesn’t get the chance to admit it, because she easily reads the answer off his very perplexed and obviously guilty expression. Obviously, he’s far better suited to defending criminals than acting like one.

“Are you mad?” he asks her, when she too, falls silent.

“Huh? No, no, of course not. Why would I be?”

“You were angry when you thought Marius sent you flowers.”

“That’s because it’s Marius. But I’m glad the flowers were from you .” Her lips spread into a warm smile, and in that instant, all of Artem’s worries dissolve into thin air. “I love the bouquet, it’s beautiful. Thank you.”

A smile of relief makes its way onto his face, and he nods. “I’m glad you like it.”

So there is some truth to the book that Celestine gave him after all.

In that case… maybe next time, he can send her roses. He hopes he’ll have the occasion to, anyway. For now, he’ll take it one step at a time.

[scripttorture]

(1/3) Solitary confeinment ask: the background is that the character (a strategic genius and a trained fighter) was a colonel running a death squad. After witnessing the death of his only family (wife and child, a collateral damage to heroes saving the world), unable to deal with grief, trauma and survivors guilt executes a series of terrorist attacks against the heroes to avenge his family.

(2/3) He succeeds, but before he manages to comment suicide to join his family (final part of his plan) the heroes stop him, so he can answer for his crimes. He is put pernamently on suicide watch in a solitary confinement in a state of the art prison. The character is content with the sucess of his plan and listens to the guards, but receives no psychological help (the character is deeply traumatised byt the death of his family and suicidal). (3/3) Other contact, aside from the guards, is the warden, who occasionally comes to mock the character. The character appears stoic, but deep down the emotional pain is overwhelming. After 3 years the heroes (not the ones directly responsible to the characters tragedy) bust him out from prison because they need his help to stop a bigger bad guy.
 (4/3) My question is how in the span of 3 years can the characters mental state deteriorate and is it possible that in those conditions (solitary, no psychological help) he can just mentally heal on his own? Also, after 3 years of solitary, how would the character react to being instantly thrown into the middle of dangerous mission with people he doesn’t play well with? Thank you!

-   

Honestly I think if someone was already suicidal and spent three years in solitary confinement with no psychological help there’s a good chance they’d be dead.

 The ‘safe’ period for solitary confinement is a week. It makes all pre-existing mental health problems worse. There’s not any getting around that.

 A person in this situation would not ‘heal on their own’. That’s sort of the mental health equivalent of wondering if a character who’s had their gut cut open will be able to stitch themselves up and survive when the character has no equipment, no medical training and is in the process of bleeding to death.

 This isn’t a survivable scenario, ‘suicide watch’ or not. Believe me someone who is determined to die will be able to find a way.

 Even if it was a survivable scenario, someone who has just come out of three years solitary confinement would not be able to…. how do I put this… function. He would not be able to relate is a healthy manner to the people around him, whether he got on with them or not. He would not be able to assist them. He would be having a mental health crisis.

 I can assure you from personal experience that having panic attacks, severe depression or any of the other common symptoms of solitary (which begin to manifest within a week remember) is not ‘helpful’ to anything.

 You’ve got the wrong idea about just how harmful solitary is. And it’s OK to be wrong. This sort of information is hard to find, that’s why I’m here.

 The important thing is what you choose to do now.

 The damage solitary confinement does is routinely ignored, denied or underplayed in reality. Fiction that presents isolation as harmless feeds in to the public perception that this is not ‘really harmful’.

 I can’t make you or anyone else take solitary confinement seriously.

 I can tell you that I’ve read survivor accounts of self mutilation (cutting up their own face) and psychotic breaks (hallucinations, paranoid etc) that happened in the time period you’ve proposed. Solitary caused that. That is what it does to people.

 Because humans are social animals and need contact with members of their own species in the same way they need air, food and water.

 So what can we do to bring this more in line with reality and remove the torture apologia tropes?

 For starters read the masterpost on solitary confinement here. Then read Shalev’s Sourcebook on Solitary Confinement here.

 Pay particular attention to the symptoms and consider your choice of which symptoms 3-5 you would add to the character’s pre-existing mental health problems (which will get worse.)

 Write down the list of long term symptoms the character will get out of solitary with. I’m going to pick a couple just as an illustration:

Suicidal urges (pre-existing)

Anxiety

Severe mood swings

Memory problems

Irrational impulses

 I didn’t pick depression because that’s commonly co-morbid with suicidal urges and the character might well have it already.

 Immediately after release, with no mental health support and being thrown straight into danger- This character would have panic attacks. Would forget important information. Would swing from apathetic, to furious, to suicidal so fast no one would be able to keep up. And might deny it later. Because they might not remember the fight accurately.

 I’m mapping this out because what I really want to ask is: are you sure you want to use solitary confinement in this story?

 Do you really want to engage with the consequences for the character and the plot? Have you allowed space for showing these mental health problems in the story? Are you ready for the way this kind of obvious, undeniable disability would make this character the focus? Can you balance the overall plot and the development of the other characters with all this?

 From everything you’ve said solitary confinement is not actually adding anything to your story. Because currently there are no lasting effects from it whatsoever, it’s just functioning as a way to take a character out of the plot for three years.

 The character is already in jail. You don’t need to add in torture to take him out of the narrative for a while.

 Really.

 As I see it the only thing solitary is giving your narrative is elements of torture apologia.

 If you want prison to be stressful for the character it can be. If you want prison to mean the character doesn’t have access to current information it can mean that too. You don’t need to add torture into the mix to achieve these things.

 And if you want the character to heal over this three year period then… that can’t happen without help and without positive human contact.

 I have mental health problems. They don’t get better on their own.

 The idea of locking up a mentally ill person in solitary and expecting them to get better is a form of abuse (or when done by institutions torture) that has killed a lot of mentally ill people. In some countries this practice is continuing to kill mentally ill people.

 If you don’t want to deal with mental illness in your story this best thing to do is not to write it. You decided this character was suicidal. You decided that he’s going to be tortured. Neither of these things need to happen.

 Look it’s OK if you don’t know enough to write this stuff yet. It’s OK to get something wrong and work to find out more or correct it.

 But as things stand I think your story would work better if you took out any abusive or torturous elements. Because torture should have consequences.

 If you’re not prepared to write those consequences then you’re not really dealing with the magnitude of the crime.

Available on Wordpress.

Disclaimer

[shameless-fujoshi]

THIS POST IS FOR YOU, EVEN IF YOU DO NOT LIVE IN THE US.

Even if you’re not a US American, you need to urge your country’s leaders to keep vigilant of what’s happening right now in the US.

Please see the bottom of this post for my disclaimer.

This post was borne from a tweet that I saw:

Let me break it down by explaining the dark triad in psychology and how people with these dangerous traits think:

Narcissist: people who are unable to empathize with how their words or actions impact others. They may seem like they empathize at times, but that’s often in response to a fear that they’ll be incriminated and/or lose their narcissistic supply. Bottom line, their well-being, feelings, and opinions come first, and that is not up for debate in their minds. They have a fragile sense of self-worth and if they are exposed, they will fly into a rage to protect their ego, even at the detriment to people they claim to love. This trait can be standalone, but is also built into the next two traits that I’ll cover: machiavellians and psychopaths (sometimes synonymous with sociopaths). In reference to this tweet, they cannot be helped, except on the SUPER RARE occasion that they are willing to change (often at risk of losing their narcissistic supply).

Psychopath/Sociopath: in reference to the above tweet, people who don’t know the difference and volunteer for the insurrection, thinking they are actually protesting to save US democracy. They worship the machiavellian and hold unwavering loyalty to them, and are ready for battle, regardless of the circumstances. They will die for the lies the machiavellian tells because they think it will make the machiavellian love them more (it won’t) and they don’t have the capacity to empathize and recognize that they are doing harm to the very institution they claim to protect. They are pawns, and they are idiots, but nonetheless, they are dangerous, and still need to be held accountable for any ill-intent and destructive actions.

Machiavellian: in reference to the above tweet, people who know the difference, encourage the insurrection (because it benefits them), and they don’t care about what happens to anyone they throw under the bus. They don’t participate directly in an attempt to keep their hands clean, and it is not easy to find evidence against them. They are terrifying chess masters that play the long con and must be exposed to keep our democracy safe, because to them, chaos means an opportunity to rally psychopaths/sociopaths to help bring them to power. They believe there is no one more fit to run the country than themselves, and they believe their rule and law is the only way and will stop it nothing to impose that rule on other countries if the opportunity becomes available. They are the ones to to target to dismantle a fascist uprising, but it is no easy task.

Why should other countries take this seriously? ​There are literal dictators already in power that could band together to try to destroy your democracy. For example, Putin most likely knows that if he can get the US to fall to fascism, he’ll have enough weapons on his side to start a takeover of other democratic nations.

For more information, especially when it comes to definitions and vocabulary, check out Dr. Ramani Durvasula. She is a vocal expert on narcissism and personality disorders. She has put out an extensive collection of videos on YouTube to help people navigate, understand, and heal from narcissistic abuse. You can also visit her website here.

I also suggest the book “The Sociopath Next Door” by Dr. Martha Stout. I read this back in college for a story I was writing, and it opened my eyes to how widespread this actually is. I also just found out she released a follow-up book in 2020 called: “Outsmarting the Sociopath Next Door” and I plan on reading that one as well.

For information on fascism, a great place to start is the book “On Tyranny: Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century” by Timothy Snyder, professor of History at Yale, specializing in history of Central & Eastern Europe and the Holocaust.

While discussions about the dark triad have been occurring for a long time, the term was popularized by an article published in 2002 by Paulhus and Williams: The Dark Triad of Personality: Narcissism, Machiavellianism, and Psychopathy. I linked the article for reference.

Also adding a link to the Beer Hall Putsch, the failed coup that put Hitler in prison and gave him the time to write Mein Kampf and grow his following. Honestly, Trump has already put equivalent poison to Mein Kampf out there, and even if he is impeached again and barred from holding office, an equally poisonous individual such as Josh Hawley could step in (there’s already speculation about him running in 2024) to continue the damage to democracy. Unless Republicans do something to stop this fascist ideal spread, Lindsay Graham’s words below will carry an even darker meaning:

Educate yourself as a way to strategize and stay safe, because the insurrection feels very similar to an abusive relationship, and is a huge red flag to dark history repeating itself. I’ll post more sources as I think of them. I just wanted to get this post out as soon as possible.

Disclaimer: I was raised by a narcissist and psychopath/sociopath, served as the middleman in their tumultuous divorce, and a good portion of my family fall somewhere in the dark triad, so my experience comes from first-hand accounts with this way of thinking, as well as extensive independent research I’ve done. I am not a psychologist, and I am not diagnosing anyone (these are personality traits, not disorders) so please also do your own research. My intention is to bring attention to the emergency we have on our hands, but please do not use this as your source of truth. This is my view and there are still debates around these terms, but I’ve done my best to be as factual as possible.

[shiny-procrastinates]

(re)Watching Magia Record S1 - part 12

part 11 here

Hello and welcome back everyone to this kinda watch-along of Magia Record s1. Last time, Mifuyu invited our girls to a lecture about the "salvation" her cult is preaching and took the opportunity to make a psychological attack on Yachiyo, who's now avoiding her team. Oh, and also Momoko was going to tell the truth to Rena. How will the girls react to learning the truth about magical girls? Why did Yachiyo suddenly start distancing herself from the others? We can only find that out by watching, so let's get on to this penultimate episode!

Puella Magi Madoka Magica Side Story: Magia Record S1 episode 12

Yachiyo's seriously not having a good time since she saw Mifuyu. After talking briefly with what I guess are the illusions of old companions of hers and denying that the girls are her friends, Yachiyo decides to follow after Iroha and co. with the excuse of being unable to ignore other magical girls being fooled.

pft, what a callback, I can't believe she's still tracking Felicia. Yachiyo, please, you look like a stalker lol

Back at Memory Museum, Iroha's having a not very pleasant reunion with one of her best friends (also Felicia's growling at her haha). Iroha refuses to accept the reality that Touka's a Magius, since she thinks that the Touka she knows would never do that, but Touka really doesn't remember either her or Ui.

While Touka Mary Poppins around, Mifuyu steps in on their little argument, reminding Touka that she's supposed to be giving them a lecture, and Iroha also pulls herself together to do what she actually went there for.

Oh, that's a nice transition to the op, I forgot that happened. I forgot this ep had the opening at all.

Back at the bridge, Momoko's about to let Rena in on the truth about magical girls, when a certain person joins them.

Kaede! Long time no see. Normally, I'd be glad to see her back, but there's just something very ominous about her showing up now of all times, with a black umbrella and smiling, after what happened to her.

While that's going on, Iroha's team is getting a very handy educational slideshow on Magical Girls, courtesy of Touka. First, she proposes the scenario of a Soul Gem breaking, asking our girls what would happen in that case. After Sana and Tsuruno get it not wrong but not exactly right either, Touka gives them the answer: The Magical Girl dies.

Alas, that's a very Touka slideshow indeed, condescendingly giving a lot of synonyms for "death" just to make sure you get it. Thanks, Touka.

Back at the bridge, I wasn't imagining it, there really must be something weird going on with Kaede. Did popping a witch really break her this much? Rena hugs Kaede, who apologizes and promises they’ll be together forever now... in any other situation, I'd say that's really sweet, but right now it's really disturbing. Then, Kaede-

Kaede? KAEDE? Why and how do you know about that already?! Did Momoko tell you? Momoko's also acting suspicious. Just what the heck is going on here?

Thanks for this shot anime. Yes, Touka does very much sound like the white weasel here.

In Memory Museum, Touka explains what exactly a Soul Gem is, to the very understandable shock of Iroha and the others. After complaining about their inability to keep up, Touka urges them to move on to the next part of the lecture: "Magical Girl Theory: About Witches". Ohh man here we go.

Exactly what part of being a magical girl is exciting escapes my understanding. Maybe "scary" or "hopeless" would be a better descriptor. That aside, no wonder the rumor says you'd be affected by the memory you saw. Vicariously experiencing it is a whole 'nother deal...

Except that they don't. Unlike the game, they only get to watch the memories, not take part in them. One has to wonder why the script even bothered having Mifuyu say that if they weren't going to do it after all.

In Mifuyu's memory, just like Touka had described earlier, Yachiyo's group, who at the time was her, Mifuyu and one of the girls Yachiyo had hallucinated earlier, Kanae, are having a hard time against a powerful witch. When taking an attack from the witch head on, Kanae's Soul Gem ends up cracking and breaking so, although she managed to reflect the attack and kill the witch, she dies.

So that's how Yachiyo and Mifuyu learnt the truth about the Soul Gems, and now the Mikadzuki girls were proved that through their memories (though it's specifically Mifuyu's memory).

Back at the entrance, Yachiyo has finally caught up with the group (kinda). Touka tries to talk to her, maybe to buy some time, but Yachiyo gives absolutely zero cares and just slides down the rope like she's in some video game. Girl has no chill huh, didn't even wait to hear Touka's name, which means she has no idea that that’s one of the people Iroha was looking for.

Continuing the "practical part" of the lecture, Iroha's now seeing Mifuyu's memories from some time (years, I think) later. By this time, she and Yachiyo already had a new team with Tsuruno, Momoko and Mel, one of the other girls Yachiyo had seen the illusion of earlier, and Mikadzuki Villa was basically back to normal.

That day, when Tsuruno was busy, Yachiyo and team went to hunt a witch who had moved all the way from the east to their own ward. Like in the previous memory, the witch was powerful and her team was having a hard time, so Yachiyo told them to run away while she distracted it (remember Seance Shrine?). However, Yachiyo ends up in a pinch and Mel, the day's lucky girl, ignores Yachiyo's order and comes in to save her.

The result, too, is very much like Seance Shrine. Mel used up all her magic on saving Yachiyo and, before they can go find a Grief Seed to purify her Gem, Mel ends up witching out.

I have to say though, even though it's her own memories, Mifuyu's being pretty damn cold about this. Man, how can you watch this smiling? Are you alright? (from the point she's a magical girl, probably not.)

Rena, who probably just heard this very same story, is having the expected reaction.

Back then, Momoko was indignant to learn this truth, pressing Kyuubei for answers. The stupid cat-rabbit, however, gives the very same explanation he had given on the og about magical girls and saving the universe.

With this, Iroha's team has also learnt the truth behind Witches, whether they wanted to or not. I feel Kyuubei would like to complain about that statement saying that he's fooling someone, considering his stance is "no one asked".

That was the end to that part, but it seems there was still more to be learned here, since the lecture is not over and we continue seeing Mifuyu's memories from after that.

Mifuyu felt pretty damn miserable after what happened to Mel and couldn't get over it even after half a year had passed. Momoko tells her to just forget it already, but Mifuyu just can't. Momoko also says they shouldn't tell Tsuruno, which explains why she didn't know.

Unable to forget and unable to tell anyone about it, Mifuyu ends up witching out... or, that's what should happen normally, but instead of witching out for real Mifuyu releases her impurities to an outside form, just like Iroha, Kaede, the Amane twins and Alina all did throughout the series.

At this point, Touka cuts in to continue her lecture, now on exactly what is this event that we had been wondering the whole series about. Thanks, Touka.

According to Touka, these crystallizations of a magical girl's impurities is called a Doppel and she's the one that created the system that makes them possible. That, itself, is the proof of "salvation" that the Magius are preaching, and their goal is to reject Kyuubei's system, releasing all magical girls. Well... that's fine and all, but 1: how are you doing this; and 2: why do you need Rumors and witches for that? Still fishy.

Poor magical girls indeed.

Oh, oh no Kaede also entered the cult, she's now repeating the salvation spiel!

At the same time, Iroha and co. are also at their last stop.

I really, really like how this last scene fells like Mifuyu is inviting us, the viewers, to join the cult too. Almost makes you want to root for them... almost.

Because being meguka is suffering.

- x - (if you have been reading this as a hamster face, you're right)

Aaand that's it for episode 12! Finally, FINALLY I can call doppeling out by what it is without it being a spoiler, thank god... but now it doesn't matter because there's only one episode left, dammit >:v

So yeah, there's the explanation, kinda. It's not like they were breaking any rules (if we ignore the fact this universe shouldn't exist at all thanks to Madokami), but more that Kamihama is a special place. And yet we still have no idea of how exactly the cult's doing this, what is a Rumor, why exactly are they collecting emotional energy like Kyuubei would... actually there's one more thing that makes the cult not much better isn't it, Touka's saying they reject Kyuubei system and yet they're doing the exact same thing as them, that's super shady. Also there's no way there's no consequence to doppeling out when this series works on equivalent exchange, there's definitely gotta be some con to it. SO MANY QUESTIONS.

Talking about questions, I'm always curious about the exact timeline for this story. Whenever they talk about Mel's incident, they say it was "one year ago", and then half a year later Mifuyu's still not over it and it seems like she doppels out at this point, but in the game they say it takes another half year before that happens, I think(?). Which always left me the question of: When exactly did the Magius start acting then? It should've taken some time to get the organization as big as it is now, so one has to wonder how long ago did the incidents in Kamihama start, since by the time Iroha shows up the magical girls here already seem used to it. This always leaves me feeling like this “one year ago” is closer to “almost two years ago” rather than “a bit over a year ago”. At least by this time in the story, it should be.

Knowing exactly when did The Wings of the Magius start would also let us guess at how long Iroha herself has been a magical girl, since Touka was probably still hospitalized when she made her wish. If Iroha's really been a magical girl for over half a year, that'd explain why she was already used to it by the time she came to Kamihama, despite being weak. Rather, that'd mean she's done a great job surviving thus far considering how she's only been shown sucking at battles lol (I’ll probably never get the answer to this, tho)

By the way, we STILL have no clue as to what happened to Iroha's little sister... I don't think we're making any progress on this front this season anymore. Poor Ui, even the show forgot about her.

So yeah, that was ep 12. Next episode, hopefully, we'll get more on the reactions of our girls upon learning the truth, and see what Yachiyo plans to do, if she had a plan at all coming here... which I suspect she doesn't, she's in fact even too late to do anything about it. I told you she'd regret it! The next episode's also the last one for this season, so you can look forward to having some awesome thing to tie it off *wink*

This is it for this post, hope to see you again on the next one. Have a good morning/afternoon/evening and remember to stay hydrated!

[theunderdogwrites]

2020: The Year I Lost My Ass

Well, we reached the end of that toilet roll only to start another one, because that is what we do for as long as we are allowed to continue revolutions around the sun – we keep going.

2020 was a terrible year for so many. My brain is incapable of processing the number of losses suffered on a global scale. Be it jobs, security, rights, sanity, relationships or life. My brain is not just incapable of these calculations, it has plain refused to entertain those thoughts on behalf of my heart. My heart, that sensitive little blood pumping work horse who not once allows itself to stop. Thank goodness.

I don’t believe the majority of people are willing and able to bring themselves to fully comprehend what was lost in 2020.

Here is a list of a few more losses suffered last year:

- People lost their shit. And over the most ridiculous things like toilet paper, having to wear a mask to secure toilet paper and being held to the consequences resulting from not wearing a mask when asked to while attempting to purchase toilet paper. Pause for a moment and let that last sentence hang around in your mind. 2020 made that happen. I didn’t make it up! Recently I saw a news piece showing a man (40’s) lying down on the floor in a Costco to protest being asked to wear a mask. He spoke loudly, he beat his hands at his sides and wildly kicked his legs when an employee asked him to get up. Now, I am not judging for I too have participated in such behaviour MANY times. Granted I was three, but hey… some of us mature faster than others.

 - People lost their damn minds. 2020 should be dubbed “The Year of The Karen”. For those of you not in the know about the Karen phenomenon, here is a description courtesy of Urban Dictionary:

 “Karen is a pejorative term used in the United States and other English-speaking countries for a woman perceived as entitled or demanding beyond the scope of what is appropriate or necessary. A common stereotype is that of a white woman who uses her privilege to demand her own way at the expense of others.’

 Basically, a Karen is a I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOUR MANAGER type person (There is a male equivalent, but it seems no one can agree on the name… Chad, Terry, Kyle, Kevin, Steve). You can often find a Karen on her cellphone calling the police to report a black man who lives in her neighborhood, simply living his life in her neighbourhood. I didn’t make that up either.

 More recently a Karen was videoed in a UPS store claiming that she didn’t have to wear a mask because that space was government property and not a private business. Would it be safe to say that most Karen types suffer from a lack of oxygen to their brain? Possibly. But that would involve science and Karen types DO NOT enjoy hard facts.

 As always when I download my thoughts into reality, I must go within and search myself. Am I a Karen? My immediate answer is: no fucking way. I can honestly say I’ve never once asked to see a manager or called the police to report someone eating their lunch on a park bench. I do not enjoy confrontation. Unless there is a bully involved. Then I will drag that person to hell with me. I much prefer discussion over going straight to the ‘I triple dog dare you!’ approach to the world. (If you got that reference, you are my new favourite) Because that is who a Karen really is… someone who jumps right to the most extreme action in order to satisfy their need to be superior. Truly, we should feel sorry for these people because instead of engaging they’re raging. And how awful must their insides feel… always full of anger, fear and self doubt. I say instead of judging these Karen types or putting them on blast on social media, we should hug the shit out of them. Just grab them and squeeze as hard as you fucking can until they stop talking. Peaceful solutions my friends, peaceful solutions.

 - Pets lost their faith in us. Children a close second. If you are a proud owner of a pet or a child, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

I’ve always operated under the notion that my cat loves it when I’m home and hates it when I leave. 2020 has taught me it might be the other way around. Because our animals are, well, animals we just believe our presence is the greatest gift in their lives. Remember when you were old enough to be left alone by your parents and once you had the taste of that kind of freedom, you just wanted more of it and couldn’t wait for them to go out? I feel it’s like that with our pets now. We might not think animals have a routine or preferences or enjoy some alone time, but we’d be wrong.

I think at first our pets were thrilled. If we are home more it means more time for prolonged petting, walks and the opportunity to ritualistically train us to respond to their caterwauls for more food and treats than normal. But then as the weeks of lockdown and working from home increased, so did our pets desire to kill us in our sleep.

 I’m pretty sure my cat has asked me several times using her feline glare: “why the fuck won’t you just leave?”. It would be naïve of us to assume we don’t disrupt their day with our constant noise making and snacking and scotch drinking that leads to a good buzz that leads to showing too much affection to our pets. To the point where they run and hide when they see us coming. Please tell me I didn’t describe just my own experience.

 There is such a thing as everything in moderation, we know this, so I think it can be applied here. People, get away from your pets. Give them the space you often desire from human beings. Because if you don’t, that random turd in your shoe could be pointing to a much larger, more alarming problem you’re about to encounter.

 I had the absolute blessing of being able to assist in caring for and raising of my three nephews (12,9,6) for the last 11 years. So, when I say: ‘children are always watching us’, I feel I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been mimicked so often by these young boys that I’ve had to pause due to mortification. Children will hold you accountable without even knowing it. I’ve had some behaviours of mine corrected by a 5-year-old and let me tell you, it stings like hell.

 As adults, when our world was thrown into turmoil because of Covid-19, we looked to our medical health professionals and our politicians for guidance. Basically, we searched for those who would lead us. The children – looked to us. And while many adults handled this responsibility the best they possibly could, many more failed miserably and displayed attitudes I can only describe as juvenile, damaging and pathetic. I suppose it doesn’t help if the people the adults are looking to for help are themselves - juvenile, damaging and pathetic.

 When I say we still have not grasped just how much has been lost over the past year, I’m hinting at integrity, compassion and creditability. Three vital qualities you’d hope people want to instill into their children. But if they themselves are unable to display such valuable traits, what does this say for the children who are looking up to them as an example on how to act when life gets challenging?

 For myself in 2020, I gained by losing.

When they locked our gyms down for four months last spring, I came close to being one of those people who lost their shit. While people were moaning about wearing a mask for 20 minutes in the grocery store, I was contemplating if murdering those people could be considered a cardio exercise and would that hold up in a court of law.

To reflect on that time period now (especially since our gyms are closed AGAIN at the moment) the loss of the gyms brought me the knowledge of how important the routine of going to and being in the gym is to my mental health. I won’t launch into how I feel about shopping malls being open and gyms being closed despite their proven benefit to one’s overall health because then I really will lose my shit.

People always say getting to the gym is the hardest part and once they’re there it’s easy to workout. And for many that is the truth, but for me it’s all a part of the workout. Getting to the gym is the psychological effort. Putting in the work at the gym is the physical. You can’t have one without the other. I became so pathetic that I’d often walk to the closed gym from my house, stare at the closed doors and then walk home. 1.5 hour round trip. True story.

Remember a few years back everyone became obsessed with that Netflix show ‘Tidying Up with Marie Kondo’? It is the show where that lovely woman from Japan showed us all how to declutter our homes by getting rid of anything that didn’t bring us joy. Those acid wash jeans from 1989… sit with them… hold them close to your chest… if they don’t make you happy, remove them from your space. Well, the same idea can be applied to people and ideas and even feelings. And 2020 was a great year for simplifying our lives. I’ve heard so many people talk about how they can’t wait to get back to ‘normal’… not me. I’ve already started my ‘new normal’.

The loss of drama has gained me peace and a better understanding of the importance of remaining true to who I am instead of trying to please others in hopes it wins me points. Because it doesn’t. Because its inauthentic and only brings you more loss and more drama. And anxiety. And sleepless nights. And an overall sense of hatred for everyone. 2020 gave me the option to no longer care about the things that don’t make me happy and to embrace the process of letting all that stupid bullshit fade away.

It was a year of gained focus.

It was a year of gained appreciation.

It was a year of gained gratitude.

It was a year of gained love for myself.

 I’m going to leave you now, but not before I share one of my favorite songs by the Tragically Hip:

In A World Possessed by The Human Mind

Just give me the news

It can all be lies

Exciting over fair or the right thing at the right time

Everything is clear

Just how you described

The way it appears, "A world possessed by the human mind"

 Then I think I smiled

Then I think you said, "it's fine"

And quietly I dressed, in a world completely possessed by the human mind

 We're in awe of no one

We've none of their fear

Fighting's goin' nowhere and we stay right here

Where everything is quiet

A little super dangerous

"In the shadow of the law and with colours of justice"

 Then I hope I smiled

Then I'm sure you said, "It's fine"

They got no interest in a world completely possessed by the human mind

 Everything is quiet

A little super dangerous

Quiet enough to hear God rustlin' around in the bushes

Oh, but it was you

Girl, I was so afraid

You said, "You shoulda seen the look on your face"

 Then I hope I laughed

Then I hope I said, "it's fine"

And quietly undressed in a world completely possessed by the human mind

 Oh it was you

Girl, I was so afraid

You said, "You shoulda seen the look on your face"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mgXphurrsE0

[writerbyaccident]

The Best (Yandere Katsuki BakugouxReader)

So I’m not totally sure about this one, it doesn’t feel all that focused, but if I stare at it any more I’m going to have a breakdown

           Bakugou stumbled back into his bedroom, utterly exhausted by the day. It had been such a rollercoaster, both physically and mentally, all he wanted to do was crash on his bed and sleep for days. But as the minutes ticked by and his eyes stubbornly stayed open, his mind raced with thoughts of you. The warmth of your body near his, the soft concern your eyes had held, and god, everything you had said to him, he couldn’t get it out of his head. He guessed it was unavoidable with everything that had happened, but he never would have expected it right after the sports festival.  

           Bakugou had felt like he couldn’t breathe. Over and over in his head, all he could see was the final battle between him and Todoroki. How that half and half bastard held back when fighting him, treating him as if he were even less of a threat than Deku, fucking Deku. And then that bullshit metal ceremony, where he was chained up like some kind of animal for the whole damn country to see. Needing some sort of physical relief for his anger, Bakugou began kicking over chairs and tables. By this point everyone else had left the arena, but Bakugou was still there, stewing in his rage. He didn’t trust himself to be around anyone at the moment without blowing them halfway to hell, so he was currently hiding out in the waiting room until he reached some sort of catharsis. But once he finished knocking over every piece of furniture the room held, he didn’t feel any better. Instead, he just stood there, not so much wiping his cheeks dry as he was rubbing them raw.

           “Hey, are you okay?” a soft voice called out. Freshly enraged that someone had not only seen him like this, but dared to ask him if he was okay, Bakugou spun around, ready for a new target. When he saw that it was you, however, he let himself deflate a bit. He was still angry, of course, but he couldn’t find it within himself to be angry at you. Sure, he wasn’t thrilled that you had seen him like this, but something about you always set him more at ease. He didn’t know what it was, but something about you had him hooked.  

           “Hey,” he grunted, turning his head in embarrassment. “I’m fine.”

           “No, you’re not,” you said gently but firmly. If anyone else had responded like that, they would have quickly found their ears ringing from either an explosion or the vocal equivalent of one. When it came from you though, Bakugou couldn’t help but feel himself grow calmer. After all, his subconscious whispered to him, if you were asking if he was okay, that meant that you were worried about him. And if you were worried about him, that meant that you cared about him. For a moment, it was as if none of the day’s humiliations had happened at all, and all Bakugou could see was you.

           “And if I’m not?” he asked gruffly. “What then?” You gave a sad smile at that, wondering if he really didn’t know how someone would or should react in such a situation.

           “If you want, we could talk about it. Or you could vent at me. Or I could just sit with you for a bit.” Bakugou peered at your face closely, trying to make sure you were being genuine. He hoped that you were—he begged that you were—even if he wasn’t totally sure why. All he knew for sure was that he couldn’t let you leave.

           “Well, fine, if you’re not going to go away,” he answered, trying to hide just how desperately he wanted you to stay. Shaking your head at his still-rough demeanor, you took one of the fallen tables and put it back up, hopping on top to sit. Bakugou soon joined you, though he stayed silent at first, unsure of how to start. Luckily, you sensed his uncertainty and decided to start.

           “So is there a reason you’re not out celebrating?”

           “There’s nothing for me to fucking celebrate.” Bakugou clenched his fists, trying hard to stay calm even as the memories started to swirl around in his head again. The last thing he wanted to do when you had come to him was scare you off.

           “Do you know why you feel that way?”

           “Because,” Bakugou began, “it doesn’t matter if I got the number one spot or even the damn metal. The number one spot is supposed to mean that you’re the best, but I didn’t get it by being the best. I got it cause IcyHot didn’t even fucking try.” You nodded solemnly in acknowledgement.

           “I get how that would feel like an empty win. But it did look like Todoroki was trying.”

           “Please,” Bakugou scoffed. “He didn’t even use his damn flames for our match.”

           “He didn’t,” you admitted. “But did he do that voluntarily? Was he trying to let you win?”

           “No—”

           “So how is that any different from any other kind of vulnerability? If you’re fighting a villain, and he fails to utilize his quirk fully, not because he doesn’t want to but because he literally can’t, whether it’s for psychological or physical reasons, that’s his deal, not yours.”

           “So what?”

           “So, Todoroki didn’t not use his left side because he pitied you and wanted to let you win. He didn’t use it because, for whatever reason, in that moment, he just wasn’t able to. But were you unable to use your quirk to its fullest extent?”

           “No,” Bakugou said, beginning to like where you were going with this.

           “Then that means that you’re better than him,” you continued, glancing away as your cheeks began to heat up. “Because, just like today, anyone who doesn’t give this shit their all is just going to keep losing. Todoroki can never be the best if he lets himself be restricted like that. So that’s what makes you the best, because you’re not letting anything hold you back.” Once you finished speaking, Bakugou just stared at you for a moment. Despite everything, despite his shame and his stubborn desire to remain angry, you had done the impossible. You had made him feel better. If anyone else had tried to pull what you just did, say the shit that you just said, he wouldn’t have even bothered to pretend to listen. But for some reason he listened to you. And god, he was glad that he did.

           Lying in bed now, staring up at the ceiling, Bakugou kept replaying the conversation in his head. You were totally right, he realized. He was better than Todoroki. And the rest of the damn class too. You might be the only one to see it right now, but surprisingly enough, he could live with that. After all, you had shown yourself to be pretty great too. Fuck, the way you kept your eyes completely on him, as if you couldn’t look away even if you had wanted to. The way you had spoken to him, as if the only possible concern you had was helping him, as if he was the most important thing in the world in that moment.  And he must have been, right? You wouldn’t have ignored your friends or family that had been waiting for you if you didn’t know that Bakugou was the only person you should be caring about. You wouldn’t have done that for anyone else, right?

Shit.

What if they would have? What if they already have?

The mere possibility of you showing anyone else even a fraction of the care you had shown Bakugou today sent him shooting upwards in fear. God, Bakugou couldn’t stand the thought. It was like you had said: he was the best, better than every fucking loser in UA. And that meant that no one else warranted your comfort, your kindness. Those damn extras might think that they did, but it wasn’t true. You might not see that though and let those fucking parasites keep you from where you belonged. No, it was clear to Bakugou that as the best, he was the only one who deserved your attention, your company, you.

[oh-boy-me]

Excuse me you can't make a post about demon bois going to college and not tell us what their majors would be

You know what this is on me for opening the ask box right after posting that, I brought this upon myself

Keep in mind that if a major isn’t offered at my university I might not know about it lmao

Lucifer: Lucifer thought long and hard about what sort of major would both be something he wants to do and be something useful to Diavolo.  The human world books always seemed to suggest business as a highly sought-after major, so after being unable to decide he went with that.  It’s alright.  It’s certainly useful for his duties as Diavolo’s right hand, and he’s certainly got the mindset for spreadsheets and risk management.  But it was obvious that his softer, more artsy side was very starved for attention.  After an intervention from his brothers and Diavolo, he agreed to add a minor in music.

Mammon: Ok hear me out.  He goes into it an accounting major and drops down to undecided once he realizes he hates it after a week.  And then he finds an unexpected passion in theatre.  His brothers are torn between being very disappointed that he didn’t choose a field that could actually pay off his massive debts and very impressed that he found something that he likes that doesn’t give him instant monetary gratification.  It’s a little off-brand for him, but hey.  He models.  He’s got the energy.  He loves the attention.  He’d be miserable in accounting.  So in a weird way, he’s happy with it.

Leviathan: Levi chooses a double major in computer science and media studies.  He didn’t know if he wanted to focus on his love of games or his love of anime, he just couldn’t choose!!  So he did some research and realized that human universities let you study two things?  Diavolo wants to emulate human universities, right?  So he can do both!!  Levi is on his way to programming and designing his own games, just like he wanted!  Wow, he can’t believe something good came out of this dumb education system.

Satan: Satan was going to just go for English (or whatever the Devildom language’s equivalent of that would be), but then he realized that he spends so much time around books that he doubts there’s something they could teach him there.  So, he decided to focus on a field that he’s gotten a glimpse of and had always found fascinating: criminology.  Digging into the psychology behind what happens in situations like those in the crime novels he loves so much?  A field far away from Lucifer’s?  Count him in.

Asmodeus: Also theatre.  It’s a sore spot between him and Mammon, but at least their type casting is very different.  They do their best to not have classes together, but anyone who’s studied theatre knows that’s impossible and most of their classes end up together.  Asmo does have a minor in costume design, though, which gives him some relief from Mammon.  It also only makes him even more fabulous than he already was, because now he gets to make some of his own clothes, and who knows his charm points better than him?

Beelzebub: Beel didn’t know what he wanted to do for a while, but in the end he focused on exercise science.  He’s a very active boy, and is no stranger to muscle groups and building fitness regimes.  He’s also got a heart even bigger than his infinite stomach, and the opportunity to use that knowledge to help others is one that he can’t turn down.  Physical therapy is a perfect career for him to go into.  Being genuinely helpful while also in his own comfort zone is a better deal than he would have dared to ask for.

Belphegor: So I really wish I had a better answer for you, I really do, but.  Belphie’s going to remain undecided for as long as possible, taking only classes he wants to take, or that aren’t heavily demanding.  Anything to keep a light schedule.  Until one day, graduation is at his doorstep and he has to pick a major based on what would fit the classes he chose up to then.  Best case scenario, he finishes up a sociology degree.  Even though his anger towards humans may have lessened, his questions about how their realms have functioned and interacted remains.

I hope you like this, anon!  It was fun to think about :)

What major would your MC pursue?  Would they have any classes with the boys?  Would YOU have any classes with the boys?  Based on my college experience, I’d have classes with Belphie, but I’d be in Asmo and/or Mammon’s social circle.

Masterlist

[theritualofourexistence]

Odes to Old Gods

I started this year intending to journal about things I survive. Then at the end of the year, I could look back on my challenges and think about them in a more positive way--wow, look at what I overcame! The plan was to document everything, both good and bad, so that I could think about them more as experiences and lessons learned than as... good and bad. 

Needless to say, I stopped keeping track of those things in April. 

Earlier this month, I pulled out the journal again to update the list. I ended up quitting on that too. 

I do think, though, that in a less chaotic year, thinking about my life this way would be good practice. So, here I am, sharing my list with you in the form of an end-of-year, wrap-up blog post. 

A few quick caveats: 

This year was hard for literally everyone except maybe Jeff Bezos. 

It is not healthy to compare challenges or struggles or suffering.

I am not sharing this because I am looking for sympathy... I believe that being vulnerable is a very important part of the human experience but we can all also use a reminder that we never really know all of what anyone is experiencing. We shouldn’t need that reminder to treat others with love... but the older I get, the more I think those reminders might be necessary.

Things I have survived in 2020:

- A bit of a stalking experience in January which has since been resolved.

- Losing my job, hunting for a new job, securing a new job, training for the new job.

- My first Harry Potter tattoo for my ten-year tattooiversary.

- The fires in Australia.

- An absolutely wonderful trip to NYC with my dad when I got to see both Beetlejuice and Hadestown and have an enormous strawberry cheesecake milkshake from Junior’s. 

- Losing Kobe Bryant.

- Parasite absolutely CRUSHING the Oscars.

- Having a really, really good visit with my grandparents in March before all hell broke loose. 

- Weinstein being convicted and sentenced.

[Everything after this point happened during a global pandemic.]

- Losing Grandmom. I was unable to attend her funeral and still have not had the chance to grieve this loss with my extended family. 

- Losing my health insurance.

- A Zoom party for my Grammy’s 80th birthday.

- Losing Breonna Taylor. And George Floyd. And so, so many others. This is the first year I have really committed to understanding the current race-related issues this country faces and BOY, do we have work to do.

- The stress but success of orchestrating a safe family trip so that I didn’t have to go an entire year without seeing my brother.

- Losing my shifts at my primary job due to virus-related concerns.

- Countless other family happy birthdays over Zoom.

- My 60-year-old mother returning to work face-to-face with a student population that largely ignores all virus-related guidelines despite her working tirelessly for months this spring to offer UHS providers an adequate work-from-home option. 

- Being diagnosed with hypertension.

- A nightmarish friend trip. Despite our best laid plans for a safe and healthy visit, Mother Earth decided to trap me 90 miles north of my best friends for 4 days. I eventually got to see them for about 12 hours and honestly, it was worth it. That is the only time I’ve gotten with them all year.

- Losing Ruth Bader Ginsberg.

- The selection of Amy Coney Barrett to the Supreme Court.

- Our sweet girl Clio being diagnosed with a seizure disorder and then coming down with a life-threatening upper respiratory infection. 

- Learning that my grandmother would be voting for Trump in the 2020 election.

- The actual election.

- Losing Rooster, my sweet, sweet boy.

- Learning that my uncle has been diagnosed with esophageal cancer.

- Missing Thanksgiving with my extended family.

- Getting really excellent holiday gifts for my favorite people.

- Missing Christmas with my extended family.

- Safely spending some holiday time with my immediate family.

That is FAR from everything. But I don’t have the energy? Capacity? Time? to sort through everything.

Here are the things from this year that I am still currently surviving:

- A global pandemic! And all the associated chaos. With my asthma and high blood pressure and obesity, I am considered high risk and am still not able to safely return to my primary job. 

- Hypertension! More on this later.

- Grieving Rooster. In the days after we said goodbye, I wrote a memorial that I will eventually share here. Psychology has recently analyzed data suggesting that losing a pet can be equivalent to losing a relative... I have never felt grief like this. It’s been over a month. I cry every night. 

- Managing Clio’s health. She is still adjusting to her seizure medication, which she gets twice a day, and is still on medication to help with lasting symptoms of the respiratory infection. She is fussy about food and her weight fluctuates a lot week to week. She is also a feral rescue who has only ever been handled by me, my mom, and our vet. If mom and I are ever going to vacation together again, we will need to find someone who can manage catching and pilling her twice a day... no easy feat. Fortunately, at the moment, vacations aren’t really a thing for either my mom or I and I am working hard to approach these concerns in a cross-that-bridge-when-we-come-to-it way.

----

This year has been overwhelming. The last two months alone have been overwhelming. And they would’ve been overwhelming without the added spice of a global pandemic. The number of Americans we have lost to this virus has doubled since I last posted here in mid-August. Some time this week we are likely to reach a point where we’re losing 4,000 Americans per day. PER. DAY. This year has been overwhelming.

----

There were some good things this year, of course. I am so, so thankful for all the time I got with my immediate family and the very brief but vital time I got with my friends. Fortunately I am only ever a text away from my closest friends and we are able to message pretty much every day. I am also extremely glad to have found a place in the fantasy enamel pin community. The family I’ve found in pin-land has carried me through some of my lowest points this year. I spent more time in view of the ocean than I typically do in a given year... even though much of that time was still riddled with anxiety. I did art this year. I read books this year. Some really important ones, in fact. If you read nothing else in 2021, read The New Jim Crow. I also got tattooed! I’m going to include those here because I think the significance of each reflects something interesting and important about all I have survived and am surviving this year.

----

In January, I got my first Harry Potter tattoo! My favorite quote from the entire series is delivered by Hagrid during the Triwizard tournament:

”What’s comin’ will come, and we’ll meet it when it does.” 

I got that incorporated into a tattoo. In January. 

Also in January I got a “Prisoner of Donuts” tattoo... because life just wouldn’t be manageable at all without donuts.

In March, I got a bird of prey carrying a book to represent one of my all time favorite poems, “On Thought in Harness” by Edna St. Vincent Millay. The final lines of that poem:

“Soar, eat ether, see what has never been seen. Depart, be lost, but climb.” 

In July, I was able to safely navigate getting a tattoo that symbolizes the saga told in The Lord of the Rings trilogy. LOTR is my first and oldest fandom and the story is still so, so important to me today. The lessons I learned from Tolkien when I was a kid also carried me through some of my hardest moments this year.

Also in July I got a Plumpy tattoo. That’s right. Plumpy. From Candyland. If you haven’t played the game in a while, you may not remember Plumpy. He’s one of the first characters you meet on the game board... and one of the worst cards to see when you’re close to winning the game. You could be three damn squares from the finish line and pull the Plumpy card and back to the beginning of the board you go. Plumpy is a really great reminder that even when we have no choice but to lose ground, we can gain that ground back again. And hey, once you pull the Plumpy card from the deck, you likely won’t see him again for a good long while. 

In October, I was able to safely navigate getting my second Harry Potter tattoo. Neville has always been one of my favorite fantasy characters and I chose to carry him with me permanently. His courage, despite so, so much bullshit, inspires me every day. I also got a nautical tattoo for my mom’s ancestors who came to this country and fought in the Revolutionary War. Just as my family has a long and proud history of fighting for what matters, I too will carry that banner, even if it looks very, very different in the modern age. My third tattoo of the appointment is a cuckoo holding playing cards, a nod to one of most important stories I’ve read: Ken Kesey’s “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” This book has informed not just my personal journey with mental illness but my passion to work in the field as well. My final tattoo of my October appointment, less than a week before the 2020 election, is a weeping Lady Justice. 

----

This year has made me look critically at things I very comfortably ignored for a long time. I would hope that it has done the same for most of you. Very little if any of this year was easy for me... but the most important lessons are never easy to learn. I’ve spent this year more worried and more angry than I’ve ever been before... and all I hope to do moving forward is use that fear and that anger to make this country, this world, a better place. Miss me with your resolutions this year. Every single day we should prioritize surviving and treating others with understanding and active love. I worked hard to do that this year and I will continue to work hard to do that every day. I’m proud of the work I’ve done. And in case it wasn’t clear, I’ll be dragging as many of you as I can on this journey with me. If you really feel the need to make a resolution this year, resolve to learn. Resolve to understand. Resolve to read The New Jim Crow and then TAKE ACTION. Take action with your votes and your voices and your money. Resolve to act.

----

This year wouldn’t let me escape it without being put on blood pressure medication, despite my best efforts to lower my blood pressure without it. Although I had gotten back down into a healthy range for a few weeks, RBG’s death and the landslide of utter shit that followed that completely wrecked all the progress I had made. I’m not happy about adding a new medicine to my regimen. I’m not happy about adding a new chronic diagnosis to my already lengthy laundry list. I did not expect 30 to look like allergy pills and three daily moisturizers and foot stretches and Metamucil and acid reducers and migraine medication and iron supplements and six prunes a day and chronic pain and blood pressure medication... but here we are. I’m exhausted from working so hard to be healthy just to have all that work not be enough. I feel very much like my body is giving up on me... and that is a feeling I am struggling with a lot right now. My soul is a vibrant but powerless passenger in a car speeding towards the edge of a cliff.

I’ll keep trying though. I start my new medication tonight. Hopefully it helps. Hopefully the side effects are manageable. I don’t really feel like I can handle much more... but I guess we keep going until we can’t.   

----

I have no expectations for 2021 to be better. I don’t have much hope for it to be better either. This vaccine will saves lives and that’s really good news. But a lot of other things will be difficult, will stay difficult, will become difficult. I’m going to try to keep fighting, and I hope you do too. 

“What’s comin’ will come, and we’ll meet it when it does.” 

[whumpster-fire]

Harry Potter and the False Double Standards

You know, I hate to get involved in Fandom Discourse or anything, but I’m getting really sick of reading people’s takes bashing Harry, Ron, and Hermione because of various actions throughout the series, and the latest is someone claiming the fandom is judging poor little Draco unfairly and calling him evil because he didn’t like Harry Potter when the trio were actually just as bad.

Okay, I’m legitimately pissed about this one because of how ridiculously far off the mark it is. Let’s tally their main sketchy actions throughout the series, shall we? Long wall of text ahead. In this essay I will

Harry and co, year 1: Assorted sneaking out at night, mostly looking for information or to try to stop a mass murderer from returning to life. One count of dragon-smuggling… for the purpose of putting that dragon in the hands of a professional dragon-tamer who was equipped to care for it properly. Hermione lit a teacher’s robes on fire… during a Quidditch Match where Harry’s life was in imminent danger due to a broom that was very obviously being jinxed and said teacher, who had a history of abusive conduct towards Harry, was very obviously doing some sort of magic targeted at Harry. Hermione also hexed Neville, which is way more questionable, but again the trio had a reasonable belief that Snape, who at the time they still had good reason to believe tried to murder Harry, was trying to bring another person who had tried to murder Harry and successfully murdered his parents and many many other innocent people, from returning to life. I’m putting the blame for this squarely on the entire Hogwarts staff, especially Dumbledore, for never communicating with the three 11–12 year old children, who had already been put in a life-or-death emergency just two months into term (troll incident), at ALL about someone trying to murder Harry. Snape’s role in the order had to be kept secret, I know, but Dumbledore literally just let Harry and his friends believe that a person in a position of supposed trust and authority had tried to murder him and that no one was going to believe him or do anything to protect him.

Draco, year 1: Tries to befriend Harry, is told to fuck off because he can’t go five minutes without being a classist asshole. Proceeds to be a complete asshole to… it sounds like pretty much every Gryffindor in his year, special mention to bullying other students for poverty (Ron) and possibly having a learning disability (Neville).

Harry and co, year 2: Harry and Ron start the term with the admittedly extremely stupid and irresponsible theft of a car. There was kind of a precedent set when said car had to be used to literally break Harry out of his abusive relatives’ home because he was being imprisoned and nearly starved. Next comes the big incident everyone loves to rag on the trio, especially Hermione, for: stealing potions supplies and tricking a “teacher” (airquotes because it’s Lockhart) to make a restricted potion to spy on other students… to investigate a series of racially targeted murder attempts against other students, and a group that Hermione’s part of.

Draco, year 2: Steps up his bullying to throwing around racial slurs. Turns out not to be behind the attacks, but he was cheering them on. When he had a sympathetic audience he was saying he hoped his schoolmates would be murdered.

Harry and Co, year 3: Assorted petty sneaking around, physically attacked a teacher… who was about to kill a potentially innocent person. Used a time travel device in a questionable way to save an innocent person and animal from being killed.

Draco, year 3: Intentionally disobeyed a teacher’s safety instructions, got hurt, milked his injury to try to get the teacher fired because Draco was racist against said teacher.

Harry and Co, year 4: Don’t remember anything particularly irresponsible they did… oh, I guess Hermione imprisoning and sort of blackmailing Rita Skeeter into... stopping slandering her and Harry.

Draco, year 4: Vocally supported the racist hate group attacking a sporting event and assaulting people, vocally hoped for Hermione to be sexually assaulted. Proceeded to spend half the year helping slander Harry and Hermione, tried to suckerpunch him with an unknown spell, and in the immediate aftermath of the return of a mass murder and one of his schoolmates dying, again vocally supported the terrorist group and mocked his fellow student’s death. This was literally the equivalent of a school shooting.

Harry and Co, year 5: Started a secret club to teach students to fight because the DADA “teacher” was literally refusing to do her job, the government was covering up the fact that there was about to be a war and literally torturing Harry and trying to have him assassinated for speaking out. The trio were also at this point semi-inducted into the grown-ups’ secret resistance organization. This cannot be emphasized enough. Marietta Edgecomb wasn’t a normal schoolkid ratting troublemakers out to the teacher situation. Umbridge was dangerous. Hermione should probably have warned people that they’d be hit with a massive fucking curse if they betrayed the DA, and made it a little bit clearer that this wasn’t some fun after-school club and ratting them out to the enemy wouldn’t end well, but fundamentally the curse was a result of Hermione treating a situation that was really on the boundary between a school and a war zone at that point like an actual war, and branding a traitor as a traitor.

Malfoy, year 5: Is somehow made a prefect, proceeds to abuse his power against younger students. Also cozies up to Umbridge, and ramps his classist bullying against Ron WAY up when he makes the Quidditch team.

Harry and Co, year 6: Harry panicked and used an unknown spell marked “for enemies” in self-defense against a death eater who was attempting to use an unforgivable curse on him. Note: Malfoy had already started the year by curbstomping a paralyzed Harry and throwing the invisibility cloak over him so he wouldn’t be found. Malfoy came damn close to murdering him by causing him to choke on his own blood. Harry also knows exactly what the Cruciatus Curse does. I wouldn’t have judged Harry even if he did know what Sectumsempra did.

Malfoy, year 6: Again, Malfoy’s little nosebreaking stunt could EASILY have been fatal. He left someone who was paralyzed and unable to move lying on the ground, bleeding heavily in his fucking airway, and actively hid him from view to prevent him from being seen and receiving medical attention. Harry is expected to have figured out what Sectumsempra does from the Latin, but I guess nobody expects Draco to be aware of, like... Step 1 of first aid for someone who’s unconscious being turning them on their side for this exact reason. Anyway following this, Malfoy has at this point kind of been roped into trying to murder Dumbledore, and in fairness he gets cold feet once he’s actually expected to help commit the Death Eaters’ atrocities instead of just being in the cheerleading squad, and it seems like he might have changed.

Anyway, getting to my point: Is Draco Malfoy a product of his environment? Yes. Is his portrayal somewhat biased because the books are from Harry’s perspective and... no, NOT because Harry hates Draco, because Harry only really pays attention to Draco when he’s being an asshole, which seems to be every single time they actually interact.

But you can’t say he wasn’t a terrible person throughout the events of the series. Maybe he changed afterwards, but there’s not really much shown of it other than him becoming a functional adult and being somewhat civil towards his former enemies. Which I guess isn’t that different from James and Sirius. But even they were... they were total assholes, but again, Malfoy was a racist who was vocally cheering on murder attempts and later an actual murder of his schoolmates. That’s at another fucking level.

And there’s also a MASSIVE difference between their actions. Prior to sixth year, there’s a very clear pattern. Harry, Ron, and Hermione frequently break the rules and do things that are stupid, irresponsible, and occasionally hurt people, while trying to protect themselves, their loved ones, or other innocent people. And while the effects of the traumatic events they’ve been through aren’t always that obvious, I really do think events like that very first Quidditch match had a serious long-term psychological impact: their ability to fully trust adults and authority figures to have their backs or even look out for their physical safety was severely damaged from their very first term at Hogwarts. Malfoy hurt people, intentionally, for his own amusement from the very first term. Not to mention that he was almost always “punching down.” Prior to Sixth Year, pretty much every single person he targeted was based on institutional power dynamics: Ron was poor, Hermione was Muggle-born, Neville was possibly disabled (and it turns out actually insecure due to being abused), and the one person in any position of power over him he really started shit with, Hagrid, was subject to institutional discrimination for being a half-giant and Malfoy used his rich family’s influence against him. Again, as opposed to Harry and Co who most of the time were actively defending themselves or fighting back against their abusers, and the only real power dynamic that you can really say they had working in their favor was Harry and Hermione being scarily good at the kinds of magic that can fuck people up compared to any of their social peers.

But you know what? There is one similarity between them: things only escalated to the level that they did because every single supposedly competent teacher at Hogwarts (i.e. not Snape or every single DADA teacher except Lupin) didn’t do their fucking jobs.

In the trio’s case, by (a) not doing jackshit about Snape’s behavior, and (b) keeping the kids in the dark and not even bothering to come up with a plausible cover story for them and just letting them think a teacher had tried to murder Harry and nobody was doing a single goddamn thing about it. Harry. The kid who already had serious issues with trusting authority figures because of the horrific emotional abuse he was subjected to since infancy which the multiple Order members in Hogwarts Staff had also been completely negligent about. And, y’know, Hermione, who was nearly killed by a troll her first year and saved not by a teacher but by her fellow first-years, then nearly killed by a basilisk her second year after several months of the staff failing to figure out the string of hate crimes against muggle-borns like her, and only surviving because she, the second-year starting from a massive disadvantage in terms of general cultural knowledge of things in the wizarding world, was the only one who did the research and figured out what the monster was, and only survived because she came up with looking around every goddamn corner with a mirror. And Ron, whose sister was possessed, kidnapped, and nearly killed, and the only adult who was supposedly “helping” him and Harry tried to put him into a vegetative state and only failed because of Ron’s shitty broken wand (which had been causing problems all year and the same staff that bought Harry a top-of-the-line broomstick last year spent the entire term doing absolutely nothing about the fact that one of their students was failing due to having to use a wand that was literally taped back together). How the fuck was it surprising to anyone when these teenagers continued to take matters into their own hands in increasingly dangerous ways?

In Malfoy’s case, because his bullshit should’ve been nipped in the bud way, WAY earlier. He should not have had the opportunity to do any of the shit he did in Year 6 because he should have been expelled long before that instead of the teachers letting him bully and abuse other students and basically do the equivalent of having a Hitler poster in his dormitory for five years.

[tossertozier]

So, I’ve seen a lot going around about Eddie and Myra and what people are and aren’t saying and this is my meta and my full take as my tags were quoted in the post I believe what started it all.

The original post is by kaymcalls, who I, in my personal opinion, believe is getting unfair hate and backlash on their blog. This is my personal opinion. This is a link to the post with comments by dear-wormwoods

Because we respect people’s right to their own opinion and analysis, there is a rebuttal post I feel it important to link by wondefuleds, displaying a different view point. 

I’m going to argue my point in this meta. Overall, I urge people to remember that this is a literary analysis and nothing greater. People have their rights to their own perspective above all else, and you have a right to yours, even if you greatly disagree with me. Please respect everyone’s right to see the world, read books, and understand relationships the way they do.

My point is neither Eddie nor Myra is abusive. There is no power imbalance present in their relationship. They are trapped in an emotionally manipulative, loveless, toxic marriage.

We open on Eddie fastidiously looking over his medicine cabinet, and packing a bag. There is a lot of discussion on the medications he takes, which are, for reference, a lot of sedatives.

Myra comes up the steps and demands to know what he’s doing. I don’t think this is an unreasonable request.

“‘Myra Kaspbrak was huge. She had only been big when Eddie married her five years ago, but he sometimes thought his subconscious had seen the potential for hugeness in her; God knew his own mother had been a whopper. And she looked somehow more huge than ever as she reached the second-floor landing.” There is a lot of fatphobia in our first description of Myra, which is in Eddie’s point of view. He is demeaning her based on her physical appearance in his mind.

“I have to go away for a while,” Eddie said.

“What do you mean, you have to go away? What was that telephone call?”

“Nothing,” he said, fleeing abruptly down the hall to their walk-in closet. 

And then:

“What’s this about, Eddie? Where are you going? You tell me!”

“I can’t tell you.” 

Eddie is being completely unreasonable. This is not how a married adult behaves. There’s independence, and there’s disregarding your partner entirely. 

Myra’s POV tells us: “she stood there, watching him, trying to decide what to say next, or what to do. The thought of dumpling bundling him into the closet and then standing there with her back against the door until this madness had passed crosses her mind, but she was unable to bring herself to do it;”

This is a fire vs fire fight. This is a lack of communication skills vs a lack of communication skills. Neither of them know how to talk to each other, at all. Myra tells us she has no idea what to do because this behavior is so unlike him, like she walked in on her furniture levitating. Does it justify her thoughts? 

No.

Instead, she makes up an excuse as to why he can’t go, for Al Pacino’s autograph, and he tells her she’ll have to get it herself. This isn’t an unreasonable request, but they are dancing around the topic at hand, they are not talking about where Eddie is going and why, they’re talking nonsense. Because they can’t communicate. Because they’re toxic for each other.

Let’s be realistic: eddie hasn’t even specified if he’s coming back. Myra has a right to be terrified. Eddie has a right to not want to dispel all of the childhood trauma that’s coming up for him at the moment. Neither of them communicate this to the other.

“Her face full of perplexity and terror, and he might have felt sorry for her if his heart had not already been so filled with terror for himself.”

He’s not scared of Myra. He’s scared of Pennywise, and returning to Derry. He’s failing to recognize, understand, and validate her emotions because he is so focused on his own. 

His wife is sobbing, and he completely ignores her and walks by. He doesn’t say anything. Not where he’s going. Not if he’ll come back. He doesn’t answer her questions, which are: are you in trouble and who was that on the phone? This is emotional manipulation. It is being a bad partner. 

Eddie realized he has more than enough time to make his train, and only then, does he think “Nine twenty. Plenty of time to talk to her, plenty of time to be kind.”

Eddie thinks he’s going off to die, and he is only considering being kind, in his own words, to his wife when it’s convenient. He thinks about the sound system he bought for her, criticizing her, and then thinks to himself “that wasn’t fair, and he damn well knew it.”

I think it’s a good metaphor for their entire relationship. He pulls these false equivalency for her… he blames her for his deep unhappiness which permeates every page of this chapter. He rhapsodizes about the similarities between his mother and Myra “they could have been sisters. The resemblance was that close.” He talks about only the physical resemblances for the longest time.He talks about how he fantasizes about breaking it off. 

But then he talks about their psychological resemblance:

“It was Myra herself who had ended up tripping the scales away from independence. Myra had condemned him with solicitude, nailed him with concern and chained him with sweetness. Myra, like his mother had reached that final, final insight into his character: Eddie was all the more delicate because he sometimes suspected he was not delicate at all. Eddie needed to be protected from his own dim intimations of bravery.”

Here’s the difference between Myra and Sonia in this passage to me:

Eddie is an adult. Eddie has free will, and he damn well knows it. He isn’t saying Myra won’t allow him to leave his house. He is saying he is addicted to her care over him. That he, personally believes, needs that level of care. It isn’t her words that have power over him, it’s her actions. Things she does like

taking out his rainboots when it’s raining

buying healthy cereals

These are normal things to do for your significant other. The reason they are not normal is because Eddie, yes Eddie, has been convinced  he is incapable of functioning without someone to care for him. This is, in large, not his fault, as the victim of childhood trauma. It’s also not Myra’s.

He goes on to say: “a hog she was, but she was a sweet hog, and he loved her, and there had really been no chance for him at all. She had drawn him to her with the fatal, hypnotizing snake’s eye of understanding.” He does not love this woman. He loves the care she takes of him. That’s a horrible marriage to enter yourself into. 

And he knows he’s wrong. He says he’s wrong. He knows he has built himself this cage and it’s based on the fact that he never faced down his childhood head on. That is his cross to bear. 

“Maybe this isn’t home, nor ever was- maybe home is where I have to go tonight. Home is the place where when you go there, you have to finally face the thing in the dark.” He knows he has never had a true home because he has not found it within himself.

Now: is Myra wholly innocent? 

No. 

Absolutely not. 

To know there is trauma in someone’s past that makes them vulnerable to a certain behavior, and to exploit that? Is emotional manipulation. They are both using the other to get what they want out of the relationship. Hence, it is mutually toxic.

“Tears has been more than a defense for his mother, they had been a weapon. Myra had rarely used her own tears so cynically… but, cynically or not, he realizes she was trying to use them that way now… and she was succeeding.” 

Eddie says Myra doesn’t have a particular track record for using tears as manipulation, and thinks that, regardless of whether she is cognizant of it, she is doing so now. Again: Eddie has not even said where he is going. She doesn’t even know if she is coming back. Again, I think this is Eddie, because of his trauma, which again: not his fault, but this is Eddie being unfair to Myra because of how he regards her. She has a right to cry at that moment. He can’t see her tears for anything other than the direct impact they are having on him, because he is used to emotions being a currency, because he is used to performative behavior. He is putting these things on Myra, and he knows that she probably isn’t being intentionally malicious, but cannot manage to make himself fully make that distinction. 

He holds his promise to the losers club of greater importance than his promises to her. That is his decision to make, but I think the least he could do is explain himself.

He then does not answer the questions she keeps repeating, but instead, tells her what she is going to do. They’re not addressing the question, they’re not addressing the problem, Myra is still sobbing. This is some of the worst communication skills I’ve seen in a relationship.

(Wailing)“there could be an accident… there probably will be an accident… Eddie… Eddie, you have to stay home…” this whole, there probably will be an accident, thing is textbook manipulation. She’s not getting what she wants from him, so she resorts to disaster scenarios. Because they’re not communicating what they want and need from each other.

However, Eddie replies: “For God’s sakes! Stop it!”

“I hate it when you shout at me, Eddie,” she whispered.

“Myra, I hate it when I have to,” he said and she winced.

Holy SHIT: no. I shouldn’t have to tell y’all why this is bad. This is BAD. Like I said… this is a fire vs fire fight. He is taking out his fear, his personal need for vindication in this fight against the dark, out on her. In response to her trying to manipulate him. They are BOTH toxic.

I’m gonna repeat: He holds this promise to the losers club as greater than any promise he made to her.

He thinks:

“Dear God, if You are there, please believe me when I say I don’t want to hurt Myra. I don’t want to cut her, don’t even want to bruise her. But I promised, we all promised, we swore in blood, please help me God because I have to do this… there you go, Eddie, you hurt her again. Why don’t you punch her around the room a few times? That would probably be kinder. And quicker.”

I can’t even with this passage. He knows. He knows how badly he is emotionally hurting her. He does not love this woman. He would resort to violence if he had to. There is no love in that.

They are so upset with each other, because they married someone to fill a purpose in their life, and not because they loved them. 

He gives her instructions on driving, and does not give her any information. His cab arrives.

He, again, refuses to give her any information. Again, she resorts to similar tactics to his mother, to try and manipulate him into staying. “‘You’ll get sick,’ she said desperately.” This is so bad. She tugs on him to make him stay. This is very bad. However, she doesn’t know where he’s going or if he’s even coming back.

For all she knows, her husband could be leaving her.

For all Eddie knows, he could be leaving her.

And then finally: finally, Eddie tells her something. He communicates! And you know what else he does? He lies to her.

‘“I’m going, but I’ll be coming back.’ Oh but that felt like a lie.” 

Eddie then, as she screams over the length of the trip, only then: considers her emotions as real, considers her emotions not only to the effect they play on his.

“Not angry at him, only terrified for him, and coincidentally, for herself.” 

And then:

“Was that what he meant? That he had finally decided it was all right to love her? That it was all right even though she looked like his mother…” 

this is a loveless marriage. Eddie never even considered her okay to love. I don’t think anyone is disputing that. But they’re both perpetrators of this emotional web that keeps them tangled in each other. They’re both responsible. there is not a power imbalance between them, just horrendous toxicity they both simultaneously feed into and rely on. 

Eddie, again, tells Myra to stop having her emotions, and asks her for a kiss. He tells her not to be afraid, tells her he’ll call if he can, and he leaves her. Forever. Eddie never comes home.

They never say goodbye or I love you, because Myra didn’t know it was goodbye, and they didn’t love each other.