#so they suspect there’s a lot under the surface they’re not seeing

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

Oh my *god, in most recent chapter of Sea Glass Gardens, the line “It would make sense, being afraid of the nuclear boy. He didn’t mean to make them afraid,” shattered my heart into approximately seventeen million pieces. I think I audibly sucked in a breath when I first read it. Absolute devastation. God, it’s fantastic!! I want to shake your Yuuta like an etch-a-sketch ❤️

See, I really like that line because it really does go to what an unreliable narrator Yuuta is. Nanami and Shoko weren’t afraid of Yuuta. If anything, they were afraid for Yuuta.

Yuuta’s deeply uncomfortable and embarrassed with what he’s experiencing. First, he’s aware that his emotions towards Megumi have exploded past what would normally be acceptable. Which, again, isn’t his fault. It’s a direct side effect of the level of reverse cursed energy he used on Megumi.

I’ve said this in several other places, but this was partially inspired by when I got concussed out of my mind and lost all emotional control. I never cry normally and then I spent weeks weeping and having violent outbursts against my own alarm in the morning. It can be kind of alarming to normally have very solid control of yourself and then completely lose it. It kind of gives me body horror vibes.

I also just like the JJK theme of nothing’s free. And while this isn’t exactly a direct cost imposed, it does impose a negative consequence on gaining reverse cursed energy. Sure, you can heal anyone, but it may destabilise you in an embarrassing way that doesn’t have a way to heal.

And the thing is that it makes Yuuta feel like he’s to blame even if he objectively isn’t.

Overwhelming or driving love that doesn’t have a basis in reality just makes me really uncomfortable, personally. Like, you know that love isn't genuine because it can't possibly be sourced in the person themself. Love can make for an incredibly interesting or compelling motivation or conflict in a story, but if you want love to be healthy (and real), you really need it to be sourced in actual, established knowledge of a person. It's sort of what Maki is talking about at the end of the chapter--there's no such thing as soulmates. Love is a thing you build.

**Minor Spoilers for the manga in this paragraph** It's honestly one of the reasons why I didn't like Hana just as a character design. Just so much of her character and motivation centered on her feelings for Megumi, and she didn't know Megumi. Sure, he saved her as a kid, but she knew nothing of his personality, his likes or dislikes. That kind of sort of baseless affection just makes me uncomfortable. You say that you love them but who do you even think they are?

Which begs the question as to why I just used it in my own work.

When I say a trope or character dynamic makes me uncomfortable, it's almost never absolute. It's up to how it's treated by the narrative. Like, I hate it when it's played straight or genuine, because it can make for a really unhealthy dynamic but the narrative for some reason insists on it being played as a good thing. But Death Note used this exact device with Misa Amane, and I loved it, because how wrong and unhealthy it was was the entire point. The narrative never tried to sell Misa's love for Light as a good thing or as a genuine emotional bond between them. He was always a fantasy to her, and it came to their mutual detriment because it led to her being manipulated and used by him and him having to. be near her.

Yuuta’s emotional response to Megumi is a legitimate source of distress for him. It was never genuine. I wanted there to be some kind of consequence or cost for reverse cursed energy. Since cursed energy is so heavily tied to emotions—both with how negative emotions builds up into curses, and with how being near cursed energy results in ominous feelings—I thought it’d be appropriate to have the opposite emotional response from positive energy.

I also thought that canon just barely had enough room for it to be a possibility. We only see one instance of reverse cursed energy being consciously learned (since Yuuta’s original use of it was canonically subconscious and while in a state of intense emotional distress), and that’s Gojo after his fight with Toji. He was high. He felt amazing, to the point where he couldn’t even feel anything about Riko’s death. Like, yeah, I assumed (and I think most people did) that was some kind of reaction with his Six Eyes and unlocking his full potential, but I don’t remember it ever being explicitly stated. I decided there was space to say that was a reaction to using RCT on a mass scale.

Which is why Yuuta actually says the exact same line as Gojo at one point: The world just feels so damn good right now.

But it just didn’t really do anything narratively to have him feel like he was high or like, seeing shrimp colors the way Gojo did. It didn’t make for compelling conflict. All it would do was have him act completely out of it and a bit looney in the aftermath, and that 1) would have been tonally dissonant with the more serious conversations that needed to follow and 2) would realistically lead him to be cut out of the loop entirely. Like, thank you for your service, Yuuta, everyone’s impossibly grateful to you for restarting Megumi’s heart, but you’re high as fuck and need to go lie down until you start existing on the same spectrum as the rest of humanity again. Please leave the room, guy who is the sole narrator of the fic. We sure don’t need you there, seeing everything.

So I also decided that there was space for tailored responses to positive energy. After all, cursed energy feels different by user, to the point where people can recognize the person it originated from just by how it feels. So I decided that it wasn’t just that positive energy made you feel amazingly good—it made you feel whatever positive emotion felt best to you.

And Yuuta, who had always been so very lonely, suddenly felt that he was not alone.

It wasn’t even that the reverse cursed energy made him specifically love Megumi, per se. It’s more that his brain filled in the blanks. Like, our own brains will lie to us all the time. It was being bombarded with an overwhelming sense of youarefinallynotaloneyouarefinallynotaloneyouarefinallyfinallynotalone, and his own brain filled in the gaps by tying that sense to Megumi, who it seemed to be most directly related to.

It was never real love. It couldn’t be. Yuuta didn’t know him. And Yuuta knew that, logically, but there was just nothing he could do to stop the feeling.

Now, a lot of people would look at that irrational, unprecedented emotional response and say “wow, something is medically wrong with me” and consult a doctor. I actually realized that my concussion was way worse than I thought it was because I could not stop weeping over minor inconveniences and I was like “what the fuck? I am never like this” and went back to the urgent care.

But I didn’t think Yuuta would, because I think Yuuta views his love fundamentally as a bad thing that happens to other people.

Yuuta repeatedly blames himself for things that honestly aren’t really his fault. Rika is the biggest example of it. He blames himself for everything that happened to her, but honestly? He was a little boy who just had his best friend mowed down in front of him. He didn’t even know that he had powers. The only thing he did was just… not want her to die.

This isn’t a habit he’s shaken by the end of JJK0. When he finds out that he cursed Rika, the first thing he says is that it’s all his fault. Not just for her, but for the people that got hurt. For Geto coming after him and almost killing his friends.

Which is a fucking wild takeaway. “It’s my fault that grown man planned and executed my premeditated murder and my friends got hurt voluntarily attempting to save me.” Like. Yuutas not to blame for any of that shit. He blamed himself instead of the adult man who tried to kill him.

Yuuta blaming himself for his irrational emotions around Megumi is just an extension of his own self-hate and tendency to take responsibility for things outside of his control. He’s waiting for his love to be a bad thing again. He gets this irrational, uncontrollable surge of affection around Megumi, and all he can think is “please don’t let me hurt you too”. He keeps insisting that he won’t hurt Megumi because he’s the one concerned about that.

Which is the sort of tint cast over his reading of everything else. He sees Nanami and Shoko’s concern, and he superimposes on a fear of him instead of for him. It’s not accurate at all; he’s just an unreliable narrator.

Nanami and Shoko are actually the most predisposed to be sympathetic to yuuta—shoko went through this herself, and Nanami watched it happen. They’re never worried he’ll hurt Megumi; they’re worried he’ll hurt himself.

And of course they are. Yuuta is visibly distressed, and they can’t give him anything to help. But Yuuta is, fundamentally, an unreliable narrator. He filters what’s happening through his own mental state, which is never good.

[kdogreads]

Jethro Gibbs NSFW Alphabet

Jethro Gibbs x f!reader (mentions of female anatomy)

TW: VERY SMUTTY (duh)!! MINORS DNI!! Minor praise kink, size kink, gun play (if you squint), just lots and lots of sexual situations

A/N: Hiiiiiii I have been watching NCIS lately and have recently discovered I am basically in love with Gibbs 🥵 Let me know what other LJG stuff you want to see! Thank you for reading!!

——————————————————————

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Gibbs is a saint basically. It depends on the situation, but if you’re at home (or his), he’ll get a warm cloth and clean your body so gently so you can just lay there in your afterglow. He’s not a huge cuddler, but if you just give him a sweet look, he’ll snake an arm under your waist and pull you into him so you can lay your head on his chest.

If you’re in public like the elevator, his truck, the parking garage he’ll wipe your chin, button your pants and smooth out your top. He’s as cool and collected as always and he’ll help you look somewhat back to normal. A quick kiss on your temple or a smack on your backside before parting ways is customary.

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His hands. Gibbs doesn’t pay much attention to his looks, just clean and put together is good enough for him, but he knows his hands are the best part of him. He can apprehend a suspect, protect his team with a firearm, smooth a rough surface, make you feel amazing, communicate in silence, basically do it all with just his two hands. You can’t say you disagree either.

His favorite part of you, as cliche as it sounds, is your face. Gibbs is old-school after all. He loves to see your smile light up a room, the minute movement of your muscles when you need to signal him during a sting, the way your features contort when you’re lost in pleasure, the empathy in your eyes when speaking with a victim’s family, the way your eyebrows raise when he makes a sarcastic comment. He’d quite literally do anything you asked of him just to see your eyes light up and you know it. :,)

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

Oh man. You know about Gibbs’ past, so you knew before you ever got together that kids were off the table, and you were fine with that. This gives him the opportunity to cum wherever he wants on your body. It just depends on the circumstance, of course. If you’re at home, he’ll make an absolute mess of you. Sometimes your tummy, chest, back, wherever is closest. If you’re at work out and about, he’ll probably come in your mouth for the sake of easy clean up, but he still loves to see your lipstick smeared and drool running down your chin before cleaning you up.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Usually Gibbs is a very dominant person, both in his work and personal life. What surprises you, however, is that he doesn’t mind being bossed around in bed from time to time. Especially after a rough case, he’ll let you do whatever you want to him. It doesn’t always last long, though. You’ll be riding him nice and slow with his hands pinned over his head, then before you realize it he has you flipped over to your back and is pounding into you.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

The man has been married four times, so he’s no stranger to pleasing a woman. He’s learned exactly what to do to turn you into putty in his hands. He knows exactly what to do and when to do it, which he uses to his advantage. Whether he wants you to cum quick and dirty or to draw it out for hours, he knows exactly how to do whatever he wants to you.

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

Though it sounds boring, Gibbs makes missionary anything but boring. He loves to see your face as he rolls his hips into you, spreading your legs as far apart as he can or throwing them over his shoulders. He can kiss your lips or your neck, grab at your tits and pinch your aching nipples between his strong fingers. His free hand will always slide down to your throbbing clit and send you into orgasm after orgasm, overstimulating you until you’re begging for him to stop. He loves the control being over you gives him. Oof!

Close second would be you riding him on his couch. His hands can grind your hips into his or slide down your back, making you arch into him and bringing your tits to his mouth. Any time he gets to watch your face when you come undone is his favorite.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Gibbs is usually pretty serious, but sometimes his silly side will peak through while you’re having sex. If you’re having a quickie in the elevator, he’s as serious as a heart attack.

“You’ve got three minutes to cum. If you don’t, you’ll pay for it later. Understand?”

But if you’re at home and he caught the bad guy that day, he’ll be a lot more relaxed and have some fun. He might tease you while you’re making dinner or kiss you while he’s working on his boat. He’ll laugh while you’re struggling to unbutton his shirt and take over, shoving your eager hands out of his way.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Our silver fox keeps himself well-groomed. Not completely hairless, but neat and well-kept. He shaves his face everyday, of course, but you love to feel the scratchy stubble on your face when you climb into bed or when you’ve been working late.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Gibbs is so sickeningly romantic and intimate when he wants to be. He’ll kiss every inch of your body and whisper the sweetest things in your ear while he makes love to you.

“You’re so beautiful” “M’so happy you’re mine” “Wish we could stay here forever” “You were made for me”

And the PET NAMES: sweetheart, love, honey, darling, sunshine, baby, doc (if you’re a doctor), red (if you have red hair)

He’ll sneak you romantic looks all day long and drive you crazy until you can get home and act on them.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

He doesn’t really feel the need to masturbate unless he’s away on a long mission or you are. Even then, he’d much rather get you worked up over the phone about what he’s going to do to you when he gets home.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Gibbs definitely has a dominant side and loves to have complete control over your body. He also loves to praise you when he’s in the sweet, lovemaking mood.

“Atta’ girl” “You're doing so good for me, sweetheart” “That’s my good girl”

When he’s in the mood for being rough, he loves to smack your ass and leave big red hand prints on your skin. Maybe slight bondage, like handcuffing you to the bed or binding your hands behind your back with his belt.

Public sex is kind of a kink for him. The thrill of being caught or of you being found out is exciting for him.

Lowkey I see him having a thing for sliding the cold barrel of his (unloaded) handgun up between your thighs, making you shiver and beg for him to fuck you…

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

His most favorite place to take you is at home so he can take his time with you and make you scream his name. Whether in bed, on the couch, in the basement, he loves being able to drag out your time together and turn you into a whining, dripping mess.

Our man isn’t opposed to fucking you anywhere, though. In the elevator with the emergency stop pulled, in his truck before you go into work, bending you over a tree stump while you’re out fishing or hiking. Gibbs will take you anywhere he can.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Seeing you outsmart a criminal or be assertive towards a suspect makes him feral. He loves how confident and demanding your presence is when you’re working a case and how you won’t stop until you find your perp. Anytime you catch the bad guy, he takes you home and rewards you in any way he sees fit, for as long as he wants.

He also loves seeing you out of work clothes and dressed down in shorts and one of his old t-shirts. Nothing gets him going like waking up next to you sleeping in only one of his USMC shirts, or when you come down into the basement dressed in only a button-down shirt of his to coax him to bed.

Basically, this man loves your body and your mind, and anytime you show off either one he wants to show you just how much.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Gibbs would never do anything to really hurt you, so any kind of pain/choking play is off the table. He just wants to take care of you in every way at the end of the day.

Also definitely no daddy stuff. It’s too hard and uncomfortable for him.

He’d never take you if there is any chance a bad guy could be close. Even if you’re looking fine on an undercover operation, he won’t risk his focus, or your life, for anything.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Oof. He eats pussy like a starving man. After years of experience, he knows just where to lick and nibble and suck to make you lose it. He’ll eat you out for what seems like hours, until you’re so overstimulated and sensitive.

He definitely won’t say no to you sucking his cock, especially if he’s trying to work on the boat but you’re trying to distract him. He loves seeing your pretty lips wrapped around him. Gibbs is a giver, though, so he’ll rarely let you finish him off before giving you a taste of your own medicine.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

This man can switch between the slowest, sweetest, most romantic lovemaking to fucking you like a horny teenager on an absolute dime.

If he can take his time, he’ll draw every single feeling out and make you feel so loved by him. He’ll run his fingers through your hair and kiss you across your shoulders while you get lost in the rolling ecstasy he’s giving you.

If he’s had a rough day or is frustrated with a case, he’ll take it out on you and you very willingly oblige. He’ll bend you over the bed and pound into you while holding onto a fistful of your hair. Of course, he’ll still kiss you and make sure you’re okay afterwards.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

He definitely is into quickies, but they’ve got nothing on taking you in the comfort of his own home. He’ll pull you into the elevator or wake you up with his face in between your legs 10 minutes before your alarm goes off at least once a week. If he’s working a tough case, definitely more. You’re like a crystal ball for him; he always sees things clearer after being inside you.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Gibbs isn’t a huge risk-taker given the nature of his work, but he’ll try just about anything in the bedroom once, as long as he isn’t hurting you. He knows sometimes you have to put yourself out there to get the reward, but he doesn’t want it to be like that with you. You’re each other’s safe place. That doesn’t mean he’s vanilla, though. He loves finding all the different ways he can make you melt in his hands.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

He might be older than you, but he is strong and in great shape. He’ll always make you cum at least once (probably more) before he even considered letting himself go. If you have the time, he loves to get a snack or read over a bit of a case file and then dive back into you. Half the time you are the one tapping out while he has a silly grin on his face and you know he could keep going.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Gibbs is definitely not opposed to using a vibrator on your clit while he fucks you. He knows how to make you lose your mind with his bare hands, but he doesn’t mind changing up the sensations for you sometimes. He doesn’t use toys on himself, but he enjoys feeling the vibrations while he slides in and out of you.

Any kind of paddle or crop would be off the table, though. He wouldn’t like the thought of actually striking you with something, only his hands on your ass (and he always rubs away the sting right away).

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

This man will tease you until you feel like you’re going to explode. He’ll drag you right up to your peak, then stop moving and make you beg for him to keep going. Even at work he’ll whisper dirty things in your ear and make you all flustered before walking away like nothing happened, leaving you to calm yourself down. Usually if he was particularly unfair to you, he’ll make it up to you by making you cum as many times he wants you to and leave sweet kisses all over your body.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make.)

Gibbs is generally a man of few words, and he’s no different in the bedroom. Soft-spoken, but assertive. He loves to whisper dirty things in your ear about how beautiful you are, how you were made for him, how pretty you look when you cum, how good you feel around his cock. The occasional grunt and groan will definitely escape his lips while he’s deep inside you. If he’s taking out his frustrations on you, though, slews of curse words will rumble out of his chest. Of course, he’ll tell you he didn’t mean to say all that, but you’ll tell him you liked it.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Gibbs lowkey has a size kink. He loves that he stands so much taller than you and, even though he has a trim figure, he’s just stronger than you after years of physical work. He loves that he can pin you up against a wall and hold you up in his arms while he fucks you.

ALSO Jealous!Gibbs is also an absolutely animal. He’s long gotten over being self-conscious about being older than you, but any time a man flirts with you or you are a little too friendly with a male agent, he’ll pull you in for a crazy passionate kiss right in the middle of the bullpen. He’s always been a bit theatrical, and he has no problem showing the world who you belong to.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

Our man is well-endowed, that’s for sure. You can’t walk around with that kind of big dick energy without backing it up. Depending on the angle, his cock will poke into your cervix — the deepest, fullest feeling. Especially if he has you bent over the workbench in his basement, between the frame of the boat, plowing deep into you. Oof.

Gibbs also 100% has a cute butt that you want to smack all the time and he’ll get mad at you every time.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

This man would fuck you day and night if he could. Age hasn't slowed Gibbs down even a little bit. Maybe he can’t go as many rounds as he once could, but he’ll have you coming over and over again before he even fucks you.

You know you do crazy things to him, too. So when you bend over just a bit further than necessary, or let you too ride up when reaching for something, stand a little too close to an attractive male agent for a little too long (Jealous Gibbs is a different breed), he’ll show you what he thinks about it as soon as he can.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Jethro has always had a hard time sleeping, so he doesn’t usually fall asleep after you have sex. Maybe if it’s been a long day he’ll just give in to his tired body, but usually he’ll hold you until you fall asleep then head down to the basement to watch old movies or work on the boat. Sometimes you’ll make it your personal challenge to wear him out so much he falls asleep afterward, so you whine and whine until he takes control and pounds into you in the most physical way. Even then, he might sleep for an hour or two, then get up again, but you do your best.

Me after writing this:

[tenderjock]

like the moon moves the tides [agent carter werewolf au]

part ii. teeth bared

Daniel thinks Peggy Carter is a werewolf.

He doesn’t know for sure. There are a series of clues that lead to this conclusion, seeing as it’s not something you talk about in public, really. That being said, while he doesn’t have anything as clear as proof, she’s also not the subtlest person out there.

It’s a handful of things: the way she inhales sometimes, like she’s smelling something in the air that he can’t. The way she sorts through the SSR’s cheap cutlery to avoid the one nice spoon that one of the phone girls left once. The way she doesn’t turn on the lights in the storage rooms, just picks through files in the dark.

Mostly, it’s the thing with Thompson.

Daniel had been working with Thompson for a little over a month before he started to suspect there was something going on under the surface.

Thompson has always been a dick, but, in his defense, not especially a dick to Daniel. The guy picks on people’s flaws to make himself look good, and that means a certain amount of gimp jokes; but he wasn’t like Krzeminski, always targeting Daniel’s weakness. Thompson seems to be less of a true bully and more of a mean-spirited opportunist.

He's also some sort of big, fat war hero. Privately, Daniel thinks that maybe Thompson just did whatever it was he did in Okinawa to make himself look good, rather than as an attempt to save lives. But that’s not the sort of thing you say in public, either.

Anyway, Thompson loves attention and he loves praise, but he doesn't talk much about the war and while he doesn't care who he hurt, he usually doesn't go out of his way to be hurtful.

Until Agent Carter joins the office.

The office gossip is that Thompson’s head over heels for the pretty, prickly secretary that Dooley hired. Daniel doesn’t really think that any part of that sentiment is entirely accurate; Peggy’s an agent who served on the front lines of the European theater, and he’s not sure that Thompson’s deal with her can be explained by a mere crush.

Since day one, Thompson’s been weird about Peggy. He watches her when he thinks she isn’t looking. Peggy’s shoulders are always tense, up around her ears when the two of them are in the same room. Thompson alternates between trying to talk to her, to get her attention with a compliment, stepping close into her personal space, and then flips to skewering her with a cruel, off-color barb.

Once, when the three of them were the only ones in the office, Daniel sees Thompson crowd in close to Peggy and lay a hand on her back. She whirls on him, lips pulled back from her teeth, and he scurries back, a frantic whine in his throat.

So. The two of them are werewolves, and it’s part of why they can’t get along, he figures. Daniel doesn’t know a whole lot about werewolf behavior, but he knows they have packs like dogs and, like dogs, can be temperamental when it comes to working with others of their kind that they don’t know.

When Thompson takes Li, Ramirez and Peggy to Belarus, the office predicts that she’s gonna push him out of the cargo plane somewhere over the Atlantic. That, or that they’re gonna finally fuck in a tent in the Russian wilderness. Money’s being laid down; Daniel doesn’t participate, consumed with the silver bullet wounds on Peggy’s shoulder and the sinking suspicion that everything he thought he knew about her was a lie.

She got him, hook, line and sinker. Daniel wonders if this is what waking up feels like.

As it happens, no one wins money. Li’s dead and Ramirez says that Thompson and Peggy weren’t alone long enough to spit, let alone get heavy with each other. He also says that Agent Carter – he calls her Agent Carter – saved their bacon, that all of them would be dead if it weren’t for her and her Howling Commandos.

But Thompson and Peggy are different. They look at each other differently, they move around each other differently, and Thompson even goes so far as to invite Peggy out to drinks with the guys.

She accepts, and Daniel thinks, ah. She got Thompson, too.

Daniel looks at Peggy’s retreating back – the line of her shoulders, the way she holds her head and arms, the muscle of her ass under her skirt – and compares it to the photo of the blonde.

He can’t sniff out a suspect, not the way a werewolf could. But he’s got a feeling about this one.

part iii. belly exposed

(Jack looks away, the line of his throat and the fall of his hair and his scent aching with guilt-pain-fearsubmission-tiredtiredtired. The only thing keeping Peggy from scooting forward and tucking his head under her chin is that she thinks that he wouldn’t like it.

That, and the fact that there are two humans in the belly of this cargo plane with them who probably wouldn’t understand.

“After,” he says, sounding hesitant. “I nearly got myself killed. In Okinawa, on the beach. One of the guys in my unit, he was a wolf, and he – he bit me, I guess. Saved my life. Don’t remember it much. We got split up a few weeks later, I got sent home, and I ended up with the SSR.”

Peggy looks at him. A lot of things about Jack are suddenly making sense. “Your family are human,” she says, just to confirm. He dips his chin the slightest bit. If he were in wolf form, his ears would be drooping.

No wonder he was so bloody bad at being a wolf. The first twenty-eight years of his life he had spent human, surrounded by humans, and he’d never been given the chance to have a proper pack or even a lone packmate. If he had opened with this story, she thinks to herself, a touch frustrated, they could have avoided months of antagonism.

But of course he wouldn’t. He was running on a man’s brain and a wolf’s instincts. Talking to her about his feelings was probably the last thing Jack would have ever anticipated himself doing.

They spend the rest of the flight back to New York in a sad, quiet sort of mood. Peggy doesn’t try to say anything to Jack, but when all four of them disembark, she makes a point of pressing her shoulder against his for just a moment.)

[slashers-and-rats]

to get back into the groove of writing, let me share an au that i’ve been discussing with @hollowslasher !! they’re fantastic and I’m now obsessed with this

priest!billy au (nsfw)

lemme set the scene…

after the abuse he faced in his home when he was younger, and the gruesome deeds that would follow, instead of being sent off to an asylum, he is instead sent to a nunnery through some means (haven’t worked out that part yet). anyways, he’s sent to the nunnery to find “the way of the lord”, and learn how to be a faithful priest, and repent his passed sins, and all that jazz.

but, billy is billy. he’s obsessive with ideas, he clings to things, and so during his time at the church, he quickly becomes overwhelmed by the ideas given to him. he takes them too literally, too serious, and soon he’s obsessed with the idea that god can save him from the things he does. during this time, he denounces his old name of billy, wipes his slate clean, takes on a new name of micheal (we all know it’s billy, so that’s what we’ll call him), and becomes a priest in training.

billy, on the surface, is a model man. he helps out as much as he can around the church grounds, he perfectly recites bible verses, he memorizes prayers quickly because he’s really just repeating what others say in their voice, he is very strict on himself and follows the rules carefully; he is a devoted man of the cloth, or whatever. sure, he has his few quirks, like when he gets too excited he still drools, and he mumbles things under his breath, and he always has a certain look in his eye, but lots of the fellow members of the nunnery just believe it’s due to his rough upbringing. they don’t know much about him, they just know he didn’t come from a good place, and so they try to give him some grace.

that being said, it’s still a church, and billy finds himself repressing a lot of himself. he buries those vile, disgusting thoughts deep inside of him, and holds back on his outbursts until he’s alone and can scream into his pillow. he views it as the sin seeping into him. every time he thinks of something dirty, he’s running to the church to pray, or he’s confessing his sins in a confessional, or (on particularly bad days) he’s flogging himself for his falling into temptations. while on the outside he’s a picture perfect, born again boy, on the inside he feels as though he’s always being poisoned by “the devil”.

he becomes attached to this idea of purity. he has to be pure, that’s what they tell him. if he’s not pure, he’s not forgiven, and he HAS to be forgiven. he’s done too much not to be. he worries so much about falling into sin, and yet he sneaks indulgences when he can’t take it. he’s like an addict, he keeps going back because it’s truly all he knows, and slapping this bandage over a bullet wound isn’t helping.

it certainly doesn’t help when he starts making the phone calls. during the wee hours of the night, when the dormitory is silent, billy will call the nuns and priests, and do what we know he does best. he’ll spit vile things, and moan and whine into the phone, and confess all of the dirty things he’s been thinking of. he doesn’t say who he is, he makes sure his voice is inconsistent, and he just throws up all of the horrible thoughts he pushes down inside. usually, in response, the recipients of these calls will mutter prayers, or shame him for calling in such a way, or tell him he needs jesus. and all of this he knows. that’s why he’s there. he tells himself he’s only calling so he can hear those prayers, so that he can feel the shame and it’s like some punishment for what he’s saying, but deep down it’s all lies. he’s just a mutt.

once again, no one really suspects it’s billy. he’s weird, sure, but he’s the sweetest guy you’ll met when the sun is out. also, prank calls aren’t unheard of when it comes to places like that, so. they go about their business, occasionally getting billy’s sick phone calls and dealing with it however they see fit for the time.

until, billy calls one woman, a nun. a pure little lady, or so he thought. billy calls her, like he’d call any one of these people, but as he’s babbling about his nastiness, she isn’t responding in the usual manner. sure, she says he’s sinful, and says he has so much lust inside of him, but it’s said in such a way that… it sounds almost affectionate. she speaks as though she’s impressed by him, as though she finds him amusing or entertaining or something of the like. billy doesn’t notice until he’s pumping his cock, something he has done very hard work to keep from doing. he’s yanking his trousers down and stroking himself and this woman is telling him about how he’s so bad, so naughty, such a dirty man to try and corrupt a nun like her, and he’s reeling. he has to hang up before he gets too far. he doesn’t even cum, he can’t bring himself to, it’s all too much. he’s shaken, he’s thinking hard about her. a new obsession. a new religion in the making.

he focuses in on her. the next day, he figures out which one of the nuns she is. he begins watching her from afar during her daily chores and services. he sits where he can see her during services, he listens in on her confessions, he watches her as she eats… he begins calling her regularly, always getting the same amused responses from her.

at first, he believes she’s some dirty succubus. how could she respond like this to such vile things he’s said? she’s the one in the wrong, she has to be. sure, he’s the one spewing fantasies over the phone, but she’s the one that’s letting him. she’s the sinner, she’s the harlot, it can’t be him. no, he needs to fix her, because he’s the good one. any hoop he can manage to jump through, he does. he doesn’t want to take responsibility or admit he’s just a lustful man, no, it can’t be him. he wants to be good, he wants to be forgiven.

he begins seeing himself as her saviour. he’ll fix her. this is all some covert way of weeding out the sinners, and he’s found one, and now he has to find a way to fix it. his phone calls become harsher, more directed at her, more personal as he speaks about the things he’ll do to her. he’ll flog her for her misdeeds, he’ll wrap his rosary around her throat, he’ll fill her mouth with his cock so she can’t say any unholy things anymore, he’ll make her pray while he fucks her so that she can have a real holy figure inside of her. he will be her retribution. she just responds with the same amount of amusement, but billy can hear her becoming enraptured as well. she touches herself, he knows it. he’s so disgusted with her behaviour, and yet he wants more and more and more

the phone calls become a routine, to the point that when she answers, she knows who it is from the way he chokes a little at the start of his rants. billy becomes obsessed, he begins becoming tangled in a web of his religious duties and his duties to fuck this woman silly. he takes the word of the lord so seriously, and yet… here he is. stroking himself while confessing all of his deepest desires. over the phone he refers to himself as billy, he speaks as he would usually, and she listens. he likes that she listens, deep down. he wants to be heard.

things go south when one day, as he’s sitting waiting for the church service to start, she comes up and sits down beside him. he’s very nervous, immediately becoming fidgety, but he tries to smile and ignore the anxiety bubbling up. he’s never been THIS close, he usually just watches from afar. he’s mesmerized by her when she’s this close, and he has to keep reminding himself not to stare. if you asked him, he’d say he was nervous because he was sitting beside a succubus, and he didn’t know what she was capable of. but, deep down, it was because he would let her take him on the pew if she spoke as sweetly as she did over the phone.

anyways, she sits beside him, and he smiles as normally as he can at her. and she smiles back, and leans over, and all she says is “it’s nice to see you, billy.”. it makes him freeze. it’s like he’s just been slapped across the face, it’s like she just ripped all of his skin off at once. no one has called him that in so fucking long. as well, her knowledge of him being billy directly threatens this new life he’s created. if she knows it’s him, then she could tell others that he’s the one that’s been calling, and he’ll get kicked out again.

he’s sure she sees his panic, because she just pats his knee gently, as if she didn’t just rip his entire universe apart. he physically flinches, and gets up and walks quickly out of the service, something very out of character for such a loyal member like billy. but they don’t think much, since missing one sermon isn’t a problem. but she knows why he’s run, and he does too. and that’s enough to make him terrified.

later, when dinner is over, and people have settled into their rooms, billy catches her in the hall. she was walking back to her dorm, and he snuck up behind her, and pinned her to the wall. he wrapped a hand around her throat, and hissed in her ear that he’ll kill her. he has to, because she’s going to tell everyone his secret, and he can’t have that. he can’t. he’s ready to commit another sin and work for forgiveness again, it’s easier than being barred from retribution altogether. but she’s looking up at him, fluttering her eyelashes, smiling softly even as he’s squeezing her throat. and she just pats his chest and says “your secret is safe with me… as long as my phone keeps ringing, that is”. it baffles billy. she is a whore, she is a slut, she has to be, why else would she want this. she’s squeezing her thighs together, and staring up at him with such adoration, he feels like a saint. he has to run off again, overwhelmed and confused. he should be disgusted by her, he should be seeing her as the dirty charleton she is, and yet… where her skin touched him, he burns. he wants more, he does, he needs ti purify her with his own seed, he needs to fix her. right? he’s the one fixing…? right…?

that’s my intro to this idea. i hope you guys like it, i plan on writing actual stuff for it. the nun will be a fem!reader probably, cuz i don’t really have much of a character for her yet. thank you so much for reading!!

[alairroux]

We're finally here! Yippie! Honestly I didn't expect this fanfiction to get over 5 chapters, more even to be around the middle on the tenth one... Bit later than usual, but I've managed.

Chapter X

"Mum?"

“Well, catching onto it was easier than we suspected, but the test results are also way off. It’s not an omega level Mutant, it’s omega level Lumithra.”

I like your funny words, magic man…  Passed through the fog that was enveloping Alice’s mind. She still wasn’t awake, stuck somewhere between reality and dreamland. She could catch on, onto some of the words spoken around her, and she definitely could feel the cold against her skin. It was a weird kind of cold, almost wet, but constant, not like after the rain. 

“Whatever she is, she can’t leave the facility, and we have a lot to take care of. Ensure to catch any other possible variant of hers, before they reach the same power point and decide to turn against everything we know for now. “

She could feel her eyelids move, flutter, softly but she still couldn’t open her eyes. It was all so weird, like she was trapped outside her body, unable to do anything more than just feel and hear, almost like in a coma. Pretty scary situation. The dull ache in the back of her skull definitely wasn’t helping her at all. 

“Doctor Mazur, would you mind continuing work on this specimen?”

 Mazur… Her mothers last name. She was the one, who didn’t take her father's last name, wanting to stay connected to the past of the country she was tied to. Alice had her fathers last name. Was it possible that all this time she was working for TVA? Was it possible that all this hate was because of knowing about it all? About mutants, variants, everything that could and would change, affecting timelines and universes? Or was the hate the reason she ended up here in the first place? Was it even her mother anymore?

“Mum…” 

Her lips mouthed this word, but no sound left them,it all floating away into that weird substance that seemed to surround her from every possible side. But she was slowly coming back to herself, slowly regaining some of the control over her body, able to move her fingers. At least something. Now, she was also certain there was some kind of liquid covering her body in the worst way possible. She could breathe in it, but it was also confusing and numbing. She moved around a bit, trying to shake herself off, but ending up only moving like in slow motion. Finally, Alice managed to open her eyes, only to be met with bright blue lights just above her, she squinted her eyes, letting them adjust to the bright light. She really was under something similar to water, seeing little air bubbles travel upwards to reach the surface, now she was getting panicked. She’ll drown. Ringed repeatedly in her head. She tried to move, only now noticing so many cables connected to her. Her waking up was probably alarming enough for the so-called doctor to come closer, pushing some buttons on the console right by the tank, sleepiness quickly overwhelming her whole body. She didn’t even get a chance to yell out a simple “no”. The next time she was able to register anything, she heard people talking over her again. 

“So what exactly is she?”

“Lumithra. So a weird mix between human and something that in simple words you could call a concept. How is it possible? Hard to tell. We don’t have an answer for that, yet. They’re usually born as strong mutants, which matches. For now we also haven’t found her copy in any other universe, so we can safely assume this is the only one. Worth a shot to do some work on it.”

It. It. She was reduced to it. To a specimen to work on. That was way worse than a shame honestly, it was the uttermost disrespect that anyone could be faced with. She wanted to scream at them, but guess what? Again in the weird fucking liquid! Also she felt a raging headache, only after a moment it occurred to her, that The Eyes were in pain. So whatever they were doing to her, they might’ve blocked her abilities and with that, hurt her symbiote. She remained without movement, waiting to be alone with her mother in the room again. 

“I’ll leave you to your work now, doctor Mazur. Maybe don’t keep her in that water too long, I doubt  anyone from the Higher Ups would want to lose her by an accident.” 

After that, there was only a hiss of the automatic door and then silence. That’s when Alice decided to start quite violently moving around, trying to find a way out of this tank, to save herself, and The Eyes. They were important and she could feel their pain. At that, doctor Mazur came closer to the tank, after a moment of reluctance, moving off the lid, causing Alice to suddenly sit up, gasping for breath, trying to pull at all of those weird things connected to her. 

“ Calm down, you’ll only hurt yourself.”

“For now, you’re hurting me! Get that shit off of me!” 

Alice’s rage was very evident, or maybe it was fear? It wasn’t really easy to tell, something in between, combination of both in the worst way imaginable. 

“Calm down.”

“Don’t you fucking dare tell me that again.”

It was her mother. Those eyes never lie, that was sure, after all she looked into them for so many years. The anger boiling in her veins, despite being still a bit numb and stiff she jumped onto the woman. Did she try to hurt her? Maybe just show how upset she was? She didn’t get a chance. Attack, without thinking and preparation always ends wrong. Her whole body was wet, so the taser had a whole lot to travel through, penetrating her body with ease, causing her to stiffen up with a grunt, feeling involuntary twitches in her muscles, still looking at the woman with pure hatred. She probably just wanted to believe that it was hatred, while in fact it was hurt. She had left her, abandoned her to side with people who now wanted to turn her into a science specimen. That was some ultimate betrayal. If it was Chris, she would’ve never done that, no, not to her precious boy, but to her monster daughter? Sure. Anytime. 

While Alice was seething with rage on the floor, some people entered the room, running over to her, clasping something on her neck. The pain struck her again, even worse, screams of agony. The Eyes were dying. She could feel them hurt and wither, her precious helpers, that always eased her anxiety by keeping an eye at everything. They started dragging her out of the room, the pain pulsating under her skull. It took a while for Alice to regain control over her body, able to walk, sometimes stumbling a bit, the pain making her hazy, making the world almost liquidy. Hurts. Hurts. It hurts them. They hurt them. They pull them apart. They're dying. Save them. Save them! She swayed slightly on her legs, feeling burning anger and a weird type of hunger course through her veins. The eyes... The being that attached itself to her was being pulled apart inside her soul, due to having that stupid collar. That thing that erased her abilities. She was almost on the edge of starting to wail, being trapped with that nagging filling her mind. That was until she realized they didn't take her necklace. Cold metal resting on her neck. Sure, after the water and electro-shocks it could not work, but it was worth a try. 

She took a deep breath, suddenly raising her hands to her necklace, pushing on it, hearing a familiar click, the seconds stretched to infinity. After that the coolness of the fabric coating her skin, the familiar weight of her mask, the metal spine back, the boots making those well known nosies with each step, heaviness of the claws in gloves, feeling of pure power. For the first time she wore it with an intention of hurt, real hurt, of a fight based on rage, not morals. Not worrying about her safety, she tore at the collar with her claws, tearing the device into two pieces, some more electricity passing through her body, but she couldn’t care less, feeling the eyes take over. Covering her skin, covering her own eyes, her back, the cool of them spreading like fire, anger only fueling that hunger, the lust for blood. 

Faster than she could think, her body moved, the metal tail slicing the side of the closest guardian, then quickly grabbing the other one by his thigh, wrapping around it in a painful way just to throw him against the wall. Everything got loud with the pounding alarm. They were onto her, but her mind was hazy, The Eyes in full control, using her body as a mecha to tear through anyone who would get in their way onto their target. More guards came, only to be torn into slices, warm blood soaking through the fabric onto her skin. Her claws grazed after bones only to break them as soon as possible as well, the boots allowing her to move faster, her breathing unnatural, it felt like she had a second rib cage, pushing on her lungs, causing her to take shallow, quick breaths, sounding like a feral animal. She had to get back. Back to her mother. Repay with the same pain. Tore her to pieces, mental wise, make her regret. No mercy. She wasn’t ever merciful. She didn’t deserve mercy. No mercy. NO. MERCY.  As terrified as Alice felt, she gave full control to the creature, believing every “All fine. You fine. We fine.” she heard again and again in her head. No matter who got in their way, they pushed through towards the lab, forcing the door open, only now, the eyes moving enough to leave the talking and most of the control to Alice. 

She stood there, blood dripping from her costume, face and hair, facing her terrified mother. She was looking right into the same eyes she used to admire so much, now with a cold expression. The anger slowly letting the grief to surface, regret and pain taking the reins. The forever siblings of damnation of soul. 

“How does it feel to look into your mothers eyes after so long?”

That woman had the audacity to ask that, knowing damn well she was just a human. Mere human of flesh and bones, she couldn’t withstand Alice even if she wanted to. 

“As amazing as always.”

Alice spoke, taking a few more steps ahead, the reality around them warping and changing. Until it transformed into pure darkness with specks of blue light somewhere far away from them. Only then, her mother tried to move away, quickly taking steps backwards until she stumbled and fell. Alice standing over her like a death omen, the only thing she was lacking was a scythe in her hands to believe she was ready to kill. 

"We were right about leaving you there! You're a monster. An abomination! No... No... No. Don't come closer!"

Yelled out in fear caused Alice to chuckle but stop in place, watching the woman with pity painted over her face. SHaking her head a bit, before speaking. 

“Am I? Is it my fault though? Weren’t you the one deciding to cheat, to see how it is to mate with something inhuman, knowing the risk?”

She already looked through the memories of her mother, quickly following the string. The lie, that turned to be a life. A child. Her mother knew she wasn’t getting down with a human then, but with a mutant of some kind. With a monster as she used to call them. But in the memories, that person was blurred, almost like her mother was doing everything to erase them entirely, pretending they never existed at all. 

“How dare you speak like that to your mother?”

“That you are, but first, let me ask as well. How dare you sacrifice your kid to people who would only pull it apart for so called science and then call yourself its mother?”

The silence was a loud answer. 

“Who he was? Why were you erasing him? Who. Was. My. Father?”

Alice pushed, her eyes peering into the other woman's eyes with an almost fiery gaze, hearing a tumble of different thoughts, just to keep her away from the truth, from everything that Alice could’ve found out on her own. 

"The only thing I've never doubted in my life is that you're *his* daughter. You walk, talk, even move like him. A walking and living proof of my mistake of giving myself to that monster."

The other woman spoke, spitting out the words like they were a molten iron, with an intention to sting and hurt. To push a pin right where it hurts. 

“I do? Very well then, I should take that as a compliment I believe.”

Alice spoke, a wide smile resting on her lips, showing her teeth under the mask. She found the memory, the face, the name, enough to know who this was about. To find out her father and his ideals. She couldn’t say that the apple fell far from the tree in that case. Even they were stained with blood. She really went as far as possible to get what she wanted and needed then. She took another step closer, grabbing the older woman by her collar and lifting her up in the air, the red eyes piercing her soul. 

“You don’t deserve a single thing you own or anything you managed to accomplish. I wish for nothing more, but for you to perish like a dog and nothing more. Mother.”

Her words like venom, like a spear sharp on both ends, adding more damage to what was already done. One of her hands moving lower to the ribs, resting here for a while, feeling every shallow breath and every heartbeat. Ready to strike, but she hesitated at the last moment, not drawing blood just yet, pondering over something. What was worse than drowning in your own blood? Drowning in mental pain. 

Alice smirked a bit, dropping her down, before taking a step back, taking them back to the laboratory, covered in red light and alarms, the stench of blood overfilling the air from every side. They were coming for her again, but she still had enough time for her revenge. She sank into the woman's mind, her presence like ice spikes hurting already. She maneuvered through the memories, pulling at the dearest ones, before she turned them into nightmares, realistic enough to believe in them. To trust it really happened, to cause the older woman to scream in pain and confusion, to yell out for help, to beg for Alice to stop, to just scream, tearing her throat, filling the halls with ominous echoes of pain. Was it worth it? Yes. Was it within Alice’s moral code? No, it was wrong even for her, but she just wanted to show her mother, in how much pain she was everyday, to show her what exactly turned her into a monster. 

Right when Alice was supposed to pull away, to try and run, she felt a rod on her neck and then heard a short zap right by her ear. The immense pain tearing through her body, whatever that was, was definitely designed to make the transportation as unpleasant as possible. Shortly after that she fell onto a sand ground with great impact. She grunted in pain, upon hitting the ground and then coughed as the dust got onto her mouth and nose. She pushed on the neck piece again, causing her suit to quickly fold back up into the necklace. The stench of blood was still there, definite and heavy. No wonder, her whole skin was covered in it and her hair as well, it won;t go away for a while probably. 

“I haven’t seen you here the last time. Only two imbeciles claiming they are trying to save the world.”

She knew that voice. She fucking knew that voice from that stupid meadow. That velvety, female voice, always speaking with a hint of mockery, that one could mistaken for care. Alice quickly raised her head, pushing her upper half up on her arms. She was met with a pair of blue eyes piercing her whole being with that gaze, slightly tilted head, curiosity and disgust emanating from this person from every possible way. Cassandra Nova. No. Fucking. Way. 

“I think I’ve hit my head too hard this time…” 

I swear if someone says Magneto at the father revelation, I'm throwing hands.

[farfromstrange]

Chaos Theory | Michael Kinsella x Reader

Chapter 17: Crisp Trepidation

Masterlist ° Chapter List

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Reader (she/her)

Summary: Michael is shaken up and you take care of him. But when Amanda comes around, truths start spilling out and you finally remove all the walls that have been standing tall between you.

Warnings: ANGST, mentions of child death, mentions of child abuse, blood, non-sexual intimacy, cursing, panic attack, crying

Word Count: ~11k (this is a beast but it had to be done)

A/n: So they finally talk!! It’s not a proper adult conversation because it didn't fit in here, but they do talk a little and they’re finally open with each other, which lays the foundation of The Talk that’s gonna follow. You're welcome! (It’s also a lot of dialogue and I’m not sure if it’s good, but I tried. Feedback is always appreciated!)

Michael’s house is eerily silent when you enter. He turns the lights on in the hallway and you lock the door behind you. You can never be too safe, especially not after what conspired earlier tonight.

You’re met with the sight of a cozy kitchen. His decor is minimalistic, but it fits. You like the colors, and you like the layout.

It's a nice home to live in, you note, if it weren't for the constant reminder of tragedy you know lies in the living room.

You suspect his bedroom is upstairs together with the bathroom–the stairs lead from the living room to another floor. It’s small, but it’s cozy and it seems like a nice place to live in. But the place is missing a personal touch, and that’s where you realize that he was really gone for eight years; it shows in every inch of his home.

You wonder what life before his wife’s death was like. Were they happy? How did he and Anna get along? You have no doubt he was a great father before. You’ve always wondered what life as a Kinsella looks like, but after hearing he was shot at and his nephew died, you no longer want to know. It’s dangerous and you don’t like the thought of him being subjected to it.

“You, uh–” He breaks off to catch his breath. “Sorry, you want a drink?” Michael asks.

You shake your head. “No,” you answer. “I’m good.”

He purses his lips, gets a glass, and pours some water from the tap into it for himself. 

“Do you wanna talk about what happened?” you break the silence first. 

He shakes his head. 

“Okay, that's fine.” Your voice is soft when you reach out to touch his cheek again and say, “How about you take a shower then? It might help.”

His eyes flutter closed at your touch, and he leans into the palm of your hand. His head is just as heavy as his heart. A pile of bricks drags him down further under the surface of the lake. He’s drowning somewhere he’s sure no one would find him if he disappeared. You’re the rock keeping him afloat, but once you’re gone, nothing is holding him back from following the current into oblivion. 

Michael nods weakly in response to your question. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Shower sounds grand.”

You offer him a soft smile. “Do you need anything else before that? A hug, maybe?”

His hand finds yours at your side. He comes closer, his breath fanning across your face, and you move to tangle your fingers in the hairs on the nape of his neck. “I know I fucked up last night,” he says. “And I’m sorry. I...I never wanted it to end like tha.”

The dim light that fills the house reflects off the tears glistening in his eyes, and you can see the specks of green in his irises so much clearer now. The change in color always shows how he's feeling. Today, the sadness underlines the deep brown in his eyes, and that’s where you find yourself lost time and time again. He’s beautiful. The tragedy in him brings with it a certain beauty. A human and fragile kind of beauty.

Your throat dries shut. You reach out to cradle his cheek; the action carries the weight of your emotions, and yet it’s still not nearly enough. 

“You didn’t have t’stay,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to repay ya for bein’ there for me the way you always are, but–”

“Shh,” you’re quick to cut him off. “You have no reason to apologize, okay? Let’s just…forget what happened, just for tonight, so I can take care of you. Nothing else matters.”

His lip quivers as he bites down on it. “I can’t be alone,” your name is a mere breath on Michael’s lips, “And I don’t wanna be.”

“You don’t have to be alone, Michael.”

He catches your chin between his fingers. “Can I–”

You don’t let him finish. “Yes,” you say. It’s a breathy admission, asking for something you both need. 

Your lips meet in a tender kiss at first. He still tastes the same as before, maybe a little more like coffee and you taste a lot more like tequila, but he isn't disgusted by the alcohol and caffeine mixture. The gentle brush turns into more when he takes hold of your face and pulls you even closer. 

All the pain, fear, and uncertainty melt into a shared vulnerability. It's a kiss filled with longing, a desperate need to find solace in each other. You hadn't been apart for long, but you both believed each other to be over, to have lost the one person that makes life worth living; now he's kissing you again and it feels too good to be true.

Your bodies press together. You wrap your arms around his neck. The soft caress of his hands on your skin sends shivers down your spine, electrifying every last nerve ending. The kiss is emotional, not as passionate as it seems, but it is exactly what you need. 

When you break apart, your forehead drops to his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” you whisper into the silence. 

He shakes his head, his lips finding your forehead. “It doesn’t matter. I just thought I lost ya,” he says. “And tha what happened was somehow my fault.”

You’re quick to look up at him. “No! God, no. I’m here now, and I’m not leaving. We’ll… We’ll figure it out later, okay? Just not tonight.” It’s almost as if you’re begging.

You have both been through enough, you don’t need to add to each other’s plates with another burden to carry.

“Not tonight,” he agrees. 

He seems to want the same as you, and you don’t blame him. He has other things on his mind right now.

You press another kiss on his lips before pulling away for good. “Now go take your shower. I’ll be right here if you need me.”

Michael offers a soft smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He tries to reassure you, but his own emotions betray him. He’s a very expressive man, even though he pretends he isn’t. 

He squeezes your hand, slowly untangling himself from you and stepping toward the stairs that lead, as you’ve suspected, to the bathroom on the second floor. 

So many things are still left unsaid between you, but it feels almost natural to be there for him, to kiss him, and be held by him. It makes you hopeful that there is a chance he might forgive you and you won’t end up hating each other.

You’re not sure where this night will lead, but he needs you. You keep reminding yourself that you’re doing this for the man you love and nothing else matters but being emotional support for him. If you stopped telling yourself, you would break, and he would join you. He’s broken enough as he is. 

While he showers, you find yourself drawn toward the living room.

He has a lot of books, you notice. He reads. He told you once. His collection looks well-sorted, and the titles all seem familiar. You try not to touch or disturb anything. Everything is kept in order, so he has a system and you’d hate it if someone disturbed your system, and so you leave it be.

Then, your eyes fall on the fireplace set into the wall, and the bullet holes above it cause the blood to freeze in your veins. Of course, you remember what you read about Michael’s wife and how she was shot in this very home, but for a brief moment, you forgot.

His house feels so homely. You forgot he is staying in the very same place that holds a lot of trauma, closer to his family than anything else, and he admitted to feeling stuck there. With these obvious bullet holes, you wonder how he manages to spend even a few minutes in here, but this is Michael and he shoulders a lot without wanting to talk about it. 

And you can’t say you haven’t stayed in a place that holds traumatic memories and scars from the past because that would be a lie. You know what it’s like to live in a place where the blood still lingers, but in a twisted kind of way, you feel like it will always be your home. Physically, at least.

You didn’t really listen in therapy, but your therapist said something along the lines of that, and that your dependence on the past is also the reason you’ve never really felt at home anywhere.

Michael is the first person you feel truly safe with, but you went right ahead and shattered that like any other broken relationship you’ve had along the way. You always do this.

Your fingers reach out to trace the scars left by the shooting. The wallpaper feels rough under your fingertips. You imagine the bloodbath, the tears, and the guilt that filled this space eight years ago. You find yourself staring at the floor and the carpet, wondering if someone switched it out because blood is hard to get out. You know what it’s like to try and scrub the crimson liquid out of a carpet, and it’s no fun. 

You shake your head, quickly turning away from the ghastly reminder of the trauma that befell Michael and his little family, the same trauma that caused him even more from that moment on, and make your way back to the kitchen to occupy yourself with something else. 

Time passes by, and Michael has been showering for a little over thirty minutes. You’re not used to him taking so long. After downing a glass of cold water, you make your way upstairs. There is no water running in the bathroom, only dead silence. 

You swallow. What if he had a seizure and you weren’t there? In the bathroom, there are many edges he could split his head on. Your mind starts reeling with the worst-case scenarios, and it compels you to knock on the door to what you suspect is the bathroom. 

“Michael?” you ask. “You alright in there?”

There is a moment of silence before he answers, “Yeah, grand.”

You sigh in relief, leaning your head against the doorframe. “Can I come in?”

He whispers a quiet, “Yeah.” 

You push the handle down and step into the bathroom. The mirror isn’t foggy yet, and the shower seems dry. Michael is sitting on the edge of the bathtub in his boxers, his eyes vacant as he stares at himself in the mirror. 

Your brows furrow slightly. “Hey,” you murmur. 

His head turns in your direction, but his eyes don’t meet yours. “I can’t get the blood off,” he says. His voice sounds like a monotone line. “I tried, but I…I can’t get it off. I never struggled t’ get blood off before, but it won’t…it won’t come off.”

It dawns on you. Your eyes soften as you stare at him, trailing over the stains on his neck, cheeks, and forehead. There is an unused sponge next to the towel he wet to get the blood off, but he didn’t succeed. 

You grab it, turn on the water in the shower, grab some shampoo, and kneel beside him. His eyes finally meet yours and you offer a gentle smile. You start scrubbing his neck with the sponge, and the blood almost instantly dissolves under your touch. 

The blood washes down the drain, followed by some of his tension. His eyes close. You try not to be so rough; he doesn’t want to be reminded of what happened any more than he already is every time he looks in the mirror.

Eventually, most of the blood is gone. His skin is reddened, but the physical reminder is gone. 

You stop to stroke his cheek. “Are you okay?” you ask again. 

He nods weakly, but it’s a lie. Truth is, he doesn’t even know what he’s feeling and it confuses him, which makes the numb pain in his chest so much worse. 

Putting the sponge down, you take a step back. The water in the shower is warm now, you check, and you slowly start taking your clothes off. 

Michael’s eyes fall on you and he frowns. “What’re you–”

You cut him off with a finger against his lips. “Take your clothes off,” you tell him. 

He doesn’t question your intentions. He knows what you mean. With a grunt, he gets up and sheds his underwear. You’re already bare at this point, so you step into the shower first, making sure it’s comfortable for him when he steps in. His muscles need warmth, and his mind needs a break. 

You pull him under the hot stream with a gentle tug of his hand. He has no choice but to succumb to your treatment; he’s exhausted, and your hands hold a magic he can’t get from anyone but you. 

You gently use the sponge from before to glide across his skin, starting with his torso. Your touch is tender, massaging his sore muscles in the front and back, and whatever blood you missed before joins the leftover soap in the drain. The water turns clear, and the weight falls off his shoulders. 

His skin itches and he still feels sticky with blood. He can’t get the picture of Jamie’s lifeless body off his mind. The memory is forever etched into his inner eyes, and he sees it clearly every time he closes his eyes. The darkness is bright red, the gunshots a melody in his ears that won’t stop, no matter how hard he tries to focus on the cascading water or your voice as you instruct him to twist and turn so you can clean him properly. 

You probably can tell that he’s not okay, that he’s still thinking about what happened, but you don’t push him for answers. You don’t ask useless questions because it is clear that’s not what he needs right now. You respect his boundaries.

There is too much pain in his body, and he doesn’t know where to channel it all with his thoughts raining down on him like heavy bricks, hitting him in the head over and over again until he’s bloody and bruised.

He’s a mess, he can’t deny it any longer; he doesn’t want you to see him like this, but he physically can’t be alone. He doesn’t trust himself to be alone, and you’re the only one he can count on to care enough to leave him alone and just be there, which sounds ironic and makes no sense, but to him, it’s all that makes sense in his scrambled mind. 

He called you because he knows you can be there for him while also giving him space. You broke up, or at least it felt that way, and he figured you wouldn’t come, but then you did and now he has to deal not only with watching Jamie get shot right in front of his eyes, but he has to deal with his feelings for you as well.

Though when he looks at you, he can tell you’re trying to keep the focus on him and not to speak of what happened, allowing a sense of tranquility to settle in between you. You want this to feel normal as much as he does, but there is no way you can erase what happened or forget just for one night, no matter how hard you both want to try.

It’s messy, but Michael can’t help but appreciate what you’re doing for him. You’re there for him, taking care of him without pushing him into anything he doesn’t want to do, and that’s exactly what he needs and deep down, it is the reason he called you anyway, even though his common sense told him not to. 

The movement of the sponge against his back stops. He looks over his shoulder to find you staring at your hand on his skin and his eyebrows furrow. 

Michael turns around to face you again. You snap out of it as soon as he moves, but there is still a glaze covering your eyes and turning the color of your irises darker than it should be. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. 

You blink. “Sorry, I just…got lost in thought,” you lie. 

He must not have noticed the bruise on his back. It lies close to his shoulder blame, looking almost like the imprint of a door handle. It's just a bruise, you try telling yourself, but you still stop and stare at it for longer than you should have.

 A lump forms in your throat. The thought crosses your mind: it could have been him tonight. The terror of losing him, the idea of his life being snuffed out by senseless violence, sends a wave of panic through your body. Michael could have died tonight. A few inches more to the side and it wouldn't have been Jamie or Eric the bullets hit. He could have died and your last conversation would have been a fight that had no reason for turning into such a huge deal. It would have been your fault. 

You take a moment to compose yourself, your hand gently retreating from the bruise on his back. It's haunting. 

You've seen bruises before. You've seen worse, too. You've looked into the mirror before and seen the very same color on your own skin, and you covered it up because it was always just a bruise. But this is Michael, the man you love, and it proves to you just how fragile life is. It could end in an instant. You could have lost your life many times before. Your sister lost her life when she was just a toddler. Michael could have died at the hands of a gun tonight for seemingly no reason other than that he is a Kinsella, or maybe not even that's the case, and it slowly poisons you from the inside out. 

Michael reaches out, his hand gently cupping your cheek. “Hey, what's goin' on?” he asks. “You alright?”

He noticed you zoned out, but it's hard to breathe. It feels as if someone is sitting on your chest, not ready to budge. But this is not the place and time to panic. This isn't about you. You aren't traumatized. Lying to yourself is easier than admitting the truth. You are not the center of attention. It doesn't matter.

The things you keep telling yourself are enough fuel for the demons in your head to cruelly attack you further, but you signed up for this. You knew this would happen. You were a fool to even get involved in the first place and now look at you. You hate your mind and your body and the person you have become. It's not fair to him. 

You meet his eyes. “You could have died tonight,” you whisper. You try not to break so he won't worry because it's the last thing he should do, but you're far too late for that.

Michael's expression softens, his thumb caressing your cheek gently. “I know. But I didn't,” he says. “I'm alive.”

His words, though comforting, don't ease your nerves. “It's not...I just can't wrap my head around it. You could have died tonight,” you repeat, and it hits you even harder. “Just...Dead.”

The weight of the guilt you carry threatens to consume you, but you push it aside, not wanting to burden him further. 

He nods along, understanding very well what you mean, but he can't take the weight off your shoulders because he told you before that this is his life. “I know this is probably a lot to process...”

Taking a deep breath, you try to steady your voice. “No, no,” you insist. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have let my thoughts wander like that. This is about you. I'm here to take care of you, not the other way around. Sorry.”

His smile, albeit gentle, also holds a certain amount of pity. “You’re incredible, you know tha?” he says.

You offer a small, appreciative smile in return, although it doesn't quite reach your eyes. The demons continue to torment you, but you steel yourself against their onslaught. This isn't the time or place for your own insecurities.

As you both stand in the shower, the water continues to cascade around you. Michael reaches for the sponge.

“I wanna take care of ya,” he says. “May I?”

You shake your head. “No. This isn't about me,” you are quick to respond. “I'll be fine.”

He steps closer, ignoring your protests. Gently, he takes the sponge from your hand. The sensation of his touch on your skin sends a jolt through your body.

As he washes away the remnants of the night, you allow yourself to lean into his touch. 

“You matter, too,” he tells you. “I don’t know who told ya you don’t, but they were lyin’.”

Tears well up in your eyes. You can't talk. Instead, you step closer and wrap your arms around him. 

He hugs you back, needing this just as much as you. The water continues to cascade over both of you, the steam creating a sanctuary within the confines of the shower. There's no need for words; his presence alone speaks volumes.

You bury your face in the crook of his neck, your tears mingling with the water. They're silent and he probably doesn't notice. His eyes are closed just like yours, and he's heavily focused on the sound of your heartbeat to ground himself, and his hold tightens. 

Time seems to lose its meaning as you cling to each other. The water's warmth envelops you, cocooning you both in its embrace.

Eventually, the need for air pulls you apart, though you remain close, foreheads pressed together. Michael brushes away a stray tear from your cheek. He doesn't ask about it. He rarely does.

“Okay?” he asks.

You manage a small nod. “Okay,” you answer.

He kisses your forehead, then turns the water off. The bathroom is still warm, but without the water, goosebumps are quick to form on your skin. Michael wraps you in a towel first, urging you to dry off, and he follows shortly after. 

The next few minutes pass by in silence as he disappears into the bedroom to grab you both some clothes, and he returns with a shirt and a pair of boxers, handing you the same along with a pair of fuzzy socks because he knows you tend to get cold easily. 

You take his offer with a small smile and continue to get dressed as well. Meanwhile, he takes your sweatpants and your sweater and hangs them somewhere where the rain can dry. It’s still pouring outside, you can hear it rattling against the window, but you don’t mind the background noise. It’s soothing, in a way. 

“You want tea?” you ask him once you’re back downstairs.

Michael’s sitting at the dining table, his brown eyes empty as they stare up at you. He nods, and you get on it without asking any more questions. 

You find his tea pretty quickly. Your kettles are the same, so you know how to use them. When it comes to getting the mugs out of the cupboard, you take a moment to search for them because his kitchen is obviously sorted differently than yours, but you also find them quickly without having to ask him. 

You feel as if you’re navigating through your own home, which is strange because this house holds many memories that aren’t yours, and they hold bloodshed and trauma that also isn’t yours; Michael has been shouldering it all for years, and there must also be happy memories hiding in some corners that he can never get back now that all is ruined. 

You feel bad for him, but you know pity is not something you want. Everyone deals with pain, trauma, and grief differently, and he’s not the type of guy who likes to be belittled. He just wants to be treated like a human being, show love, and be taken care of every once in a while because he has never been nurtured before.

It’s strange how easily you can read him and yet he’s still not an open book, while he is grappling for even the smallest piece of information from you because he thought you were an open book, but it all turned out the pretense and delusion on your part. 

For someone who likes to watch people and get to know them, you suck at giving back. But you’ve also never been loved like this before, let alone by a man like Michael. He also knows people and he always finds out what he needs to study them, so it was only a question of time when he would have found something connecting to your past. 

You figure this is what you get for falling for a Kinsella, and no matter what you do, you can’t pull away because you feel so deeply for him, this love is impossible to break. Besides, you pushed him away because of you, not because he’s a bad person or you’ve lost interest, which also adds to your pile of guilt that you very much feel like you deserve to carry around. 

When you place the mug of Chamomile tea before him, you stop beside him. He looks at you, looks at the mug, and then his eyes meet your chest which is at level with his head. He contemplates before slowly placing his cheek where your heart seems to beat out of your chest. 

Michael leans against you, and you instantly wrap your arm around him while your other hand tangles in his hair. He does the same, wrapping his arm around your waist, afraid you might leave him or drop him if he doesn’t. But your hold is strong and he soon realizes that you don’t mind holding him like this, not at all. 

He listens to your heartbeat, the familiar rise and fall of your chest that he missed so terribly the other night, and the exhaustion starts to turn into drowsiness. He wants to sleep, but he knows that if he does, he will dream about what happened and then his mind is going to play tricks on him and he’s going to feel all the pain at once, together with whatever is fucked up in his brain. He hates that he knows how his night is going to go, and he hates that you might witness it in person this time.

But knowing you, you still wouldn’t pull away. When it comes to him, you never pull away, only if it’s making you feel vulnerable. But taking care of him is not something that would make you feel vulnerable, it only makes you feel responsible, and that’s why you stayed. You can’t help but help others, especially the ones you love, and he knows you love him deeply, you just struggle–he can’t blame you for that. 

“Maybe you should finish your tea,” your chest rumbles when you talk. “And then we can move to the couch and you can rest a little. How does that sound?”

You always make sure he’s comfortable with what you’re doing.

Michael nods, weakly leaning back to finish his tea, and you do the same. The liquid is hot, but he can’t drink it fast enough. 

Once his cup is empty, you guide him to the couch, making sure he's settled before joining him. He sits next to you for a moment, fidgeting with his fingers. It's as if he wants to ask something or make a move, but he doesn't know how. So, you simply open your arms in silence. 

He takes the invitation, lowering his head into your lap, and you instinctively wrap your arm around him, holding him tightly. The weight of the world seems to press down on him, but in your arms, he finds peace.

You start dragging your nails across his scalp.

He lets out a soft sigh, his body relaxing further against you. His hair feels soft under your fingertips, like silk, almost. His hand rests on your thigh while the other rests on your arm that is wrapped around him. He's cradled almost like a baby, and he seems content with that. You're all over him, you even smell like him; the comfort you provide is something he can't put into words, but it feels good and it's exactly what he needs to finally fill his lungs with oxygen and let go. Just for a moment, he thinks, he wants to shut his mind off and focus on something other than the shit show his life has become. 

Your voice breaks the serene silence. “How are you feeling?” you ask softly.

He stirs, his eyes fluttering open for a brief moment. “Empty,” he admits. “But hangin’ in there.”

You don't press him for more. Instead, you offer a gentle nod, silently acknowledging his answer. You continue to run your fingers through his hair like you did before. 

As he begins to drift off, his breathing growing slower and more even, you hold him a little tighter, cherishing the vulnerability he allows you to witness. He didn't have to call you, but he did, and that shows that his feelings truly didn't waiver. With each stroke of your fingers against his scalp, you hope that it's enough to ease his troubled mind, even if just for a little while. 

Your eyelids start drooping too, his weight and warmth dragging you down into the abyss with him. But you have always been a light sleeper, and sensitive to sound, too. There is nothing that can't wake you. Even breathing too loud could disturb your sleep, and you figure it's because you grew up as a vigilant child, but it could also be because of whatever is wrong with your mind. It never really mattered to you because, after some time of not being able to sleep, a person gets used to living like this, even if it's unhealthy. 

Your eyes fly open when there is a knock on the door. You know you couldn't have imagined it because it happens again when you're a little more lucid.

Michael stirs. You gently move him off your lap and place him down on the pillows. It’s probably foolish to open the door on your own after what he got himself into, but he deserves to rest. 

You take a deep breath before pushing the handle down. The woman standing across from you appears familiar, but you can’t put your finger on where you know her from at first. 

“Hi!” you blurt out, crossing your arms over your chest. You introduce yourself and ask, “How can I help you?”

When the woman finally speaks, you realize where you know her from. The news articles you read online while researching Michael come back to mind and you can finally sort the face out.

“I need ta talk to Michael,” she says, her voice curt, and perhaps even the slightest glimmer of jealousy flickers in her eyes.

Amanda. She was the pretty brunette you saw in the Twitter thread about the Kinsella business, the owner of the car dealership, Michael’s former boss if you can even call her that. And she’s Jimmy’s wife, making her Jamie’s mother, and the same woman Michael told you are living next door to him. But she is–was–Jamie’s mother, and while you should feel bad, you also remember what Michael told you.

The way his family continues to treat him is awful and he doesn’t deserve it. He called you because he doesn’t want to be prodded by them, but Amanda still found her way over. You can’t blame her because she’s grieving, but you can blame her for everything else, the way they treated or saw him, and that makes you angrier than anything. You can’t feel bad for her when you don’t like her. Maybe that makes you a bad person, but she made herself the bad person when she and the rest of his family chose to treat the man you love like a pawn after he went through literal hell. 

You know what it’s like to be expected to be there for everyone, to be the best and aim to please, and it sucks. He doesn’t deserve it. No one is a saint in this world and this life, especially, and Michael did horrible things in the past, but he’s working on himself and he has a good heart. You’re not so sure about Amanda and the rest of his family though. 

Her eyes are red and she must have been crying, but you couldn’t care less. 

Your expression tightens. “He’s resting,” you say. “It’s late, maybe you can come back in the morning–”

Amanda is quick to cut you off, and kindness seems to have gone lost on her. “It’s important,” she says. 

“I know, but he had a rough night.”

“He’s not the only one.”

“Amanda–I suppose it’s Amanda, right?”

She rolls her eyes.

“So it is you. I’m so sorry for your loss–”

“I don’t have time fer this. I don’t know what you’re doin’ here, but I don’t care. I’m gonna speak to Michael whether ya like it or not, so if you know what’s good for ya, yer gonna move out of my way now so I can–”

Just as she’s about to reach out and physically push you aside so she can enter, footsteps approach behind you and another hand finds its way to your elbow and pulls you back. 

“What’s goin’ on here?” Michael asks, his voice a little groggy. 

He stands between you and Amanda now, and her demeanor changes the second she lays eyes on him. 

“Michael,” Amanda breathes. 

He only briefly acknowledges her, taking more time to move you behind him to shield you from any possible danger (or in this case, Amanda’s personality). 

“You have a minute? I need t’ talk to ya. Please? It’s about Jamie.” 

Oh, so she can say please. She just hates you. You never met this woman and you don’t know what you could have done to upset her in the few seconds you stood across from each other, but she’s really starting to show her true colors.

Michael stiffens at the mention of the boy’s name, and he looks over his shoulder at you. You’re not sure what he wants to hear, so you simply stare back. 

Turning back to Amanda, he sighs. “First of all, don’t touch her,” he says, and although it sounds calm, there is a certain power hiding in his voice that comes from deep within, a certain sense of protection. “She has nothin’ t’do with wha happened tonight, so don’t drag her into this. She never did anythin’ to ya. Calm down.”

“I just need a moment alone with ya,” Amanda retorts, defending herself. “Please, Michael.”

Michael shakes his head. His stern eyes divert and turn back toward you. He tells her to wait before pulling you aside. 

“You want me to send her to hell?” you ask once she’s out of earshot. “Because I know I may not look like it, but I actually know how to punch someone.”

He chuckles, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s alright,” he tells you. “I’m gonna be fine. Just give us a minute, alright?”

You’re not happy. For one, you don’t want to leave him alone, and two, he told you about how determined his family is to persuade him into doing things he doesn’t want to do, and that’s also a reason why you don’t want to leave him alone with her. But she said it’s about Jamie and maybe it’s not as deep as you think it is, just two grieving people talking about the life they lost. She’s a mother, she lost her child, and Michael lost a family member. Maybe, just maybe, it’s not as serious as you think it is and they just need a minute to talk. 

You put your protectiveness aside and nod, although still hesitant. 

“If anything’s wrong, you call for me,” you say. “I’ll be upstairs.” 

Michael nods in response, leaning forward to press his lips on your forehead. You close your eyes. He’s good at calming you down, but even better at persuading you. You caress his cheek one last time before heading for the stairs, thinking going to the bedroom might give them enough space. 

You glance at the two one last time on your way up, Amanda enters the house down, and he drags her out of your eyesight into the kitchen behind the wall. You sigh. Eavesdropping wouldn’t be cool, and why are you jealous anyway? Your mind is messed up, you think to yourself, and this is none of your business. So you sigh again, resisting the urge to be an idiot and make your way back upstairs to give them some privacy to talk things out.

Once upstairs, you find yourself pacing the room. It's difficult to silence the thoughts swirling in your mind. They threaten to consume you. 

As you walk back and forth, you attempt to distract yourself by focusing on the mundane details of the room. The flickering lamp on the nightstand, the familiar scent of the sheets, and the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the window. But these simple things do little to ease your mind.

You find yourself glancing at the clock; time feels like an eternity, and the silence in the house amplifies the turmoil within you.

Eventually, you force yourself to sit down on the edge of the bed, urging yourself to take deep breaths. You remind yourself that Michael knows what he's doing, that he can handle himself. Yet, a nagging voice in the back of your mind insists that something is terribly wrong and he needs you or else he will fall apart. 

Minutes turn into what feels like hours, and the silence becomes unbearable. You consider going back downstairs, unable to stand the uncertainty any longer. But then the sound of the front door closing abruptly makes the decision for you. 

You hesitate. Does that mean you can come back? There are no footsteps, only silence, even when you momentarily open the door to listen. 

“Fuck it,” you mutter to yourself before making your way back downstairs. 

It’s your gut that is telling you to move, and you choose to follow it this time. 

Walking into the kitchen, you notice that Amanda is gone, but her presence still seems to linger in the atmosphere. You can smell her perfume, and you figured they must have hugged, but then your eyes fall on Michael and your heart breaks. 

He’s leaning over the dining table, both hands gripping the edges. His eyes are closed. He looks like he’s in excruciating pain, and it makes you worry about what conspired between him and his sister-in-law to change his mood this quickly. Talking about someone you lost with a now childless mother is one thing, but the way his face contorts holds more than just grief. 

“Michael,” you call out for him softly. “Is everything alright?”

The only answer you receive is silence. 

You reach out to touch his shoulder. “Hey, talk to me. What happened?” you ask. 

Your hand doesn’t even brush him before he pulls away, shaking his head. He whispers something you can’t hear, maybe it’s a curse, but his eyes remain shut. There is something on his tongue waiting to be uttered, but he seems almost scared of saying it. 

Your eyebrows furrow even more. The worry shoots straight through your veins, paralyzing you. You’re not sure what to do or what even is going on; you don’t understand and it’s frustrating because you just want to help, but he doesn’t seem to know what he wants.

Sometimes, when there is a truth to be shared, your mind shuts off, afraid of admitting it because then that truth will become real and you no longer have a defense to show for yourself. You know how it is because you live by that rule every damn day of yourself, and you only now realize how much it hurts to see someone you love struggling but not knowing why, and you could kick your own ass for being so naive. 

“Michael,” you try again. 

This time though, he cuts you off. “Jamie, he was…” He swallows. His voice breaks like a glass that just hit the cement. “He was…He was my boy.”

The words reach your ears and your brain begins to process them, but it takes a moment for you to realize what they mean. It’s not just any statement, it is the raw truth, and it’s a truth that hurts. It’s a truth that breaks. 

You frown, your brain still busy connecting the dots, when he says, “Jamie was my son.”

His eyes fall on you, and that’s when it clicks. 

Oh. 

OH.

Michael grew up surrounded by violence. He was shot many times before and went through a lot in the past. He was there when his wife got killed. Watching someone get shot was nothing new for him. You never questioned his reaction to the events; he had every right to be shaken up because he’s only human, after all, but now that you think about it, his reaction hinted at how much the person who got killed meant to him and you didn’t even realize. He is downright traumatized, and someone who used to hurt people for a living would not have had that much of an emotional reaction except if the victim meant more to him. 

Jamie was his son. Not his nephew, his son. It all becomes frighteningly clear to you. The fact he even shared it with you is one thing, but it’s a truth you don’t think is meant for the whole world to hear, and that makes it so much deeper. 

You place a hand in front of your mouth. Tears well up in your eyes. You know you’re supposed to say something, but right now, you’re speechless. 

You never lost a child, but you know what it’s like to lose someone as close to feeling like a child as it could possibly get, and you know how badly it hurts. And it hurts even more if you don’t get to grieve, or if people don’t take it seriously and expect more from you. It hurts, it’s vile and it paralyzes you. 

How is he still standing?

“Amanda and I…We…It was a stupid mistake. A lapse in judgment. I never meant ta…But I was so full of hatred and self-pity and she…God, she can be so cruel. Tempting. And she…she was miserable too. We both were. And then we just…It was a fuckin’ bad idea,” he says. His voice is quivering and you’re only counting the seconds before he’ll break. 

Michael is spiraling, but is there even anything you could do to stop him? He’s confiding in you, and if this is his way to get it off his chest, you don’t want to stop him, even though you can tell it hurts him. You’re shocked and confused and all you can do is listen. 

“Never told Jimmy ‘cause that would’ve been…It was so stupid, but it kept happenin’, and then…then she got pregnant and I thought…I thought it’d be Jimmy’s, but then she tells me it’s mine, tha she’s carryin’ my child…I didn’t know what t’do ‘cause we swore we’d never tell anyone, so she just made him believe Jamie was his, but he knows,” he scoffs, “Jimmy…I know he knows. Jamie…Jamie didn’t know. I was Uncle Michael, but I was there and I watched him grow up as much as I could, and fuck! I fuckin’ knew he was mine just from lookin’ at him. I couldn’t…Couldn’t even deny it ta make me feel better. He was my boy.” 

He pushes himself off the dining table, his eyes finally opening and meeting yours. The tears are instantly visible. You want to reach out, but maybe this is a line you should only cross once he’s ready for it, and he doesn’t seem ready right now. 

“I was s’posed ta protect him,” his voice is barely above a whisper before it raises again, filled with agonizing guilt. “But I…I failed. And now…now he’s fuckin’ dead! Amanda’s right, I should’ve…I could’ve done somethin’, but I failed and tha’s my fault. Shit!” he cries out and his fist hits the wood of the table hard enough to make it shake. 

He turns away. Now you know he’s crying, and at this point, your own tears are staining your cheeks. You can’t help it. 

Michael swallows. “He was my boy,” he repeats, “and now he’s dead. He’s…He’s gone.”

And he watched him die. 

“Oh, God–” He chokes up. 

You call his name, but you’re not sure if it’s even audible. You step forward, letting your body do the talking, and you envelop him in your arms before he can break down on the floor. His needy hands dig into your hips as he hugs you back, his head dropping into the crook of your neck, and he finally lets it out. He held back all night for probably the very same reason he just bared to you–Jamie was his son, he watched him get shot and now he’s gone. He didn’t process it before, and Amanda probably forced him to face it and then put her first instead, and it all became too much. 

He has every right to break down; you’re glad it’s in your arms and not on his own, or with someone who doesn’t understand. You’re not sure you can understand enough, but you’re trying to because you’re familiar with the pain, at least. Everyone deals with it differently, but you understand, even in silence. And so you hold him as he sobs into your arms, your tears mingling with his, but the room is only filled with the sound of his broken heart. It’s worse than anything you’ve ever seen before. 

You hold him as tight as you can, making sure he knows you’re his lifeline and you’re not going anywhere. He’s not a burden, he just needs someone to take care of him. Who are you to deny him that?

He lost his son…It still hasn’t settled in fully, but it’s the brutal reality you have to look in the eyes the same way he does. It hurts, but he took the first step and admitted it, and maybe your touch is enough to at least piece him back together enough before he can fully slip away. 

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. 

His breath gets caught in his throat and he hiccups. You rub his back. “Shh, I’ve got you. You’re not alone…” 

You don’t tell him everything’s going to be okay because that would be some pretentious shit you don’t want to expose him to. You know it’s not something you want to hear after losing someone dear to you because you often know that it’s not true. 

He cries until he has no more tears left, and his body is almost limp in your arms. You continue to hold him. His breath hitches, but his sobs quiet down. The tears continue to spill, but even those eventually start to subside. You’re standing there for a little while longer, giving him what he wants, letting him take what he needs, and his erratic heartbeat eventually aligns with yours as he focuses on his breathing. 

“Sorry,” his breath is hot against your shoulder. “I shouldn’t have–” he says. 

Michael leans back, rubbing his wet eyes. They’re swollen and reddened, and his lips are dry now. Your eyes soften. He’s trying to take the blame again; he’s trying to downplay his pain because he’s not used to being able to share and then not having to give anything in return. He hardly ever shares his feelings. 

You sigh, your hands resting on his shoulders. Your eyes stare sternly into his, and he reminds you of a deer caught in headlights. 

“Guess the cat’s out the bag now,” – he sniffles – “Sorry ‘bout tha. Yer shirt’s soaked. And…” A pained sound forms in the back of his throat when he sees your tears, and he reaches out to wipe them away. “I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head softly. “Don’t you dare apologize right now,” you say. 

You take his hand in yours, interlacing your fingers with his. You guide him to a nearby chair and urge him to sit down while you grab him some water and a tissue. He doesn't protest, almost too weak to even move.

When you come back and clean his cheeks, his eyes are no longer vacant. He allowed himself to feel, and while the guilt becomes stronger now, it seems as if deep down, he acknowledges that he needed this. It was a huge display of trust you don't deserve, but he shared his truth with you and now you get to take care of him. He trusts you enough still; that's supposed to be a good thing, no matter how much you hate yourself for it. 

You meet his gaze, your eyes filled with compassion and understanding as your hand rests on his cheek. “You have nothing to apologize for,” you insist. “You don't need to apologize for telling me the truth. I can't even fathom how much you're hurting right now, but I'm glad you told me. So don't apologize. Not...not for this, not for anything, because you never did anything wrong. Jamie's death is not your fault. He was your son and shit happened and now it hurts like hell and that's okay. It's okay to let it out, to let yourself feel. You have to or...or you'll break. I know you're probably expected to move on right away, and that it's been like this every time you lost someone or something, but that's not right,” you say. “Your family...They should care about you and your pain too, so if not for them, take a break for me. You deserve to just let it all out. You deserve to grieve.”

His hand untangles from yours to cradle your cheek. “Don’t cry,” he says. “Not ‘cause o’ me.”

You place your hand over his on your cheek, intertwining your fingers with his. 

“You don't have to worry about me,” you assure him. “I'll be okay. I just…feel for you, that’s all. You're the one who needs comfort right now, and that's what I'm here for.”

You feel his grip on your hand tighten, his eyes searching yours. The vulnerability in his gaze is raw, yet there's a glimmer of gratitude shining through.

“Thank you,” he whispers. 

You nod. “We’ll be alright.”

A moment of silence follows. He finishes his glass of water, slowly regaining composure, but his voice still breaks when he talks again. “Amanda wanted to know his last words,” he tells you. “We talked about boxin’ in the car and he made fun of Eric’s flat tire ‘cause he thought it was funny. He…he died quickly. He didn’t suffer or anythin’. Tha’s supposed t’ make me feel better, right? That he died quickly. But it…it doesn’t make me feel better. It makes it feel so much worse and I don’t understand why.”

You wipe your cheeks. Jamie was just a boy. He didn’t deserve to be dragged into this, and now a lot of lives are in shambles because of what happened. 

“I’m sorry,” is all you can answer. 

Michael shakes his head. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You came,” he says. “You didn’t have ta, but ya came anyway.”

You shrug. “You called.”

Another tear slides down his cheek. Tears always find a treacherous way back once they’ve subsided. He groans, dropping his face in his hands. 

Just when you thought he was out of the woods, the downward spiral begins again. 

The whole day weighs heavy on your heart, and you're barely keeping it together as it is, but you soon realize Michael is worse off than you thought, and your blood threatens to boil over. He breaks the silence eventually with a bitter scoff that turns into a chuckle, somehow managing to send shivers down your spine that you wouldn't count as pleasant. Your eyes fall on him; you're confused and you frown, but the look on his face is just as alarming as it is unsettling. 

“This is so stupid,” you catch him muttering to himself.

You tilt your head to the side. “What do you mean?” you ask.

“I'm such a fuckin' failure,” Michael's voice cracks.

You look at him, but whatever he’s trying to say doesn’t become any clearer. He can see it on your face that you’re not following. His jaw locks. He clenches his teeth and his fists; it must hurt how hard he’s doing it, but perhaps this is the whole point of his behavior. To hurt himself.

“I couldn't even protect my own son,” he says, his voice matching the bitter look in his eyes. “I let him down. Just like I let Anna down. She's my daughter, and I can't even properly fight for her. Couldn’t get my shit together, and after wha happened to Jamie... no court is gonna say yes t'me gettin' her back now. I fucked up again 'cause I was so caught up in my own feelings. I hurt ya, I hurt Anna, Allison, and now Jamie's dead. Everythin' and everyone around me dies.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. It's a struggle to keep your composure, to hold back the torrent of emotions building inside you. “What?” you ask quietly, hoping you just misheard, but you didn't.

“You heard me,” he says, your name now sounding condescending rather than soft and sweet. “I'm a bad father and you can't tell me it didn't cross yer mind tha I'm a failure when I told ya the truth. It’d be a lie.”

“It wouldn’t be a lie,” your voice is barely above a whisper.

He shakes his head. “Yeah, it would.”

“No…”

“Yes. Don’t act like I’m a saint or- or tha any of this makes me a good person.”

But the weight becomes too much to bear, and with a mix of desperation and anger, you finally let it all out.

Was this how you sounded the other night? You're appalled. The anger lands in your veins like an injection from a needle straight into your bloodstream, and the heat rises to your cheeks as your heart starts working double time.

“Like father like son,” Michael says, and this one is directed at himself. “Ruinin' everythin' in my way since the day I was born and I still pretended it was all gonna work out. And the worst part is, if I told anyone in my family, they'd agree with me 'cause they like rubbin' salt in every goddam wound. I don't even exist as a human being t’ them, and maybe I don't deserve t'be treated like one. I don't even fuckin' care anymore. I'm just...done. And Anna deserves better. I should’ve never tried gettin’ her back. She’ll only suffer. I–”

“Stop it!” you cry out, cutting him straight off like a knife, and he looks too stunned to speak. He has never heard you yell before.

The door of the fridge slams shut and your beer bottle almost breaks upon impact with the kitchen counter. The room grows eerily quiet, only filled with your labored breathing and a soft whimper from Michael's end when he looks at you and sees the pain in your eyes.

“Just stop with this self-loathing bullshit!” you snap.

The tears are right there, and you can't stop them, but you also don't want to because he is an idiot and you're sick and tired of hearing him claim things that aren't true. This is partly your fault. Rage makes you blind, but perhaps this is exactly what you two needed; you had to reach your breaking point to finally open up the way he did, and now everything's right there on the table, your heart bleeding out into the palm of his hands.

“You want to know what a bad father is?” You look at him, your eyes big and challenging. “I can tell you, Michael,” you say.

He stares at you, speechless.

“I've lived through it. I endured it day in and day out for almost nineteen years, and then, when I was free, I signed up for another two years of hell for the sake of being the person people expected me to be. A bad father is the one who killed my little sister. My three-year-old little sister. She was defenseless,” you say.

Michael’s jaw drops. “Jesus,” the word slips past his lips like a mere breath

But you’re not done. The words tumble out of your mouth and you can’t stop them. So you continue, “A bad father is the man who abused me, who made me feel worthless every breathing second of my life since I was a baby. A bad father is a man who played favorites and took his anger out on me, had two more children, and still used me as a punching bag just because I wasn't the daughter he wanted. A bad father is a man who constantly abuses his wife to the point she developed epilepsy and makes his children deal with the aftermath. That's a bad father!”

Tears stream down your face as the floodgates of pain open wide. You can’t see anything but the color red, sadness disguised as rage, and it all blurs together.

“You, Michael, you're not a bad father. You're far from it,” you tell him. No, you insist. He needs to listen because it’s the truth. “You're decent. You're human. You have a soul and a heart, which my father didn't have, and that's what a monster is,” you say. “You loved Jamie, and you love Anna. You're grieving, and you're hurting because you loved Jamie, and it's tearing you apart.  I get that. Trust me, I do, because the little girl I was talking about, my sister? Yeah, I was the one who raised her, so when she died, it felt like I was burying my own child. You're allowed to feel all the pain you fucking want, but don't you dare compare yourself to a monster like my father is. You're not a bad father because you're nothing like him. So just shut up...please!”

You slack with your back against the kitchen counter. You said it all in one breath. You feel a little dizzy, and the panic makes your mind swirl. What did you just do?

You take a moment to process, but you can't, not really, because the wave of the endless ocean crashes into you and you've never learned how to swim, so you're drowning now, and no one seems to be close enough to save you. Not that you want to be saved, but it's your father's voice that's haunting you, and you keep seeing your own failures right before your eyes every time you close them. You have nowhere to go but to surrender. 

“I'm sorry,” you whisper. “I didn't mean to...I just...I...”

You can't breathe. You collapse into a nearby chair, your body trembling as you struggle to regain control. Michael's eyes are wide, a mix of shock and realization filling them. The silence between you is suffocating, the air heavy with the weight of your revelations. But the air keeps getting thinner, and the water is up to your lungs by now. You feel like you're dying, and none of the things you keep telling yourself, the rational things, are working. You're officially lost at sea. 

Michael reaches out to touch your shoulder, but you flinch away, instinctively recoiling from any physical contact.

Your breathing is rapid, and you feel the need to move. Without a word, you push yourself up from the chair and pace back and forth, your hands shaking.

“I'm sorry,” you begin again, and you try not to yell so much this time. “I never meant to hurt you the other night. I didn't want to push you away. I never fall in love, I keep people at a distance, and it hurts, but that's why I choose bad men to hurt me so it makes things easier.”

Your voice is thick with tears. “You're not like that. And I don't know what it's like to be loved or have someone so willing to protect me by my side,” you say. “It's just so scary, Michael! I panicked when you found the file, and everything just spiraled out of control. I wanted to tell you, but then I didn't, and I just reacted because that's what always happens. I never had anyone to talk to about it. I...It triggered me, and then I got drunk, and then I...I fucked up, okay? I've been carrying this burden for so long, and I didn't know how to share it, or how to trust anyone with the truth, so I kept it hidden. I was so alone..."

Your words spill out in a torrent, your sentences blending together as your desperation takes hold.

“It's been six years, and I've kept it all inside, the truth about what happened to my sister, the truth about our father. I have no proof,” you admit. “I tried finding it, but I eventually gave up, and I moved–and my other sister is all alone in that hellhole and I've been trying to get her back, but he...he told me he'd kill me if I ever got near her or that case again, and I stopped because I saw no point, but I...I got drunk–” Your voice cracks and you choke on a broken sob.

“It's dangerous to know, and I don't even know what I'm doing, but I thought it best to do it alone than drag anyone into it,” – You sniffle, wiping your cheeks furiously, but the tears continue to fall – “You were so caught up with your own shit, with Anna, and this could hurt you and her and I can't let that happen,” you say. “I couldn't...but I don't know what to do anymore. I'm scared, Michael. I'm so scared...”

The weight becomes too much to bear. Your legs weaken, and you stumble, your body threatening to crumble under the overwhelming weight of your pain. You start seeing dark spots from the leg of oxygen, and you start to think that that's it. It's over. Just as you're about to collapse, Michael moves swiftly, catching you in his arms.

“Hey, hey,” he says. “I've got you. Deep breaths.”

He can feel your body trembling against his. Your heartbeat is hammering against your ribcage. He can feel the weakness of your muscles due to the lack of air, and his fingers dig into your skin a little more to make you feel something other than the fear that is keeping the sobs stuck in your throat. 

“It's alright…” He cradles the back of your neck and pulls you closer, urging you to listen to his own heartbeat to ground yourself. “You’re safe now. I'm here. Just breathe with me, slowly. In and out.”

You reach out for the lifeline thrown at you. Another wave hits you, but you make it to the surface to hold onto the rope. It's steady and strong, and you cling to it. With each breath, his steady rhythm begins to synchronize with yours, and the chaos within you starts to calm.

He brushes a gentle hand through your hair. “Shh,” his lips press to your ear, “Keep breathin’. That’s it. Good girl.”

You shudder. “I’m so sorry,” you whimper in his arms. You’re a mess of snot and tears, but he still doesn’t pull away.

“No,” it’s his turn to tell you, “You have nothin’ to apologize for.”

“But I hurt you. I pushed you away–”

“Water under the bridge,” he says. 

“No, that’s not how it should be! You should hate me. You should–”

His hands find your face and he holds you rather sternly, forcing you to meet his eyes, even though he looks blurry. “Hey, listen to me!” You try to struggle out of his grip, but he’s stronger. “Listen,” he says, “I love ya with all I have, and I haven’t said tha to anyone in a very long time. You were hurt, you were traumatized and in pain, and tha is not your fault, do you hear me? It’s not your fault. It never was.”

His words penetrate the chaos swirling within you, reaching the core of your being. The strength of his love and unwavering support begins to chip away at the walls you've built around yourself. It's a fragile and delicate process, but it's a start.

You take a shaky breath, allowing his words to sink in. His presence anchors you. The panic begins to subside. You sync your breathing with his.

He brushes a strand of hair out of your face. “That’s it. You’re doing great. Just keep breathin’. I’ve got ya.”

Michael lowers his forehead against yours, his hands never leaving your face, and you hold onto his strong arms, afraid he might not be there if you let go. “I know it's overwhelming,” he says, “But yer safe here with me. You don't have ta carry this burden alone anymore. I'm here, and I'll do whatever it takes to protect ya and help yer sister. But for tha, I need you to trust me and let me in.”

You sniffle, meeting his eyes with your teary ones. “Will you let me in, too?” you ask in return, your voice hoarse from crying. 

He nods slowly. “Yeah, I’ll let ya in. I’ll tell ya anythin’ you wanna know. Just ask.”

You let out a shaky breath. The weight that had been pressing on your chest finally begins to lift.

“Thank you,” you whisper back. “For not leaving.”

Michael's lips curl into a soft smile, and he brushes a gentle kiss against your forehead. “I'd never leave ya.”

You lean into his touch. As the minutes tick by, you both remain entwined. No words are needed. The softness of his touch and the steady rhythm of your breathing become a symphony, gently mending the cracks in your heart.

With your head resting against his chest, you listen to the steady beat of his heart. The world outside may be chaotic, but in his arms, you belong.

“I love you,” you confess. It feels like the first time you shared those three words to each other.

His grip on you tightens. “I love you too,” he says back without hesitation. “So fuckin’ much,” he says. “You have no idea.”

You realize something then: You were never alone. It just took you far too long to open your eyes and see him right in front of you. He has been there from the beginning and you didn’t realize. You were almost too late.

As it turns out, telling the truth isn’t as bad as you first expected it to be. At least not with Michael because he truly loves you and you believe him now that he would do anything to keep you safe. Why it took you so long, you don’t know, but you still curse yourself for it.

In the warm cocoon of his arms, you allow yourself to breathe. You allow yourself to finally let go of everything. “We have to talk, don't we?” you break the serene silence, your voice still barely above a whisper.

He nods. “Yeah, we do.”

“Okay–” You straighten your shoulders. “Let’s talk then.”

It has been a long time coming for you to finally trust each other enough to talk. It won’t be easy, but the stakes are higher now, and you have proven to be able to stand through everything together, so a little conversation would be the last thing to break you apart. There are worse dangers out there, and you would face them, together. 

Tagging: (let me know if you want to be tagged, too!) @bellaxgiornata @mattmurdocksscars @ms-murdockswift @your-not-invisible-to-me @shouldbestudying41 @acharliecoxedfan @glowstick-lesbian @roseallisonparker @norestfortheshelbywicked @1988-fiend @loveroftoomanyfandoms @mattkinsella @schneeflocky

[haptronym]

Hey!! This is the anon from a while back who had that convo with you about quirkless discrimination with your cannon vs fannon posts. The one who sent a way too long ask haha.

I still haven’t picked back up BNHA, just still dinking around in the earlier seasons with my writing after dropping it so long ago due to the exact reason you outlined; I stopped watching due to a certain character stagnating while saying they’re changing. Which I find amusing how prevalent that problem is in so many arcs that it’s the reason I stopped watching the show actual years ago (though not solely, it was that + a combination of other things with that arc but it really exasperated it) and you’re now talking about the same exact issue for the end of it. I don’t even feel like I can say it’s due to external pressures rather then just a weak point of the writer at this point tbh.

But, besides that, on the topic of why I initially started this ask, I just wanted to say it’s interesting to hear the story has still done squat with quirklessness, really goes to show the whole glaring divide in exactly what we where talking about so long ago. Full circle kinda?? It really is such a shame the show never went into it and kinda failed to scratch the surface of anything with how compelling it would have been and how easily it could have tied into the whole of the series’ themes.

But hey, like you said, there’s always fanfics. Just thought I’d send in an ask about it since it was fun talking to you about it last time.

Now that it’s over, I might give the show another shot, for old times sake, we’ll see!

Oh as an add on, as the fannon vs cannon anon, I do want to put a note that since I haven’t seen the thing myself I’m not making too strong opinions on it or agreeing with everything in that post, just contemplating the specific stuff I talked about in that previous anon ask as a sort of now outsider to the series.

This isn’t a “oh you’re wrong!” but making sure people know I’m not blindly following things I’ve read about a series rather then forming opinions around it from first hand cannon, HA! I’ll do that when I maybe start watching it again…one day…

-

(The post under discussion)

Hello again! Glad you're still enjoying the fandom space and haha, it's ironic that this issue is why you dropped the show. I'm also going to caveat that I'm not trying to dunk on Horikoshi or be a bitter hater. The issues I'm bringing up are par for the course for most serial writing, way harder to avoid than they seem. I really liked MHA overall and have huge respect for Horikoshi's writing, art, and ability to keep his sanity while bringing this behemoth to life.

Anyway, a response.

I mentioned a few aspects where quirklessness got brought in later in the story, but overall, yeah, it still felt kind of… vestigial. To me it felt like the author threw it out there at first thinking it was a cool idea, then later went "ugh, shit, that's not actually where I want to focus. I can't retcon it, so let's just... minimize it and move on." A lot of times when big series start, they toss out a whole bunch of possible story hooks and then narrow down to just a few that they're actually going to spend serious time on... anyone who gets hooked on a premise that doesn't end up being developed further can be left feeling disappointed.

I suspect this is exactly the reason why MHA has such a giant fandom. The show's clown-car cast means that pretty much no character really gets "deep" treatment. Instead we get 1,000 tantalizing flashes of really, really cool possibilities. We get sucked in by an awesome idea, get frustrated when the cool character/premise barely gets touched again after that, and then feverishly fill the empty space with fanfic and fanart. (I'm lucky that my favorites, Izuku and All Might, were about the most main of main characters, and even they felt somewhat shallow. I can't imagine the agony of being, say, a Momo fan.)

Unfortunately when a story does this, it also means that it's inevitably going to disappoint its fanbase. It tossed out 1,000 awesome ideas but it only has space to cultivate a small handful of those into proper plotlines… not only is it sad to see all the unused plot threads peter out, but usually the realized story ends up outright contradicting at least a few very popular fan theories and hopes. This doesn't mean the story's bad, far from it. But in these weekly-chapter stories where fans have years or decades to get attached to their interpretations and predictions, praying each week that yes, it seems like a long shot, but maybe the story will veer off into X… things quickly spiral into enormous bitterness when those decades of hope are finally snuffed out for good. (This same phenomenon makes me dread the eventual end of One Piece…)

MHA had a lot of people going "it's not like other shonen!" because it had lots of promising ideas. But it turned out that… yes, it is just another shonen. Shonen are tons of fun, and I love MHA overall. But man, it got hit hard by those high expectations.

I was a bit harsh (and incorrect) in my post, saying Izuku/All Might haven't changed at ALL, and that quirklessness meant NOTHING. It gets outright confusing when there are characterization backsies like the ones I described. Which is canon: the single panel where a character says "quirklessness is a big deal to me!" or the way that every other character behavior and plot point screams "sure doesn't seem like it"? They're both real. And this discrepancy depends on the reader's interpretation too: I'm extremely picky about characterization, while someone less anal might not see any contradiction at all. So we get All Might fans insisting that the show made quirkless issues into a huge enormous part of the plot/characters, and meanwhile I don't see it, and get annoyed and preachy because it feels like the narrative is being unfairly ascribed depth and profundity that I really wanted but never actually saw from it. How dare!

ANYWAY, I highly recommend checking out the rest of the show. I have a feeling the final arc is going to look amazing in animated form once it's finally done. The final section is a combo of delightfully over-the-top shonen insanity and surprisingly weighty outcomes. We can debate whether it really earned those outcomes, but I'm at least pleased that it tried.

[anthrofreshtodeath]

More Crossover Work

Ok so I wanted to play with putting Booth/Brennan and Rizzles conversations side by side, and then added sex in to make it interesting 😂

Still getting a feel for b&b, but I'm feeling a little more comfortable. This is under a cut because it's naughty.

“It’s not the Royal Diner, but I know you have to be hungry,” Brennan carries a greasy paper bag in her hand when she announces her presence in the homicide bullpen.

It’s late, enough for most other detectives to be gone, and a lot of the lights are out. Booth sits slumped in his office chair, his white shirt with two streaks of dirt across the front, the gum soles of his slip-on Vans planted on the linoleum below. He blinks, like if his eyes move quickly enough, his exhaustion will evaporate, but nevertheless, they light up when they see her arrive. She takes the seat next to his desk and he smiles. “Oh hey, Bones, look at that,” he sits up straight when she puts the takeout box in front of him. “Burger and fries.”

Brennan half-smiles at him and then turns to Jane, who is looking at the screen of her phone. “I have it on good authority that The Dirty Robber has some of the best food in the Back Bay,” she says, “I’m sorry, Jane, I didn’t know you were still here; I would have-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jane, looking just as haggard as Booth, rubs a long hand over her features. She puts her phone down. “I gotta get outta here, anyway. And if that good authority is my mother, you better temper those expectations a bit.”

Booth chuckles, his ribs a little sore from tackling the running suspect they encountered in a truck depot just outside the city only a couple hours prior to now. “Your mom’s a nice lady, Jane,” he tells her around a french fry. “You could stand to give her a break every once in a while.”

“She got to you, too?” Jane stands and throws her blazer over her equally dirty button-up shirt. “Was it the sack lunches she sent in yesterday?”

“That mighta been part of it, yeah,” says Booth. “I love a snack pack.”

“He does. He has quite the affinity for pudding,” Brennan adds, “especially when he’s injured.” She throws her head in his direction and crosses her legs. Then she pops the lid off of her own food and begins to navigate it.

“Not a bad choice,” Jane chimes in when she picks up her keys. “You two have a nice dinner, and a nice night. I’m off.”

“Hot date?” asks Booth. 

“Yeah,” snarks Jane on her way to the elevator, “with the first loves of my life. The Boston Red Sox and my couch. Night!” 

“See ya!” Booth calls out, and then he turns his attention to Brennan as soon as the doors ding shut. “She’s goin’ to go see Maura.”

“What, like sexually? No, Booth, they’re divorced,” Brennan shakes her head to dismiss him, but nevertheless leans in to share the conspiracy with him.

“The secret texts? The get up and go? Seen it all before,” he tells her, elbows on the table while he points a long fry in her direction. “Divorce or no divorce.”

“They don’t seem to like each other very much when we’re all together,” Brennan posits. She picks the fry out from Booth’s fingers and chews it. She shrugs. “Doctor Isles becomes very clinical when she’s angry. Moreso than me,” she observes. “And when Jane is around, she’s very often angry.”

“More than you? That possible?” Booth teases, and he ducks when a blueberry from Brennan’s fruit cup flies toward his forehead.

“Wh- Booth,” Brennan chides in that way that tells him she’s actually a little insecure about it.

“Aw c’mon, you’re not that bad,” he soothes, getting close, patting her wrist, even though he still wears that guilty grin. “But you gotta look beyond the surface. She’s mad because she’s hurt. She’s hurt because she cares. She cares because she’s, y’know, still in love, Bones.”

“I don’t see it that way. Doctor Isles is an empiricist and love is fleeting,” Brennan tells him, and he sits back, moving away from the moment because he’s heard it all before. “It’s fickle and she’s clearly moved on.”

“See, this is the problem,” Booth says, crossing his arms. He is thankful for the emptiness of the bullpen because he feels his ears getting hot. “You think everyone’s thinkin’ with their heads all the time, but those two are thinkin’ with their hearts right now.”

“That’s absurd. The brain is the only organ with which you can think,” Brennan scoffs, “you might be able to argue about the neuronal connection to the gut, but even then, the heart isn’t involved in cognition at all. Beyond, of course, its role as blood supply to-”

“It’s!” Booth starts through gritted teeth, but then he stops himself when his hands come forward and clench. “It’s… not that simple. Rizzoli’s been through hell, and she’s just tryin’ to prove that she’s worthy. That she’s worthy of the risk it would be to take her back, whether either of them see that or not. And them seeing each other is probably the only way they can have that conversation right now.”

Brennan pauses, and then she sighs. Her eyes catalog all of Booth’s signs of arousal, the ones that prove his nervous system is on high alert, and the sexuality that runs deep underneath it, because he’s buried it to move through his day. She drops her mouth open before she speaks, like she is trying to think of exactly the right words to say. “You are… talking about us,” she says. “Or, more accurately, about you. But I’ve already told you… you don’t need to prove yourself worthy. It’s not about that.”

Booth knocks his head back against his seat, and his eyes get glossy, wet. He never cries the tears that coat them, at least, never in her presence, and she doesn’t know if she’s appreciative that he’s spared her the emotion she has no idea how to carry, or disappointed that he doesn’t trust her with it. “It’s not about that,” he echoes lamely. Like he’s not sure he’s heard correctly so he has to assure himself. “Let’s just finish up dinner, a’right? Then we can get back to the hotel and get a decent night's sleep. Remind me to talk to Rizzoli tomorrow about moving the operation out to Amherst permanently.”

“Booth,” Brennan pleads, but she doesn’t know what for, because the conversation they stumbled into is one she’s been dreading since… well, that she has always dreaded. 

“Just eat your sandwich, huh?” He says around a giant bite of his own. He sucks ketchup off his thumb and then he looks anywhere but her eyes. “I’m tired.”

___

“Hey,” Jane calls when she walks through the front door of her little one bedroom about three blocks from the station. She drops her keys on the counter and opens up the gun safe around the corner in the kitchen so that she can lock up her firearms for the evening. She punches in the code, and when she finally faces the living room, the harness holster on her shoulders is empty, her shirt untucked. “You sure whatever I left at the house couldn’t wait? I know-” 

She stops herself, because while she expected to see Maura there, she did not expect to see Maura on her couch, in nothing but what appears to be her underwear and Jane’s very old, very lucky, Jason Varitek jersey. The home white with the Red Sox across the front, even though each word drifts away from the other because the first three buttons are undone and Jane can see the hardest working pushup bra she’s ever encountered beneath. Maura barely turns her head, and by god, the sexiest part about the whole scene is that she might actually be more invested in the Sox/Orioles game on the big screen than whatever performance she originally intended to put on. “Hmm?” she begins, only turning her head once the pitch has been thrown and counted for a strike against Xander Bogaerts. “You cut yourself off.”

Very, very lucky, thinks Jane. “Hmm,” she echoes, but in that way she often does, swallowing and tucking her chin down just before marching into a situation she has no idea how to handle. She marches to her own sofa, the one she had to buy when Maura kicked her out of the house, the one where Maura sits now. “Babe? What uh, what are you doin’ here? In that?”

“Well, I came in my work attire,” Maura answers. She reaches for the remote, turns the TV on a soft mute before she faces Jane completely. “But I’ll admit that when I arrived I wanted to wear something that would put you at ease with me,” she whispers into Jane’s mouth when she pulls Jane forward by the front of her shirt. 

Jane’s gaze flickers to Maura’s wet lips, then lower. The Tek jersey is a men’s medium, and had been a gift. She usually wears it over a hoodie for games like tonight, in mid April when there’s still a chill in the Fenway air. It drapes on Maura now, just enough for Jane to imagine sinking her teeth into the tops of Maura’s breasts - the ones on tasteful display. “At ease?” Jane asks. “Maura, I…”

Maura silences her by dropping to the floor, kneeling between Jane’s long legs, and tugging at Jane’s belt until it pops loose. At the sound, their eyes meet. Jane’s hands squeeze into fists on the tops of her own thighs, because when Maura arches her back forward, the jersey rides up, and an all black, sheer Agent Provocateur thong peeks through. It leaves no ass to the imagination, and Jane squirms - everything’s far away except the pounding of her own heartbeat in her ears. “Sit up,” Maura’s voice brings her to reality again, not some far-off blurry space, but to the thick air of her apartment living room. Maura is still there and yanking the waistband of Jane’s slacks toward her. Jane lifts herself, and the weight of her belt causes her pants to thump to the floor around her ankles. 

She’s exposed. She’s wet, and she knows Maura sees that, and she can’t help but spread her knees at Maura’s insistence. There are teeth on the short patch of hair just between her hips, and then, pressure. A bite. “Agh,” she grimaces, because it feels so good. “At ease isn’t exactly what I’d call this,” she asserts.

Maura looks up then, her tongue out, hovering dangerously low. “Well, I wanted you at ease until I saw that new toy in your nightstand.” She wastes no more time, and dips her head into Jane, waiting for her. “Now I just want to unravel you.”

Jane winces at the first tongue swipe, the one that spreads her and exposes her to Maura’s expert mouth. Her hand grips the armrest and her toes curl and Maura keeps going. Pleasure, wet and writhing, wraps around her waist. “What’re you doin’ goin’ through my things, huh?” she yips, when something hard brushes her clit. Damn Maura for knowing all her weaknesses and rolling them up into one sexual show of force. 

“I was looking for this,” Maura looks up, blinking herself into a pout, kissing Jane as she pinches jersey material between her fingers. “Why do you have it? Who’s it for, Jane?” she demands. “Who are you seeing?”

Her pout transforms into a scowl just before she returns to licking Jane into a frenzy. She mimics Jane’s most devastating slow, deep, encompassing stroke to make her come. Jane gets the other message, too: I know exactly how you fuck, and I’ll use it against you. You better not be fucking anyone else like this. Jane moans, turning her head into her arm, the one clutching the headrest of the sofa behind her. “Jesus,” she croaks. “Nobody. I keep it here for you, a’right? I wanna fuck you. Just you.”

Maura stops. She looks up again, this time her green eyes shining with mischief, and maybe a little sentimental humor. She says nothing in reply, just closes her lips around the apex of Jane’s sex and spends all of the next two minutes there. Sucking, licking, kissing, sending indecent squelching sounds to mingle with Jane’s groaning. 

“Fuck fuck fuck,” Jane chants, because her orgasm has hit her all at once. The tension she carries makes her ribs bark, an injury nearly identical to Booth’s, but she rides through it for all the colors bursting behind her shut eyelids, all the zaps of oxytocin slithering out to her limbs while Maura brings her back down. “Fuck, babe,” she gulps in air as it passes. 

Maura licks her lips, and climbs up to straddle Jane’s wide open lap. “I don’t believe you,” she says into Jane’s parted lips. Jane’s hands slide onto her ass with a barely-there squeeze. “I shouldn’t believe you.”

“Why not?” Jane pants. Her chest heaves and seeing Maura this close, in that Sox home white, revs her up again. She walks two fingers around to Maura’s front, lace scratching against her fingertips, which earns her hand a smack. “Youch!”

“Don’t touch me yet,” Maura orders. When Jane’s brows narrow, confused, Maura gathers her head and pulls it close. “You belong to me only, Jane,” she says in Jane’s ear. When Jane pulls back to argue, Maura pulls the hair at the base of Jane’s neck so that Jane stares up while she stares down. “Divorce or not. You. Belong. To. Me.”

Jane nods slowly, and though Maura’s grip is tight, she shows mercy in the way she scratches Jane’s hairline. Jane shivers and her sex pulses. An elixir of domination and affection? Maura intends to end her. “You… you left me,” she says, moving her hands back to Maura’s thighs, her hips, her waist. 

“Mine,” Maura reiterates. She kisses Jane, all soft lips and tongue, and Jane can’t help but kiss back, pulling Maura close. Her thumbs swipe the bottom of Varitek’s number 33, halfway up Maura’s back. “Come to bed. I’m going to show you,” Maura says.

She rises, puts her feet on the floor all while Jane watches. Jane freezes, stays put, until Maura throws a look over her shoulder right at the mouth of the hallway to the bedroom. Then, Jane jumps up, yanking her boots away and hopping out of her pants. Her shirt takes a little longer because she struggles with the buttons, but soon enough, it flutters to the floor, her undershirt and bra completing the trail to where she meets Maura in the dark hall. “Hey, hey,” she calls, like she has done often since their breakup, and she pulls Maura close to her by the wrist.

Maura whimpers when Jane, naked, with scars and muscle and olive skin exposed to the air, presses her into the wall behind them. Her head knocks against it, and she wraps her arms around Jane’s shoulders for stability when Jane’s hands rub up against her hips again. Fingers entwine with the sexy elastic there, twisting and smoothing and begging to get rid of it. “Jane,” she warns.

Jane keeps it up. She smoothes the skin under that elastic, her thumbs alternating between pressure and delicate touch. “Take ‘em off for me,” she pleads, her voice silky and rough, somehow at the same time. The bottom drops out of her pitch and Maura’s mouth opens, like she wants to swallow it. “I wanna see you. I wanna touch you. I wanna get wet,” Jane pursues her case.

And all the kissing and the touching and the body-to-body moments break Maura’s resolve. She looks down, their legs all tangled, their feet so close together on the carpet, and makes a decision. She lets Jane go so she can pull her underwear away from her body and hold them up.

Jane turns from Maura’s mouth and looks. She leans into the barely-there thong in Maura’s hand, inhales, and then, when she’s found where they’re wettest, she bites them, taking the cocktail on her tongue. She kisses Maura with that new taste - the smacks of it are loud and sweet, and match when she brings her fingers back between Maura’s legs.

This time, Maura opens. She shifts to the balls of her feet and wraps a leg around one of Jane’s when she takes two fingers inside. She and Jane knock against the wall for a few thrusts, Jane’s hot breath tumbling into Maura’s ear and down her neck. Jane’s shoulders flexing under her fingers while she holds on. When the pleasure grows so heavy as to be mind-altering, she drags fingernails through the sweat down Jane’s back. “Stop,” Maura orders, and Jane does pause. “Bed.”

“We throwin’ a wrench in yah plans?” Jane teases, and there’s Boston in her whisper. 

“You are. You’re the one wrenching my plans,” Maura whines, half because Jane slips out, and half because Jane really is turning this thing on its head. 

Jane laughs at the verbiage. “Well, I am a plumber’s daughter, y’know,” she says, but Maura is already halfway through the bedroom’s threshold. So, she jogs the last few steps until she can catch up. “Where you goin’, huh? C’mere,” she beckons as they fall into the bed together. 

They kiss for a few more seconds; Maura can’t resist, but then she pushes Jane back onto the unmade bed. “Stay there,” she says. She shuffles on her knees toward Jane’s side of the bed, opens the nightstand, and pulls out the toy and harness she’d happened upon during execution of plan A. “Put it on.”

Jane licks her lips and does as told. There is a flurry of movement and Jane grunts when the curved end slips into her, and then she tugs at the base to get the feel just right. With that hand still holding it, she nods at Maura. “Come find me, babe.”

Maura rolls her eyes, but mostly so that the unexpected swell of emotion doesn’t spill over. The intimacy in Jane’s demand reminds her of times past, when the only thing between them was love. She shuffles, straddles Jane again, and decides that she won’t hold back. She lowers herself, Jane keeps the toy steady, and as a team, they achieve union between them. “Christ,” Maura adjusts slowly. She settles, lets her weight rest against Jane’s lap. Her hands caress each of Jane’s sides, including the one with the bruise. She is full and she needs something to anchor her to the moment. “This is superficial,” she says. The wound is warm under her palm, and it undulates with the way she rocks her hips. “It should heal quickly.”

Jane has to tell her long legs to still because Maura’s rhythm is a deadly one and if she gives into it too fast, she’ll come again before Maura even gets a chance. Looking up and seeing perfect tits beneath a Boston jersey does the opposite of help. “‘S that what this is all about? I got hurt? Because I wasn’t the only one.” She tries to control the speed of Maura’s fucking, but she gets lost in the feeling of Maura’s ass in her hands, full and soft and pushing silicone into her at the perfect angle. “Agh,” she moans, unable to keep up her tough exterior. 

“No, that’s not it,” Maura yelps when Jane pushes up with her pelvis, going deep. She gathers her long honey hair into her hands, holding it up before letting it go and puffing feminine little moans above her head. Her fingers then go back to Jane, to that one puckermark of a scar just to the right of her abdomen. “I just… I needed this. Without the fighting and the tension. I…”

“Hey, hey, ok,” Jane says through a grimace, because orgasm threatens her again. “I - I’m not complainin’, y’know,” she laughs, and then, finally, finally, Maura does too. “The sportswear was a nice touch.”

Maura winks, and then she picks up the pace of her ride, the fucking now fast, and hard. “Think… oh. Think of it as a ceasefire, my love,” she struggles to reply. Her gaze drops, because Jane is shaking and then tossing her head back against the pillow. Maura can think of nothing better to usher Jane through her climax than the cries bubbling up out of her own mouth from how good Jane feels inside, so she doesn’t hide them.

“Shit,” Jane clenches her teeth as she comes again, her grip tight against Maura’s skin, holding her in place. 

So, Maura slows, bends down, letting every inch of her upper body touch every inch of Jane’s until their lips meet. Each kiss is soft, slow, and sweet. “Hmm,” Maura hums when Jane stills.

“Proud of yourself?” Jane asks hoarsely, and Maura sits up again, resuming the winding of her hips. She shrugs and smirks. Jane licks the length of her own thumb and puts it on Maura’s clit to humble her as much to repay her for the good time.

“Oh, Jane,” Maura breathes out when she feels it. Bolts of electricity speed all the way to her brain, and she spreads her thighs so that Jane can have better access and she can ride faster. 

“Hey, oh,” Jane coos. “It’s not gonna take long,” she says, and Maura glares at the pride she senses in the statement. “It’s not,” Jane insists. “I know you, you know me. I’ll get ya there quick. Just ride it out.”

Maura would never tell Jane, but she’s grateful for Jane’s commitment, her steadfastness. Because true to her word, she gets Maura there quick. Maura accepts the oxytocin bath over her whole body, arching her back and making her cry into her own palm as it slides down her face. The other flattens against Jane’s chest, holding on tight until every jerky motion cycles through her hips and she can gather herself. “That…”

“Was quick,” says Jane. “Told ya. I know this was a you-showin’-me-who’s-boss kinda thing but I couldn’t let ya get me twice without a little bit of fun for yourself.”

Maura hangs her head. She wants to dismount, but her legs are like jelly and the thought of pulling Jane out of her incites grief. Feelings of loss she doesn’t quite want to deal with for at least the next few seconds. “I was going to say that was good,” she admonishes Jane’s humility. 

“We’re good together,” Jane says. “Like I said before: this was never the problem with us. And if I’m hearin’ you right, you don’t want the other problems in the way tonight.”

Maura bites down on her lower lip, hard, her crying tell. She hates it, but Jane is right and Jane has seen her. Has listened. Suddenly she needs nothing more than to lie down. So, she does, moving until she is under the covers and hears Jane divest herself of the toy they’d shared. It falls to the floor, and Jane turns until she can gather Maura up from behind. “Is it ok if I stay here tonight?” Maura asks, her voice quiet and unsure.

“Course,” mumbles Jane into the hair on the back of Maura’s head. Maura moves backwards until most of their skin touches. Jane’s hand slips under the jersey on Maura and then she huffs. “Take this off, would ya? You’ll sleep better without it, trust me.”

Maura undoes the buttons of the jersey with care, and with Jane’s help, unsnaps her bra. Those fall to the floor, too, and Maura lets a little more vulnerability creep in now that they lie naked together. She pulls Jane’s hand up close to her heart, flattening it until it presses on her sternum. “I think…” she wavers, contemplates how much she should say, but who else would she tell? “I think Agent Booth is in love with Doctor Brennan,” she finishes quietly.

Jane smirks because Maura can’t see. “I think so, too,” she agrees, leaving out the fact that Booth has confessed as much to her. “Big time.”

“He should tell her,” Maura says as she snuggles closer. Jane gathers her up with both arms.

“I think he has,” Jane chances, hoping Maura doesn’t ask because she won’t be giving up much more.

“And she rejected him?” Maura is surprised.

Jane kisses Maura’s earlobe to soften what she’s about to say. “Well, you’re the one who always says it’s about more than just love, right? Maybe he’s just tryin’ to prove himself worthy right now.”

Maura is quiet for a bit because she had said that before, it’s true. “I don’t think it’s about being worthy, either. He seems like quite a worthy mate.”

“Hmm, I agree,” Jane burrs, which earns her a pinch on the forearm. “Ow! Not.. not for me, obviously,” she corrects, though if their lives had been different and they’d met under better circumstances... “But you’re right.”

“Maybe her heart just isn’t ready yet,” Maura whispers, curling into herself all while making sure Jane curls around her. 

“That’s not a very you thing to say,” Jane comments, amusement taking her inflection up a bit.

“What do you mean, it’s not a me thing to say?”

“Well, no studies about trauma? Or the neuroscience behind cold feet?” Jane argues. “No cardio-cerebral-blah blah blah?”

Maura pulls Jane’s hand to her face so she can bite down on its index finger. Jane yelps, and Maura soothes with her tongue. Swirls it around, sucks until the pain goes and Jane relaxes. “No, not this time. I want you to hear me.”

“I’m still listenin’, even when you do sound like a textbook,” Jane tells her. “But, for what it’s worth, I agree with you. I don’t think her heart is ready yet. I also just don’t know how long he can wait.”

Maura says nothing. Jane accepts that, snuggles close, and lets herself fall asleep against Maura while the last of the Sox game carries in from the living room. Maura waits until she hears that deep, even breathing to speak. “How long can you wait?” she asks when she knows she won’t get an answer. 

They lay, and Jane sleeps, for over an hour. Maura looks out the window through the crack in the curtains, and the April moon shines brightly. She knows she won’t rest with it there, not as she lies now, and not until she gets up to use the restroom that is attached to Jane’s bedroom. She pats, Jane stirs, but doesn’t free her. “Move, please. I need up,” she says softly. 

Jane wakes enough to move and settles onto her back again, with a huff of sleepy air and a stretch of just her lower half under the sheets. It evokes visceral memories in Maura, of their marriage bed, and she’s glad for the dark on the way into the bathroom and the way out of it, because she can’t hide the emotion on her face. She’s also glad for the way Jane’s eyes flutter with dreams, how her consciousness drifts beyond the here and now. Maura’s hands are cold from having just been washed, and her feet from the spring chill. Her heart is cold with all that they’ve become.

And as if anticipating it, Jane wakes when Maura climbs back into bed. “C’mere,” she says, “it’s cold tonight.” 

Maura frowns, and the tears might win. She burrows into the side that Jane’s offered, and hides her head in the crook of Jane’s shoulder in case they do. She finds Jane’s bruise and rubs on it again. When she speaks, she has to sniffle some moisture away. “What are we doing?” 

“Sleepin’,” Jane deadpans, pulling her close and kissing her temple. “Shh.”

“Not what I mean. I can’t just keep using you; you’re so kind,” the words are muffled against Jane’s skin. 

Jane snorts; she wakes fully. “Wha-?” She asks as her brain catches up. “What do you mean, usin’ me?”

Maura scoffs. “Using you. I can’t just show up whenever I want to be penetrated. It’s not fair to you,” she answers. 

Jane frowns, and then squints. “You gotta be so… clinical?”

“Why shouldn’t I be? I like to be accurate,” Maura says.

“But that’s not accurate,” Jane argues. 

“Of course it is,” Maura responds. It intrigues her, Jane’s line of thought, so she pushes up on her elbows until she can look Jane in the face. Green meets brown and Maura bites her lip again. Oh hell, she thinks, because she can’t stop her hand from smoothing the hair on the top of Jane’s head.

Jane knows the effect she’s had, and so she shuts her eyes and smiles. “I mean, the using, maybe sometimes. You deserve to use me a little bit after everything that went down between us,” she says. Maura pulls back, but Jane’s hand on the small of her back brings her close again. “Plus - I know I’m not just a dick to you.”

This time, Maura’s face scrunches. “Must you be so non-clinical?”

Jane barks out a laugh. “You want me to say, uh, non-biological phallus-shaped object, Doctor?” she prods, and Maura blushes before she shrugs. “Either way, it’s true. No matter what you might say. Sure you’re mad at me, and maybe I’m mad at you, and we’re not together anymore. But we’re never just ships passin’ in the night, here, babe. We’re makin’ love. Every time. Because we miss each other. I miss you.”

Jane is earnest, not desperate. She’s open, but not distraught. And Maura melts into her arms because of it. “Oh, Jane,” she breathes again, just before they kiss and just before Jane shifts on top of her for the first time this evening.

[deke-rivers-1957]

Ross Carpenter's Rank

Disclaimer: For my tier list I’m basing this off of a one on one fight with no weapons and no outside interference. If a character has to rely on a weapon they’re ranked lower. If a character has to fight more than one person at a time, I’d look at it on a case by case basis. Age, size and general background are factors that will be taken into consideration. Since a lot of those details are going to be up to interpretation as these are characters and not real people, feel free to share your own thoughts.

Girls! Girls! Girls! most likely takes place during the Spring of 1962. Blue Hawaii was still in theaters based on the posters you see in the background. Even though it was released in November of 61, movies back didn't release in every theater at once. Based on the movie being filmed in the Spring of 1962, we can assume that this was the case with Blue Hawaii. Ross being on a fishing boat and specifically wants to catch as much tuna as possible indicates that this is Spring since in Hawaii the best time of year to catch tuna is about March to August. May in particular seems to be the best time to catch skipjack tuna when fishing just offshore.

We don't know Ross' specific age but we can make assumptions based on what we hear in the movie. Ross works at a nightclub that is known to serve alcohol. While no nightclub would hire someone under the age of 18 it's also likely that this owner would not hire him if he was also under the legal drinking age. In Hawaii at the time the drinking age was 20, meaning Ross is older than that. Since we can assume that he's been going to this nightclub for some time, I think we can assume that he's no younger than 25, making him in his mid 20s.

I can't even consider this a fight but since a punch is thrown it's worth mentioning. It's especially worth mentioning when you consider the fact that Rusty from Girl Happy lost against some drunken frat boys. Granted this movie depicts this fight in a more realistic way since there's no way someone he's fully sober and aware of an oncoming fight wouldn't be able to dodge a punch thrown by a completely wasted person.

So how do I grade this? Well at the very least Ross can dodge a punch and not lose to a drunk man. That would put him above Rusty in the overall ranking, but it doesn't really say much about his fighting ability. It would've been interesting if he showed up again when he was more sober so we can see exactly how Ross would compare. But as it stands, it's a win by default for Ross.

The only other two fights are against the same person. I'll break down how he matches up against Johnson here. Johnson is essentially described as being older than Ross. Jeremy Slate, Johnson's actor was in real life around 10 years older than Elvis. Since we already established that Ross is no older than his mid-20s let's just assume Johnson is an even 35. That would give Ross an age advantage and a physical advantage since he's still actively doing manual labor.

As for the skills shown during this fight, it's average. Typical street fighter level, but his age and strength are factors that can't be ignored. Then again, Johnson does look fit for his age so it's likely that Ross isn't at as much an advantage. Still it's a confirmed win for Ross.

This is where we have a more legitimate fight. Johnson at least suspected that Ross would find a way to save Laurel. Even though his guard was up, he still loses to Ross. At the same time, I'm not sure how much of this is a skill issue or Johnson simply not feeling as heated. Either way we do see that on a boat Ross has the advantage.

I do give him points for being able to maneuver on an uneven, constantly moving surface. It shows that he has a great sense of balance that comes from years of experience working on a boat. He still technically wins since Johnson yields.

Ross being physically fit enough to work on a boat and having a great sense of balance definitely gives him promise as a fighter. Given that he doesn't have a car and is seen walking everywhere when he's on land, I'd say he would have high levels of stamina.

Therefore I would put him in high B tier. His age and skillset would set him apart from other street fighters. He just doesn't have the training to outright win against characters who do. Also I'm not sure how he would do against an opponent that isn't drunk or older than him. I can only assume based on what I see in the movie so I can understand if others think that these 3 scenes aren't enough to be considered fights.

[theangryjikooker]

Not a shipper of anyone, but as a VMin fan, I really like your takes/defence of them.

During the last year especially it seems that Tkkrs and Jkkrs have been at war with each other over who JK loves the most, and Vmin seem to get caught in the middle and shit on from both sides.

Aw thanks.

I genuinely think they’re sweet—and so are the others, for that matter. Not romantically shipping any of them** and seeing their relationships for what they are on the surface makes things so much easier to digest.

** For anyone casually stumbling on this post, I used to “ship” Jkk under very strict parameters, but my inability to get on board with the RPS train nailed that coffin in the end. The username just stuck, however, and I can’t be bothered to change it. As a personal preference, I find Jkk the most entertaining and am probably quicker to watch what they’re up to, so in that sense I am a “Jkkr.” **

The Tkkr/Jkkr war is always going to be the undercurrent that motivates discourse. (I’ve also seen a disturbing influx of Jkkrs who are starting to prioritize delusion in their posts, something they always insisted they were above, and it’s honestly a mess.) They can go at each other forever as far as I’m concerned.

Based on a lot of asks that I received after my Vmin posts—which I suspect some are from the above camps, and/or also from Jimin-biased folks—they really make digs at Vmin, and Taehyung specifically which is a relatively new phenomenon as a result of Ch. 2, because a lot of them feel Jimin didn’t get enough public support from Taehyung, or that he dangled Tkk in front of everyone (wtf), which to me is a sign of people drinking too much fandom kool-aid. I’ve said this since the beginning, but there are a lot that Tkkrs/Jkkrs have in common in what and how they choose to vilify something or someone, and Vmin is currently in the crosshairs.

** I am aware that not all shippers are like this; I am obviously referring to the ones who are. **

More recently I talked about how Minjoon encapsulates what emotional maturity in a relationship looks like, and I think Vmin would be a cool case study of a dynamic relationship. One of the things that I find most interesting about Vmin is how different they are a lot of the time, especially now that they’re adults and have carved out how their personal/social lives look like, and the effects those have on how people view their relationship (e.g., one person not caring enough for the other). There’s theoretically a lot to unpack about those two.

Anyway, I went off-course. I think, in general, I’d be annoyed at anyone trying to undermine any of their relationships because that’s not what actual supporters of BTS does.

(Though at the end of the day, if the 0.0000001% chance any two of them are dating each other is true, I’d fully be supportive of that.)

[artinclined-jointheartside]

After reading the second chapter of the Bloopers fic, I must say I'm starting to see the appeal of Faust and Terra because they were adorable. I also suspected that Hettie was the halfblood Dratanae after some time; that being said, do you have any headcanons of her in regards to her heritage (or just in general)?

OH BOI, DO I!!?

Okay, firstly, I’ve been meaning to draw Hettie for a while, so I just used this as an excuse, lol Also to test out in an art program I don’t use often.

Here’s Hettie without her headdress, and she is just SO GORGEOUS!! I swear the real reason she wears the visor should be to keep her patients from falling in love with her. XD

On to headcanons, though!

So being a Dratani-Witch halfblood, she has the Dratani horns and tail. ALL Dratani halfbloods WILL have the horns and tail, without doubt or question - any child born without them will not live very long, unfortunately. The reason why is the Dratanic fire. Any halfblood will absolutely be born with the Dratanic fire organs in their chest and as a result they need the horns and tail for the balance those appendages give to the body for the sake of fire creation. The horns act as heat regulators for the head as they are actually hollow in a way similar to how bird’s bones are. They have minuscule channels that trail the length of the horn and create exit points as “invisible” pores on its surface - which allows for excess heat to flow out of these surface pores and away from the brain. When you see a Dratani at full throttle going nuclear then drop into cool down, you’ll see their horns steaming a lot, and that’s why. The tail acts more or less as an overflow valve. Because the fire organs, or Core (as a friend of mine has dubbed them) are constantly producing for the life of the Dratani, there has to be some sort of exhaust so that the fire and heat don’t build up inside and cause internal damage, hence, the tail that is always aflame. Now, a Dratani can mitigate how hot that flame is, though usually it rides at a comfortable warmth on the norm when they’re coasting at standard production (hence the fire won’t consume/burn things), but once they ramp up and start forcing more fire out - toasty time. Suffice it to say, if you had a halfbood born who didn’t have those extras, they’d soon expire because their body would basically... cook itself.

So I said all that to say this: Hettie does indeed have all of these - horns, tail, AND a Core.

Now, the real sad part about this is Hettie didn’t really get a chance to understand herself. She was unfortunately an accident. Her witch mother had her via a Dratani fling and didn’t ever TELL said Dratani that he’d sired a child (I enunciate that because her life would have been SO VERY DIFFERENT had her mother done this.) However, her mother had no idea how to raise Hettie because she didn’t know how to handle a fire demon and didn’t want to learn. So, she abandoned her. In like the worst possible way. Hettie thinks she was eight when her mom dumped her in the streets of Bonesborough, but reality is she was closer to five. (AKA, Hettie doesn’t realize she’s 3 years younger than she thinks) The literal streets aren’t a great place for anyone to live, let alone a child, but at the very least Hettie had her fire to protect her. Unfortunately, she didn’t know how to control it or use it properly, so she ended up hurting more people by accident than really benefiting herself or others for it. This propensity to hurt others not only forced her to suppress her fire as constantly as she could manage - once she figured out how - but also fostered her desire to heal. Her magic is naturally boosted because Dratanae are one of the most powerful demonic races, so she more-or-less became a healing prodigy. Fairly quickly in her early teens she was taken under the wing of a healing ward head and apprenticed, only furthering her ability. However, this intense dedication to learning the craft of healing came at the expense of understanding herself. She’d already moved passed trying to rid herself of her demon aspects, as when she was ten she’d tried to file her horns down, but made herself extremely sick doing so and had spent several months in a feverish daze while they grew back to length. She realized those were not something she could be rid of. After that, the urge she’d had to cut her tail off all but vanished because she didn’t want to think about what would happen if she did that. But while she’d closed the door on the ridding attempts, she did actively hide them. Such as keeping her tail tucked under her clothes and wearing scarves then custom hats over her horns. She even took to covering her eyes, because she found out the intense yellow and highly reflective, almost glowing, pupils are a result of her demon blood. She was even insecure about her hair, as it grows in a somewhat teardrop shape on her head to flow around her horns and she correctly deduced that was because of her demon blood as well. Because she hid her demon aspects so constantly, and generally refused to have any other healer give her a basic checkup for so long, she didn’t find out until her late teens what her demon side even was. Not to mention, Dratanic-Witch halfbloods are actually QUITE rare, so only someone who is exceedingly familiar with Dratanae would have realized what she was based on observation alone. But, either way, when she finally ended up with a full healer’s examination, she was on the verge of entering the coven officially and taking the sigil. And at that point, as far as she could tell, her demon side hadn’t ever done her any good - aside from causing her to want to be a healer. So. She chose not to look into it. Then, the sigiling ceremony comes along, and she steps up, gets her sigil... And realizes something’s happened. Later on at home, the first thing she does is pull her tail out from her skirt and - it’s not on fire. She rips her bodice off and the subtle glow that she used to see between her ribs is gone. She raises her hand and tries to summon heat into her palm. Nothing. Looking at her arm, she realizes the sigil has sealed away her fire. She doesn’t know what this means, but... she feels fine. Perhaps a little cold, ironically, but otherwise, she doesn’t seem to be suffering any ill effects. in FACT, she realizes she doesn’t have to put any concentration towards keeping the fire suppressed! So this means... And she outright SOBS in relief because she realizes she won’t accidentally hurt anyone with fire ever again.

Years go by and she rises through the ranks to become a Coven Hand and eventually Second Head. Occasionally, in the rare instances she has downtime she thinks about the Dratani side of her. Once or twice she picked up a book and read a bit about the Dratanae people and culture, but she’s always maintained a distance from it, as if it isn’t really a part of her and never was. Then, she becomes Coven Head. And officially meets Terra Snapdragon. Unbeknownst to Hettie, Terra is intimately familiar with Dratanae. And Terra surmised very quickly that Hettie was a halfblood. So imagine her surprise when Terra asks one day why she hides her tail, because it can’t be comfortable keeping it under her clothes all the time. She decides to answer honestly, and she admits it was a discomfort she got used to when younger, but now that it no longer burns it isn’t much of a problem. Another surprise comes when Terra is concerned about this because a Dratani’s tail is ALWAYS aflame, it can’t just... NOT be burning. This naturally opens a discussion about how Terra would know this and Hettie gets an unexpected amount of new information about the longstanding Plant Coven Head. At the end of this, however, when Terra says she can look into Hettie’s situation further and even introduce her to some Dratanae who would be gladly assist her... She declines. She admits it’s tempting, but she’s closed the door on that part of her life and she’s fine, has been since the day she got her sigil. So it’s not of any concern and she’d rather not bother with it as she has enough to do anyway. This interaction breeds a closeness between the two, though, and throughout the not-quite-so-formal relationship Hettie has always had it in the back of her mind that she could ask Terra at any time... and she could meet the other half of herself.

She still hasn’t done it, but the day she’ll learn more about herself might be coming up on her sooner rather than later~

I hope you’ve enjoyed what turned into a REALLY LONG POST and if you have any other questions -

Send them over!

Oh, and in case you were wondering, yes - the name “Cutburn” came to be her street name because she wasn’t afraid to cut a bish if she had to and, well... we know how the burn part went.

(Thank you, as always, for reading my randomness! XD)

[fates-theysband]

i'm so humble to be in your world

i'm going to hire someone on craigslist to be in my apartment and squirt me with water every time i say "eh it'll just be a drabble i can finish it before i go to bed"

anyway. pov: you exist physically in the world after years of Not Doing That and it is. uh. a lot.

idk if this is necessarily a cw-worthy thing but this contains some pretty vivid descriptions of sensory overload

--

It’s astonishing, really, how quickly one forgets that reality is a constant barrage of sensory input that’s nigh-impossible to block out or turn off. Of course, this is because most people’s entry into reality is birth, where their senses start out dulled so as not to overwhelm their still-developing brains. By the time they’re old enough to start processing the world with their senses at full capacity, they’ve grown so accustomed to certain stimuli that they barely even perceive them.

The now-former timekeeper did not have that luxury, and, after years of lonesome numbness, they were experiencing a world that was much sharper and more aggressive than their memory could have ever done justice. They’d been happy to leave their little pocket of the void outside the Parable, and they knew, logically, that they still would be once this subsided. But for the time being, it hurt.

Their player–their sweet, sweet player, who had figured out the way to free them in the first place–didn’t anticipate this and was now frantically milling about his apartment trying to make everything as dark and quiet as possible. From their vantage point–curled up on the carpet with their hands clamped over their eyes to block out the harsh way their player’s floor lamp illuminated the white apartment walls, the way the small lights on his electronics seemed to sear their eyes in contrast to the comforting darkness of their backdrops, the way the faint light coming through the blinds reflected off every shiny surface, no matter how small –they could still see the darkness of a human shadow blocking out the remaining hints of light hitting their eyelids from between their fingers as he passed by them in search of any other lights he could extinguish. The sight was a temporary but welcome relief, like passing under an awning while walking in a storm.

Perhaps a storm like the one that, as luck would have it, was raging outside. Even between thunderclaps, the rain pounding against the windows was unbearable, especially when combined with the faint whirring of their appliances and the rattling of what seemed to be air passing through an air conditioning vent. This last one, thankfully, ceased rather abruptly, briefly replaced with a whispered apology as their player–Isabeau, his name was Isabeau, but using that felt more intimate than 432 believed themself worthy of–expressed a desire to turn off the weather itself, allow his companion (“lover”, too, felt too indulgent of a word for 432 to describe themself as in relation to their player) to get gradually acclimated to being again.

He started to say something else, before the loudest thunderclap 432 had ever heard before (and suspected would ever hear again) drowned him out and plunged the apartment into merciful, silent darkness.

432 was at least able to sit up and open their eyes, the sole lights and sounds now being the pale, dim light of a cloudy sky and the almost static-like landing of torrential rain. The rough carpet still bit their hands like a bed of nails and the business casual outfit they’d somehow still managed to be wearing when they manifested in reality felt like it was sewn out of different grains of sandpaper, but they weren’t totally incapacitated. They finally laid eyes on their player, bathed in the soft light, looking for all the world like an angel. He seemed to notice their discomfort, and offered to fetch some of his own clothes (softer, larger, hopefully more comfortable) for them to wear. 432 shook their head and motioned for him to come closer. He was finally there, finally with them, and now that they were at least able to function, they couldn’t stand to have him out of their sight right now even for the time it would take him to round the corner into his room. He knelt beside them, his hand slightly brushing against theirs as he did so, before pulling away quickly as though he feared his skin would burn theirs. Which it did, but it was a pleasant burn, a warm mug on cold hands.

Their gaze met his, and they took a moment to actually, really look at their player. They weren’t afforded much light, which they were still thankful for, but they had enough to notice the freckles that dotted his face and shoulders, the soft mop of dark hair that ended just above his ears, the way his deep blue eyes caught the light, the gentle roundness of his face.

The way, though they tried to push this thought out of their mind, that his lips looked as he opened his mouth to speak.

He spoke softly, apologetic for not preparing his home better for them. He’d thought to clean it (and 432 could tell, the combined scents of cleaning solution and dish soap still hanging in their nose), but not to turn off the lights or the air conditioning. He again offered to fetch them some different clothes, to bring them some water, to help them up onto his couch at least so they wouldn’t have to keep sitting on the carpet, but they refused it all. Speaking was still not a reasonable prospect until they could stand the taste in their own mouth enough to risk adding any of the outside air to it, but they could shake their head and point firmly at the ground as much as they needed to.

He relented, finally, after one final inquiry about whether they were really certain they would be okay, and settled into a more comfortable position. 432 patted the ground next to them, urging him to come closer. There was one thing he could do for them, one he hadn’t offered–perhaps ironically, most likely out of a desire not to worsen their distress. He moved closer to them, still careful not to touch them on accident, which just made his shocked gasp as 432 threw their arms around him, nearly bowling him over, and buried their face in his shoulder all the sweeter.

432 already felt so much better. It was hard to notice anything unpleasant when their player’s arms gently crept around their own body with one of his hands gently stroking their back, or when they could feel the soft vibration of his neck against their cheek as he chuckled, or the warmth on their temples as he leaned his head against theirs. Not when they, as he softly encouraged, began to breathe slower, deeper, taking in a combination of citrus and chamomile as they did.

Not when they, pulling away from the embrace despite every urge to stay wrapped in their player’s–Isabeau’s, their Isabeau’s–arms forever, pressed their lips to his, feeling him smile against their lips before reciprocating the kiss.

They pulled away, just for a moment, and were finally able to summon up their voice, rusty from disuse but still functional. “I love you.”

He looked at them like he–their savior, their home, their everything–couldn’t believe they found him worthy of those words, then broke into a smile. “And I love you.”

432 wasted no time kissing him again. The two of them could work out the logistics of this new arrangement when the storm passed and the power came back. For now, though, the world didn’t exist; only two lonely people finding each other in this gentle void.

[adamwatchesmovies]

Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children (2016)

In recent years, the projects handed to Tim Burton may have felt right on paper but in execution didn’t suit his filmmaking style at all (looking at you, Dumbo and Alice in Wonderland). Despite these mistakes, we keep coming back. Why? Because when he’s the man for the job, there’s no one better - as Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children demonstrates. This quirky, slightly dark celebration of the weird suits him perfectly.

Jake Portman (Asa Butterfield) travels to a reclusive island on the behest of his recently deceased grandfather. There, he finds a group of “Peculiars”, boys and girls with extraordinary powers, under the guard of Miss Peregrine (Eva Green). Isolated from civilization thanks to a time loop created in 1943, they hide from a world that wouldn’t understand them but mostly, they hide from ghoulish Peculiars named Hollows - eyeball-eating fiends.

After Harry Potter, The Hunger Games and Twilight there was a deluge of Young Adult Novel fantasy/sci-fi adventures, most of which were non-starters. The genre began on a high note (you should see how bad the Twilight knockoffs got) and fell sharply afterwards. This film is one of the few exceptions. It begins with an original premise. There’s a lot of mythology to digest with time loops and different factions of people with superpowers - honestly, it gets a bit confusing towards the end - but on the surface, it’s nice and digestible. Children with strange abilities living under the protection of a teacher that must keep them hidden. A lonely teen who befriends them. Monsters determined to ruin everything. Got it? Now we can examine the characters residing at the school. They’re fun because their abilities are varied and unique. You won't find stand-ins of popular superheroes here. Everyone at the school has something to contribute when the action scenes call for them but you can also see why these children's bizarre skills force them to live in isolation.

The story leans into the weirdness of Miss Peregrine’s home and then splits off into scenes that are either charming and wonderful or frightening and unsettling. The mix endears you to Jake and his new friends. It also makes the danger feel real. People getting their eyeballs eaten makes your skin crawl but it’s such a bizarrely gruesome fate it doesn’t feel like it would be too much for young (but not too young) audiences to handle. Such grisly choices make the story unpredictable. So much of this is so strange it wouldn't matter who it was happening to, you'd just want to see what was next. What are those twins hiding behind their mask? What’s it like living in a time loop? What’s the deal with the eyes, and with Jake’s grandfather? How can you combine all of the children’s mismatched abilities into a fighting force to repel the villains after them? The answers are wildly inventive.

Much to my disappointment, it doesn’t look like we’ll be getting a sequel to Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children. At least the picture makes the wise choice to end on a definitive note instead of teasing us something that’ll never come.

I suspect Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children will be the kind of teen-oriented adventure some will absolutely fall in love with because of its quirks. It’s thrilling and a little bit loopy - and I mean that in a good way. (February 14, 2020)

[musecaravan-info]

Isaiah Thomas

"If you don't stand up for the stuff you don't like, when they come for the stuff you do like, you've already lost." ~ Neil Gaiman ~

Basic Information

FACE/BODY CLAIM: Zachary Quinto

NAME: Isaiah Thomas

AGE: 27-ish (in most verses)

EYES: Dark Brown

HAIR: Dark Brown, thick & wavy

HEIGHT: 6'0

PRIMARY OUTFIT: This varies depending on the verse, but regardless what he's wearing, Isaiah always tries to look his best. So, even if his clothes are old, they're well-mended. Even if they're off-the-rack and not designer, he still looks like he's wearing something tailor-made for him.

Personality

Isaiah is equal parts charming and awkward. He wants people to like him, but flounders a bit when it comes to figuring out the best ways to make that happen. In addition, he's a very passionate person when it comes to his beliefs. However, he's also very open-minded, and tries not to close himself off to ideas beyond his own.

Powers & Weaknesses

Isaiah's greatest strength is probably his mind. He's quick-witted and intelligent, often seeing patterns and possibilities before other people do. However, he can flounder when having a face-to-face conversation. Words sometimes fail him when he doesn't have the chance to think before speaking.

Romance

Isaiah is a gentleman in every verse, and it's something he has trouble breaking himself of even when given permission to do so. Flirting with him will probably get your muse lots of stammering and blushing (and perhaps a little clumsiness.) He is slightly more attracted to men than women, but he is open to relationships with either.

Where to Find Him

This depends heavily on the verse and the plot you have in mind. In general, he can be found in his print shop, or at the local tavern. He was also a lover of books, so a bookshop would be another possibility. There are still other possibilities, of course. Just ask, and we can figure something out. :)

Verses

Just because a verse isn't listed here doesn't mean I'm not interested in writing it. I adore all kinds of AUs, and welcome the chance to get creative with my muses. If you've seen a verse that another of my muses has, and you'd like to see this muse in something similar, let me know. You can also check out my 'Plot Ideas'��tag, too. ^_^

Main Verse (American Revolution):

Isaiah Thomas was a real-life historical figure born in 1749. Leading up to the American Revolution he was a newspaper editor in Boston and printed a Patriot paper known to most as The Massachusetts Spy. He was good friends with the likes of Paul Revere, Joseph Warren, and John Hancock and many historians suspect his shop was regularly used as a meeting place for the Sons of Liberty.

Modern Verse

Isaiah is a freelance journalist who also writes and publishes an anti-establishment newsletter (yes, on paper – it’s harder for them to track him that way) He also runs an amateur travel blog that has a decent number of followers.

Urban Magic Verse

Same as Modern verse, but he also has the ability to make print appear on any surface he wants, and can alter things that have already been printed. He occasionally moonlights as a forger.

Night at the Museum Verse

While the American Antiquarian Society is under severe renovations, Isaiah’s printing press has been moved to the Smithsonian as part of a new exhibit on the written word throughout history. The museum creates a wax likeness of his Revolutionary self and the next night Isaiah ‘wakes’ into a whole new world of information.

Hogwarts Verse

Isaiah was sorted into Ravenclaw and, like his other verses, he has a passion for the written word. However, he’s not a fan of The Daily Prophet because he believes they’re corrupt and a poor source of news. The Quibbler is a guilty pleasure. He secretly publishes a monthly Hogwarts newsletter - not sanctioned by the professors - and then leaves them around the school for people to find. Only a select few know he’s behind it... most of them are writers and illustrators for the newsletter.

Current/Ongoing Threads

If your thread with Isaiah isn't listed here it's probably because it's been long enough since your last reply that I thought you'd dropped it. Message me to let me know you're still interested, and I'll happily add you to the list (with no pressure for a reply.) ♡

Kelly:

In the Most Unlikely Places (Main Verse) (American Revolution)

Kettu:

Promises to Keep (Main Verse) (American Revolution)

Stuff That's Good to Know Before Starting a Thread

This blog is not (and will never be) 100% historically accurate. Think of it as historical fiction, an alternate reality, historical fantasy, or whatever else you choose. I make no claim to be an expert on Isaiah Thomas or the time period in question. However, I have read a great deal about him and his time, and intend to use my knowledge to the best of my ability while RPing.

In regards to my face claim - I've only found ONE painting of Isaiah, and one sketch in profile, both from his late 60s. Since Isaiah was in his mid to late 20's during the Revolution, I took some liberties. He was described by his contemporaries as being "tall, slender and well formed, stooping slightly in his gait." Plus - I've been wanting to use Mr. Quinto for some time now and this seemed like an excellent opportunity. ^_^

Links

Please keep in mind, this blog is an ongoing work in progress. Not all of these links may lead somewhere, but they're here because they link to potential tags for this muse.

All Things Isaiah

Headcanons

Drabbles

All Threads

Ask Replies

Meme Replies

Aesthetics

Face

Special Links

Original Blog

Isaiah’s Appearance

Isaiah’s History

Isaiah’s Home

Return To Full Muse List

[phantom-le6]

Episode Reviews - Star Trek: Voyager Season 5 (2 of 7)

Episode 5: Once Upon A Time

Plot (as given by me):

After playing through a children’s story on the holodeck, Naomi Wildman is called to her quarters by her god-father Neelix so she can be wished good night by her mother, who is on an away mission with Tom Paris and Tuvok. Samantha informs her daughter the away mission will take longer than planned, and when Naomi goes to brush her teeth, Sam reveals to Neelix what’s really going on.  The Delta Flyer has taken damage due to an ion storm, and another is about to hit.  Just after the comm. link goes down, the Flyer is hit by the second storm.

 As Voyager races to the rescue of their compatriots, having also received a distress call from Tuvok, Neelix worries about Naomi learning what’s going on.  While the crew’s initial impulse is to be honest with Naomi, Neelix advises keeping her in the dark to begin with, hoping that the away team can be recovered before the girl suspects anything is amiss.  Captain Janeway seems reluctant, but defers to Neelix as he is Naomi’s god-father and the closest member of the crew to her in her mother’s absence. Meanwhile, the Delta Flyer has crash-landed on a class M planetoid, the surface of which has trapped them under a lot of rock that will prevent taking off.  In addition, damage to the vessel limits their supply of breathable air and Sam has internal injuries that require proper medical attention.

 While most of the crew work to find some definitive sign of the Delta Flyer, Neelix tries to keep Naomi distracted with her lessons and holodeck stories.  Despite this, Naomi begins to suspect something is wrong, and her latest holodeck story proves quite scary.  When Janeway takes Neelix aside and insists Naomi be told the situation, Neelix has a massive outburst, revealing that his desire to keep Naomi shielded from what’s going on links back to the trauma he went through losing his own family.  The captain sympathises, but talks Neelix round to the fact that Naomi should still be told.  Before this can happen, however, Naomi stumbles onto the bridge, sees the impact trail from the Flyer’s landing on the viewscreen, and runs away.

 Back on the Flyer, Tom, Tuvok and Sam all record farewell messages for their loved ones in case they’re not found in time, and Tuvok reassures Sam that Naomi will survive and prosper even if that happens. ��Meanwhile, Neelix finds Naomi on the holodeck and apologises to her for lying.  He explains that he lost his family in a war on his home world, and he had been trying to spare Naomi the pain he went through by pretending nothing was wrong. He then admits that pretending a wrong doesn’t exist when it actually does never helps.  Another ion storm begins to approach, but the rescue teams manage to find and excavate the Delta Flyer just in time for a last-minute beam-out.  Naomi is reunited with her mother after the Doctor has treated Sam for her injuries. Later, Naomi enjoys a holodeck adventure with her mother and Neelix, with Captain Janeway stopping by to check on her “future Captain’s Assistant.”

Review:

This is a fairly notable episode within the Voyager series because it’s the first episode where child actress Scarlett Pomers would play the role of Naomi Wildman, and at the same time it’s Nancy Hower’s last time playing Naomi’s mother Samantha within the show’s present day (her last appearance on the show being in a later episode that shows events from the show’s past).  It’s a little strange that Naomi should continue to appear after this without her mother, but c’est la vie, that’s just one of the little mysteries of TV, I suppose. Unfortunately, the episode ends up bringing up a continuity error in this casting that is never explained within the show.

 Naomi Wildman is born late in the show’s second season, appearing as a baby at least up as far as the season 2-season 3 transitional two-part episode.  However, by season 4’s episode ‘Mortal Coil’, Naomi seems about 3 years old, and then this episode puts her at about 5 (when Seven notes she was assimilated by the Borg at age 6, Neelix says “not much older than Naomi is now”).  This means the character has aged five years in the space of what the show itself has established to be a period of just over two years.  It’s not down to her half-alien nature, I don’t think, or they’d give her actual age and make some comment about Katarian genes resulting in accelerated development through childhood.  As such, I think this is a glaring oversight by an inattentive creative team, and one that I hope someone has at least tried to better rationalise through tie-in media.

 Outside of that, we get an episode that is rare for this Trek series at the moment, because it gives us character development and issue exploration all in one.  The character development comes from Neelix, as we look at how his style of childcare in regards to Naomi is informed by his past trauma of losing his family in war.  His instinct seems to be feigning that everything is ok, which ultimately backfires, and this brings us to the issue exploration side of the episode.  The issue is whether it’s ok to deal with problems by hiding them from others, and of course it’s not.  It’s a bit like some mental health training I recently did at work, which emphasises a bunch of tools for dealing with the stress caused by a problem instead of eliminating that problem.

 For me, Neelix in this episode represents the same kind of problem-avoiding, symptom-managing idiocy that plagues neurotypicals as a whole, and that serves to wind autistics like me up to no end. If a problem exists, no amount of stress diaries, meditation, yoga or anything else is going to fix it.  You fix problems by identifying a solution and implementing it, preferably either before the problem occurs to prevent it occurring, and failing that the solution should be a permanent fix, not a chronic one.  If someone is bullying another person, punish and educate the bully until they stop, or remove them from the environment.  If making changes without consulting those the changes will affect causes stress and anxiety, then the people making those changes need to stop being selfish and include those affected, not fob them off with stress management suggestions that a little consideration and inclusion would render unnecessary.

 By the same token, Naomi would have been better served if Neelix had simply told her the situation and been there for her as the situation developed.  Instead, he created a bigger problem, and quite frankly lucked out that his god-daughter was so kind and forgiving.  Not sure how many people would have given him such leeway in the same situation. Overall, I give this episode 8 out of 10; it might have got more points if not for the continuity error of Naomi’s weird age progression.

Episode 6: Timeless

Plot (as given by me):

Fifteen years in the future, Voyager is found buried beneath ice on the surface of a planet by two men, who turn out to be Chakotay and Harry Kim. Boarding the ship, they retrieve the frozen body of Seven of Nine, along with the Doctor and his mobile emitter. On board the Delta Flyer, the Doctor asks what’s going on, and Chakotay explains that he and Harry are trying to change history.

 In the present day of the series, the crew of Voyager celebrate retro-fitting the warp core to incorporate quantum slipstream technology.  They now plan to finally return to Earth, but Tom Paris uncovers a problem.  A few seconds into any flight, a phase variance occurs within the slipstream. Without being corrected, or being corrected for in the exact right way, the variance will knock Voyager out of slipstream and cause system damage, leading to a crash.  Tom informs Harry, and after almost two dozen simulations, they realise they have to advise the crew of this.

 At first, Captain Janeway and the others believe they may have to spend ages reversing the retrofit, but Harry isn’t prepared to give up.  He proposes having the Delta Flyer flying just ahead of Voyager in the slipstream, mapping the phase variance and sending phase corrections back to Voyager.  In theory, doing this should give them the leeway necessary to make the corrections before any crash can occur.  Janeway approves the plan, assigning Harry and Chakotay to the Delta Flyer.  Unfortunately, Harry’s phase corrections prove to be incorrect, and while the Delta Flyer manages to stay in the slipstream all the way back to Earth, Voyager is ejected into normal space, suffering major system damage that results in the ship crashing into an ice planet.

 In the future, Chakotay and Harry explain their plan to the Doctor; using a recovered piece of Borg technology and a couple of key pieces of information from the dead Seven’s implants, they plan to send new phase corrections back to Seven’s past self.  If all goes as planned, Voyager will return home intact as originally intended. However, the plan soon goes awry. Chakotay and Harry stole the Flyer and are committing a violation of the Temporal Prime Directive, so they’re soon in a fight with the starship USS Challenger, commanded by Captain Geordi La Forge.  It then turns out that Harry’s revised phase corrections are no more effective than his original ones, and history remains unaltered.

 As the Flyer takes damage and Harry becomes frustrated and guilt-stricken, the Doctor forces him to find another solution.  Realising that the original plan to get Voyager home won’t work, they resort to a plan B, sending back phase corrections to safely collapse the slipstream.  Shortly after the future Delta Flyer is destroyed by its warp core breaching, Voyager is saved in the present by the latest phase corrections.  It’s soon discovered by the crew that a future version of Harry acted to save them, and Harry watches a message from his future self that was sent with the phase corrections.

Review:

While this episode is meant to be the 100th of the series, and certainly comes under that number in production order, it’s actually 99th by order of release, and since the episodes go on DVD, etc. in release order, I credit it as number 99 in the Voyager run. Mind you, neither this nor the subsequent episode are what I consider great Trek episodes, so for me this milestone is underwhelming whatever the metric.  It’s a plot-driven episode that throws a lot of technobabble at us, and it doesn’t develop any of the characters in their present-day incarnations. It’s just a drawn-out bait-and-switch regarding the ship and crew getting home, with a bit of time travel and the episode’s director playing his old TNG character in a future timeline the episode’s conclusion presumably wipes out.  For me, good acting and some shortening of the trip home aside, this episode has nothing going for it.  5 out of 10, next episode please.

Episode 7: Infinite Regress

Plot (as given by me):

As Voyager passes near a Borg debris field, Seven of Nine begins exhibiting strange behaviour.  Despite the ship trying to avoid the debris field, Seven’s odd behaviour continues, eventually resulting in her being taken to Sickbay.  It turns out something is causing multiple personalities from various victims of assimilation to take over Seven’s mind. Seven suspects it has to do with a Borg interlink frequency detected by B’Elanna in the debris field.  As the frequency permeates sub-space, physical distance from the field will not help; the signal will have to be deactivated at its source.  Voyager traces the frequency to that source, which is a device known as a Borg vinculum.  The device is intended to create order within the Borg hive mind by processing out extraneous thoughts and information.  However, this vinculum is malfunctioning and creating mental chaos, doubtless resulting in the destruction of the Borg vessel the debris field was created from.

 Seven asks for the device to be brought on board, explaining that if they take the device and work on it while travelling, they reduce the risk of encountering the Borg.  Janeway agrees, and it soon turns out that the device is infected with a biological pathogen that can affect computer programs.  During this initial investigation, Seven’s condition worsens, and at one stage Seven’s neural pattern is believed lost.  Efforts to contact the species that developed the pathogen only result in more conflict; the aliens want the vinculum back in the debris field to infect more Borg vessels, and they haven’t developed a cure because they want to stop the Borg, not help them.

 Ultimately, it falls to Tuvok to provide Seven with a mental anchor against the many voices in her head via a mind-meld while B’Elanna takes the vinculum off-line, and the bridge crew has to contend with attacks from the aliens.  Eventually, the device is shut down and beamed away before Seven and Tuvok are destroyed by the mental deluge.  Afterwards, Seven repays earlier kindness shown to her by Naomi Wildman by helping the young girl with her studies, asking if Naomi will teach her a game they played together while Seven was under another personality’s influence.

Review:

Like I said on the previous episode, the 100th one to air is not great Trek.  Instead of developing Seven’s character, she’s thrown into an episode that is largely just “make Seven act weird for weirdness’ sake.”  Nice as it is to see this episode give rise to the Seven-Naomi friendship, that’s not really character development per se.  The closest we get is Seven saying she can’t deal with other voices in her head, but we can get that sense from her anti-collective sentiments in episodes like ‘Hope and Fear’ and ‘Drone’.  There’s also no issue exploration at hand, because we don’t really delve into this multiple personality issue Seven experiences for anything like that.  It’s just character weirdness and a bit of action to fulfil that tickbox on the Voyager checklist.  For me, this one only gets 3 out of 10 and a lot of fast-forwarding through the character weirdness.

Episode 8: Nothing Human

Plot (as adapted from Wikipedia):

Voyager encounters an energy wave that turns out to be a distress call from a nearby ship. Arriving to help, they find the ship contains only one non-humanoid life form on the verge of dying. They transport the scorpion-like creature to Sickbay, and The Doctor begins to try to treat it. B'Elanna Torres, having learned of how the creature interacts with its ship, arrives to provide advice, but suddenly the creature leaps at her. It wraps itself around her, piercing her neck and other vital organs, creating a physical and biochemical bond between them. The Doctor finds that attempting to pull the creature off will likely kill Torres, and seeks another solution. When he exhausts his own knowledge, he searches through the Voyager databanks and discovers information on the brilliant Cardassian exobiologist Crell Moset. The Doctor programs the holodeck to recreate Moset in order to work out the solution for separating the creature from Torres together, and they develop a rapport with each other. Moset finds a method that they could separate the creature, likely killing it while leaving Torres alive, but the Doctor would rather save both patients.

 Word of the Doctor's simulation spreads about the ship after Harry and Tabor, a Bajoran ensign, have to repair the Moset program, with Tabor attempting to accost Moset. Tabor informs the Doctor and Chakotay the real Moset had indiscriminately experimented on hundreds of Bajoran lives during the Cardassian occupation of Bajor, even though these ended up with beneficial treatments, and threatens to resign if Moset's program is allowed to continue. Torres, barely alive, also learns of Moset, and as a former Maquis member that was sympathetic to Bajor's cause, refuses to accept any procedure developed by the simulation. Moset does come across a procedure that should safely separate the creature from Torres without harming either, and after much deliberation with the senior staff, Captain Janeway orders the Doctor to proceed, overriding Torres' refusal.

 The Doctor and Moset start the operation in the holodeck, which involves applying a high frequency pulse to the creature's primary neo-cortex to weaken its motor controls. Initially this appears to work but as the operation continues, the effect of the pulse weakens, and Moset insists on increasing the frequency to make it more potent but potentially damaging the creature's synapses, but the Doctor orders him to stop, and instead applies the pulse to the secondary neo-cortex.

 During the operation, a ship similar in design to the creature arrives, and it attempts to communicate with Voyager, but this only comes out as a series of high-pitched shrieks. Voyager is unable to provide a comprehensible reply, and the new ship grabs Voyager in a power-draining tractor beam. Though her senior staff suggest using weapons to disable the new ship, Janeway holds firm onto arriving at a peaceful solution. First Officer Chakotay reroutes power to the holodeck to assure the Doctor can complete the operation with Moset. Eventually, the Doctor's treatment works, and they are able to stabilize both Torres and the creature. Janeway has the creature transported back aboard the new ship. It disengages the tractor beam and flies off.

 The Doctor poses the question to Captain Janeway about whether they should retain the Moset program, because, although his xenobiology knowledge would be of tremendous help, his presence has upset part of the crew; Torres herself is furious at Janeway for overriding her refusal even though it saved her life. Janeway leaves the decision to the Doctor, but asks him to be quick in deciding, having had her fill of moral controversy for the time being.

 The Doctor talks to Moset privately, and comes to learn Moset considers his methods necessary for Voyager's survival, and that itself requires them to experiment on "lower" lifeforms for the greater good. The Doctor wavers, and Moset tries to plead with him, pointing out that the Doctor himself has not lived up to the Hippocratic Oath by utilizing all available resources to save a life regardless of their origins. The Doctor is not moved by Moset's argument and orders the program terminated and deleted from the computer, explaining he cannot in good conscience use Moset's knowledge knowing how it was obtained.

Review:

At last, Voyager graces us with an issue exploration episode that doesn’t really put a foot wrong.  We get a crew member put in danger, a solution materialises, but then it turns out the solution stems from a morally questionable source. More specifically, is it ethically correct to save a life using medical knowledge gained through unethical scientific research.  Many of the Maquis crewmembers, including the imperilled B’Elanna, argue for morality, as does Tuvok on the grounds of logic, while the Doctor follows his programming to heal the patient in front of him, and Tom argues for saving B’Elanna out of love for her.  In essence, he knows and cares for her, he has no link to the victims of the research that’ll save her, so of course his vote is for saving her life.

 The two most interesting points for me in this episode are expressed by the character of Moset.  The first is when he points out how a lot of medical knowledge on Earth came from animal experimentation, noting the convenience of drawing a line between “higher” and “lower” life forms.  This is very much something human society has long done; only where the line gets drawn changes, but we still keep drawing it.  This feeds back to a point I’ve often tried to raise regarding how laws like age of consent vary internationally, and to quite a wide extent, and we so often forget that and choose to believe our local law is some kind of moral absolute.  By this same logic, the Doctor and the crew of Voyager aren’t as moral as they consider themselves to be, because all they’re doing is saying “ok, if the life used to arrive at cures A, B and C isn’t humanoid, it’s ok, but cures D, E and F are out because they came from experimenting on anything like us.”

 The second point expressed by Moset is how, when we need something, we tend to toss morality and ethics aside.  This is also true of a lot of people; most of us aren’t prepared to risk our survival solely on the basis of a principle, if only because that kind of self-sacrifice is antithetical to our survival instincts. Our drive is keep living as long as possible, and if the choice is between survival or our morality, we as a species would not survive if we all chose morality.  The crew of Voyager, and indeed Trek characters in general, are actually showcasing a high level of privilege by taking a morals-over-living stance, as does anyone siding with them.

 Now that’s not to say I condone unethical scientific research, or indeed any actions of an unethical nature.  What I am saying is having the option is a privilege, a luxury. Whether you’re a character in Trek or a person in the real world, you get to live in a world where humanity is suitably plentiful in number and advanced in its technology to accommodate such would-be nobility without consequence.  If we were only in the hundreds or thousands, being held back by too much morality would be to our disadvantage in terms of the sheer mathematics of species survival.  Numbering in the billions as we do, a lot of us can take the extreme moral high ground of dying for our ethics without risking species extinction.  Doing this is also a function of our brains being developed to allow for sentience and self-awareness, something not possessed by all forms of life.  Thus, we have a privilege of sorts that species of lower numbers and less complex minds do not with regard to ethics.

 If I have any critique on this episode, it’s that they put a main character in jeopardy, so much like the ‘Tuvix’ episode, the story is impacted by the consideration that the character has to survive.  Also not wild about the screeching that comprised the alien language in this episode; quite painful for a hearing-sensitive autistic like myself. As much as this also gives us a minor secondary issue of language barriers that is never really addressed, it also compels me to take off a point; next time, Trek-makers, consider people like me and don’t make noises that hurt my ears.  End score, 9 out of 10.

[supersizedsuperwomen]

Gwen Stacy: The Amazing Spider-Doll

Gwen shook her head as she regained consciousness, pulling back the hood of her costume and removing her mask. Where was she? The shadows were long and alien, and it wasn’t easy to pinpoint the light source…

A heavy aroma hung in the air, almost sickly sweet. A sugary and thick, artificial fruit scent was everywhere, like she was holding a back of Gummi Bears to her nose. She couldn’t orient herself to this terrain, so she closed her eyes completely and let her spider sense guide her.

Crawling up a tall, completely flat wooden surface, she finally reached the roof of this construct and dared to open her eyes. To her surprise, a group of at least a half dozen towering figures stood in the darkness before her.

She leapt back into a defensive crouch, ready to let webs fly at the slightest movement. Why hadn’t her spider sense warned her she was heading into an ambush?

After a second of tense anticipation, Gwen realized the figures hadn’t moved. At all. She shook her head.

Way to get spooked, Stacy. They’re obviously statues.

She approached them cautiously, hoping to find some sort of clue to hear whereabouts in their designs. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she had to stifle a laugh when she finally understood what they were:

They were anime girls. Twice life-sized anime girls, all nude or nearly so. Ryuko Matoi, Asuka Langley, Rei Hino…Gwen didn’t recognize the others, but there was no mistaking what-

The sound was like a building collapsing on itself, and the accompanying flood of light was almost enough to render her unconscious again. In the split second before she closed her eyes in pain, Gwen saw her environment in its totality, and felt she must be going mad.

“M…Mysterio, I’m one hundred and ten percent done with this,” she quipped weakly, mostly as a means to convince herself that what she saw was some arch-foe’s attempt to break her mind.

She was in a bedroom. More specifically, she was atop the desk in a bedroom, at most six inches tall. Those towering statues weren’t statues…they were collectible anime girl figurines, which now dwarfed her. That sickly sweet scent was from the candy wrappers and soda cans haphazardly tossed on every surface. The terrifying calamity had been the room’s occupant causally opening the door and turning on the light.

Knows my identity…loves candy and anime…

Gwen suspected her captor even before she opened her eyes again, and was still absolutely befuddled by the revelation.

“Peni Parker?”

The Japanese schoolgirl smiled like the cat that ate the canary as she towered over her fellow Spiderverse warrior. “Hi, Gwen-sempai!” She said with mock sweetness. “It’s so cool you came to visit! I never had a girl in my room before!”

“How…how did…why-?”

The giant young spider-woman’s grin only got wider. “‘How’ was easy! Pym Particles aren’t hard to find. And why? Because you’re my girlfriend now, silly!”

Gwen was already scanning the room, looking for an escape. What she found was…discouraging. Not only was the door the only entrance to the room, she was also seeing the posters on the wall and the books on Peni’s shelves.

Her giant captor had a lot of hentai, and she wasn’t shy about it.

“You’re nuts!” Gwen declared as she leapt from the tabletop, landing and dashing between Peni’s legs to try and reach the door. Unfortunately, Peni’s reflexes were lightning fast as well, and she simply fell back on her ass, trapping Gwen between the canyon of her legs.

With an even greater feeling of dread, Gwen realized that Peni wasn’t wearing anything under her skirt.

“That’s no way to talk to your girlfriend, little Spider-Girl,” Peni giggled. “Let me prove to you how…special you make me feel…”