#that would be recognised as abuse

[sideblogdotjpeg]

have been thinking about professor sol even. professor bufo with no clearly discernable lesson plan. sol bufo ostensibly martial arts professor who spent two weeks running a yoga and meditation program and shows up to the next class with crochet hooks for everyone. professor bufo who is technically supposed to be assigning grades to students but hasnt given anyone less than an A because "i think they worked really hard and they did a great job :)" (referring to the ugliest and most malformed pot holder anyone has laid eyes upon in their life). professor bufo who is on his way to cluelessly kickstart the sexual awakening of about half the cohort of the academys new students. sol bufo adjunct professor who is gone half the year and his first class back is so immediately and easily baited into going into a long tangent about how cool his friends are. sol who is pretty sure hes easily the most useless professor on campus and almost cries when he sees his little desk overflowing with thank you notes at the end of the year. professor bufo absolutely fucking gloriously hot in the tightest little sweater vest because there were faculty complaints when he wore a crop top to class.

[raymurata]

So who's your most problematic one?

Okay. So I've done Alec, Kelp, and Oak, so really the only one left is Tarlyn, who I honestly think is indeed my most problematic guy (gender neutral)

First of all, he's dead. Best get this out of the way. He is doomed by the narrative and bitches would die mad about it.

Then, let's talk about "guy (gender neutral)". He's an nb amab character who never questioned his gender and therefore used he/him all his life, so basically we're all misgendering him somehow so this is problematic.

His whole story is dark and edgy and awfully problematic. This sad wet rag of a boy covered in glitter never had a break; he was tormented by his mother his whole life and he never stopped loving her.

And that's not even touching on his actions yet. This anxious pixie nightmare boy is a spoiled LIL BITCH who thinks (or at least acts) like he's larger than life and better than everyone because that's the only way he can cope with his loneliness, looking at everyone as if they are beneath him. He is an arrogant bastard who genuinely thinks his nobility means he is entitled to his luxury, and that his intelligence makes him superior, and that his command of magic makes him deserving of accolades and applause and praise. But that's just to cover up his abysmal lack of self esteem, his vulnerability and his need for connection.

He is never nice to other people unless they're of higher status than him, or important in some way, otherwise he is either catty and rude or just uninterested and aloof. He unknowingly yearns for someone to love him (granted, abuse has made him incapable of identifying, let alone giving love), but whenever someone is nice in any way, he can't believe it is real and reads it as interest, as them wanting something in return. He reduces everyone into shrewd social-climbers in his eyes (thus insulting them) bc that's what his family is.

He insults his servants, he wears blood jewelry (and a bunch of it), he is vain and petty and snobbish and finicky, he uses magic to spy on people, he never prepared a single meal in his entire 150 years of life, he was over 100 years old when he started questioning whether it was really true that short-lived races are inferior to elves. He is a poor little meow meow born and raised and abused by multimillionaire right wing conservatives. My boy Tarlyn would vocally defend Trump in a modern au, what more do you need me to say? He is Problematic.

He spends a lot of time overthinking and questioning his family in his mind, but he never actually does anything to change shit.

Negative intervention wizard all the way. He doesn't start bullying anyone, but his friends do and they count on his magic to execute it, and he delivers. He was witness to {redacted}, designed a destructive magical item to be used by foot soldiers in an attack against the neighbouring nation, witnessed workers being gravely injured in his family's mines, and possibly even more! What other shit will we discover Tarlyn did?? The horrors are not over yet weeee!

And then, to escape all this shit, this extremely romantic asexual bitch (who needs to like someone to enjoy sex with them) seeks out sex with randos!! Because he is so lonely and he copies his jackass friends and his jackass brother and he is a people pleaser and he doesn't know how to set boundaries.... But he is so intelligent he convinces himself love is not real (he's never fucking seen it! Only in fiction! So it must!!! Be!!! Fake!!!!) and that he does want sex, when in reality he wants kisses and cuddles.... And he keeps getting in (or remaining in) these situations where he just proves it to himself that people only want to use him/his body/his magic/his position (whether that's true or not, he always manages to see it that way), thus confirming his cynical expectations and keeping himself miserable.

And that's not mentioning {redacted}.

Tarlyn wins my Problematic OC of the Decade Award!!! 🎉🎉🎉🎉

[buttercatrho]

nothings going on just felt like being cringe today

[boatemboys]

in another universe we were kids together

[fellhellion]

This part of the editorial from 2099 (pic sourced from this post) is so interesting to me because i don’t even think the idea of Miguel having these kinds of flaws is uninteresting or impossible, but I just personally would never have come to this conclusion just based on the text.

Like, when I personally look at how Miguel and Dana interact, I don’t see any indication that he emotionally condescends to having a relationship with her, when you’d think this strain of elitism should shine through in some part of their relationship at least initially in his arc.

I don’t look at Xina and Miguel’s interactions and interpret any sense him feeling threatened by her intelligence (even if we're just talking purely pre-spidermanning), when you’d think an element of that would be present, even in a flashback. He was a callous dickhead about the cheating explanation, but that alone without some corresponding behaviour to how he speaks to/treats Dana, even just as a flashback, just doesn’t offer the bridging piece to displaying what the authorial intent apparently was, at least for me.

Also, and by god we always come back to Dana’s writing being so damn lazy, but if Miguel - even if only at first - sought Dana out due to the emotional convenience she provided, what has prompted enough change that he is willing to bear and forgive actions like her seeking out the company of the man who drugged him when she wants to needle Miguel.

ALSO. PETER DAVID I AM SPEAKING DIRECTLY INTO YOUR EAR RN. ITS VERY SILLY TO ME TO POINT OUT THE MISOGYNISTIC STREAK INTENDED IN MIGUEL’S ACTIONS HERE BUT THEN LITERALLY JUST NOT BOTHER TO MAKE THE WOMAN THIS IS ABOUT MAKE LIKE. SENSE WHEN YOU WROTE HER. OFFER NO EXPLORATION INTO WHAT HER ACTIONS SPEAK TO IN HER PERSON AND DELVE INTO WHAT CONTRADICTORY ACTS MIGHT TELL US ABOUT HER.

[swytdoll]

IT’S A MATCH!

full nelson. how had you ended up here? squashed together as your tinder date—who was old enough to be your father—fucked his stiff cock into you. you were just looking for a little bit of fun after a few months in quarantine, and instead you found yourself stuffed to the brim whilst being pounded relentlessly. the sound of skin slapping together rang in your ears, the blonde’s groans and pants growing the closer he came. his balls pressed against your skin, blonde tuffs of pubic hair tickling you. his thick length rubbed your insides raw. you had never been fucked like this.

when you’d first seen kento nanami he looked like a gentleman, with his clean-cut hair and well-tailored suit. he looked like a person of status and importance, not the type to be splitting a girl that could be his daughter with his dick. but here he is, balls deep inside your pussy on his expensive sofa.

"you're such a naughty girl, fucking an old man like me," he said, voice thick with lust. "how did i get so lucky, mm? look at you, taking me so well." his cock curved in just the right way to hit that special spot inside you. and each time he pulled out, his fat tip would barely catch your g-spot, sending you into a frenzy, and when he pushed back in, he bottomed out. his large hands gripping your hips so tight you knew you would bruise.

salty tears fell from your glossy eyes. he had you full on fucking crying from the overstimulation, the pain only heightened by your inability to see. your hands were clutching at the fabric of the sofa, trying to keep yourself steady, but it was no use.

your cunt ached. the wet, sloppy sounds his angry cock made each time it slipped inside your abused hole had you feeling filthy, and it was clear that he wasn't going to slow down any time soon. your head was lolling back against his shoulder, your body had long given up on resisting. kento’s grip was the only thing keeping you upright, and if he hadn't had you in his hold, you would have collapsed a long time ago.

a familiar knot was forming in the pit of your stomach, and you were desperate to come. “ha—so wet, f-fuck you feel so good. feel me deep?” his voice was so gravelly and breathless that you almost didn't recognise it, and all you could do was moan. he laughed a little, his chest vibrating as he leaned down to nip at the skin of your shoulder.

this position, his thrusts were deeper. he was able to pull you flush against his cock. you were so full, it almost hurt.

his thrusts had turned erratic, and the room was filled with the sounds of your combined moans and heavy breaths. you felt his pace slow, and he began to thrust with more purpose. the tip of his cock grinding into your g-spot.

the waves of pleasure rolled over you, and your vision went white. you sobbed, toes curling. kento grunted as he fucked you through your orgasm, his thrusts even more sloppy as he bottomed out inside of you, coming with a growl. you felt his cum filling you, his hips stuttering pushing the heavy mess further in your cunt.

when you both came down from your high, he pulled out, his cum spilling out and running down your thighs. he released his hold on you, and you collapsed against the cushions with a humph, dazed. too dazed to see the man grabbing your phone from the coffee table, hands idly swiping through your apps. bingo. tinder. too dazed to see him swiftly delete the app.

he doesn't want to share. not you.

[divinekangaroo]

was also spending long shower moments contemplating just how *good* final fantasy x was, as well. Not that I have a ficcing urge for it, but mannnnnnnn, it was just so perfectly put together for its time.

[evanhereonearth]

The Insidious Cycle of the Abuser Who Says They Love You: Mythal and Solas

Likely goes without saying, but Veilguard spoilers all under the jump.

I have been absolutely wrecked by the end scenes in Veilguard for weeks now, and I want to do a deep dive into Solas's relationship with Mythal and how it absolutely reeks of abuse. Long post incoming!

CW for heavy discussion of cycles of abuse, trauma response, and abuse tactics.

When I finished my first playthrough, this moment hit me like an absolute freight train. His visceral response to her presence and the way he instinctively retreats and flinches back/puts out a hand to protect himself is a full-blown trauma response.

And then she starts talking and moving towards him, and it gets worse.

Solas curls in on himself; his body goes even further into self-protection mode. His face is downcast, not the way he bowed to his vhenan moments before with a straight back and open posture, but shrinking.

And then as she advances, he cowers.

He completely folds inward. He crumples; he shakes, he hyperventilates, and the moment she reaches for him, he fumblingly offers her the lyrium dagger to kill him with.

Is this shame? Yes, of course, but it's far, far more than that.

For the sake of brevity, I'm going to limit this list to the four most widely recognised trauma responses:

Fight

Flight

Freeze

Fawn

As someone whose primary trauma response is fawn (wooo CPTSD), which is intensely common among people who experience complex trauma, especially through emotional and prolonged physical/mental abuse where their needs are discarded, pushed aside, or otherwise steamrolled, I felt this right alongside Solas. My own body responded to seeing it. This is, quite frankly, one of the most visceral and realistic (and extreme) fawn responses I've seen depicted in media.

Mythal in this scene is...phew, something else.

"She was the best of them," Solas tells us in Trespasser.

But she was not good, everything tells us in Veilguard.

Let's look at his regrets in chronological order.

Through Solas's memories of regret, we see this germinate in his foundational regret: leaving the Fade to take a physical form.

He does not want to do this. He tells her he does not want to do this. From the conversation, it's clear it's not the first time she's asked.

And the way she asks? Outright coercion.

"You have so long observed the world. Why not consider joining it?" [I want you to do this thing, so I will frame it as logical for you to make the choice I want you to make.]

"But I have no desire to live as humans. Besides, this talk of taking on a solid form. I think you underestimate the danger." [I don't want to do that. It does not feel safe to me.] "When you took the glowing stone to build your body, did the earth not shake?" [This is dangerous and selfish.]

"The lyrium gives us the strength we had when we were of the Fade; we are the best of both physical and Fade." [It makes us powerful, so I don't care about the risks.] "I need your wisdom, Solas, to withstand the louder voices like Elgar'nan's who would go too far." [If you do not come with me, a tyrant you abhor will make others suffer.] "I need you."

"This is madness. You must know that." [I don't want to do this at all. This will hurt me. I don't want this.] "I will always follow where you go." [Because I love you and trust you.]

Mythal's words in this part are classic abusive framing. When appealing to his natural curiosity does not work and he expresses strong rejection of her logical thought process (just because I have observed this place does not mean I want to go there, echoing his comments to the Inquisitor in DAI: "Many Orlesian peasants dream of travelling to exotic Rivain. But not everyone wants to go to Rivain!") and expresses that there is significant danger to continue to build bodies out of lyrium, she changes tactics.

Her second tactic is that it gives them power--she implies that he is limited and not enough for being only of the Fade. If he follows her, he will be the best of both, like she is. She clearly already sees herself as above him.

Her third tactic is pure emotional blackmail: "I need you. I will give in to the tyrants without your wisdom, and having your counsel in the Fade is not enough. If you don't go against your own nature and desires, people will suffer...and it will be your fault for not being by my side."

She doesn't say those things outright, but they are implied by everything she is saying. He says again he doesn't want it--that it is madness and that she must be aware of that despite her ignoring any suggestion that she actually is. All she is seeing is power and her desires: for Solas to do what she wants him to do.

So he agrees. Because she is his friend, and she says she needs him.

As far as core wounds go, this one is a doozy. It's absolutely brutal, because it's irrevocable. It's a point of no return. It's the first in what will become millennia of regret, of her ignoring the Wisdom she coerced out of the Fade to do what she wants regardless, to continue to push him to twist his nature under the guise of the greater good, to continue to cede to Elgar'nan and enable the very tyrants she promised him to balance.

This regret was deeply painful for me to watch. The nuance here is easily lost if people don't understand abuse tactics and how this sort of manipulation is used. It also serves to bind Solas to Mythal, an enormous sunk cost fallacy in the making--once he has made this choice, there is no going back.

And you see Solas curled in on himself in anguish and regret from the trauma of taking a physical form. It is in deep, painful contrast to his open, free wingspan as a spirit of Wisdom; he will never be the same.

"Have you created what we need?" From the outset Mythal is framing this as his idea as much as hers, when from everything he says, that is not true.

"With this, the proper ritual will sunder every Titan from its spirit. But you must know, those severed dreams will certainly be driven mad, a disembodied blight of pain and anger. It--is--awful what we are doing."

"And the only way to end this war."

Again, Solas offers the wisdom she claimed she took him from the Fade to listen to. He warns her, again, of the danger. He does not want to do this. Just like he warned her of the earth quaking when they made their bodies--they, the Evanuris, started this war by taking what they wanted regardless of who it hurt. He never wanted to participate in it, but now he is in the middle of that war. Mythal was one of the initial perpetrators of this war; she brought Solas into it against his will because he loved her, and now he's stuck. He is past his point of no return. And she is still using his heart against him. She has isolated him from everyone he knew in the Fade; he has no one to support him. He. Only. Has. Her.

This is another classic abuse tactic; if the person being abused has no one else, they will continue to enable that abuse even if it harms others, because they cannot see a way out. If you don't do what I say, it will destroy our children, our family. If you don't do what I say, this war will consume all you have, and you no longer have a home to return to. If you don't do what I say and hurt yourself and the Other, more will suffer, and it will be your fault.

Again, his posture, curled up and broken, appearing to cradle a now-tranquil Titan beneath him--and be embraced in return. This is an interesting artistic choice here, one that aches. It speaks to the depth of his own wound and how much it rent his own spirit to follow through with Mythal's wants here; that it sundered him from his spirit as much as it did the Titans.

"You cannot do this, Elgar'nan! You swore we would give up our commands when this war was over!"

"Our people need our leadership. If you are unwilling, leave."

From Elgar'nan, this is expected. From Mythal?

"Our people must rebuild. And we must help unite them."

Solas, once again, betrayed. He put his trust in Mythal and in the other Evanuris to follow through with their promise. Everything he has done thus far is poisoned in this moment; had the Evanuris indeed stepped back rather than stepped on necks, perhaps Solas could have healed, found a way to live with what he had done, maybe even to make amends. But this starts his war anew--and Mythal is standing with his enemy despite her promises, despite every wheedling word she's used to get what she wants from him over the centuries and longer, despite him turning from everything, everything, he loved to love her. This is the moment where he understands that he has only been a tool to her all along.

"So we did not fight for freedom, but to conquer this land and our own."

Let's pick apart Solas's words.

So we did not fight for freedom: He truly believed that he was fighting for freedom, that no matter how bad it got, that he could bear it for freedom.

But to conquer this land: Literally the land, I think, because of the Titans. To subdue them at all costs. This was not what he came for, but he believed Mythal.

And our own: Our own, our people, more spirits we gave bodies for this war, more who may not have wanted to leave the Fade. Our own, our people. To Solas, he is one of them. In this moment, he realises how much Mythal holds herself above all of them.

Elgar'nan's words are all too telling: "We fought to win. And now the Evanuris are as gods. I do not answer to Mythal's annoying lapdog."

They all--all--see him thus. As her pet.

Because he is. She has, until now, controlled him utterly with her manipulation and "need" for him.

"The people are afraid. They must believe in something." Mythal does not even stand up for Solas here; she does not reject Elgar'nan's perception of him. All she does is further distance herself.

The people are afraid: The Evanuris made them. They are as controlled as Solas and more.

Elgar'nan asserts, "They need strength."

"And wisdom." Mythal has the absolute gall to attribute this to herself, when Solas is the source of the wisdom she "needed" for so long. (Belated addition: And another level here: she may also be saying again that she needs him, but doing so in a way that doesn't require her to stand up for him directly. Honestly, fucking gross.)

"They need gods who can protect them," Elgar'nan continues.

"We are not gods. You will learn that." Solas's voice here is pure defeat. The scales are falling from his eyes.

"Every lapdog holds a wolf inside," says Elgar'nan.

Solas knows that Elgar'nan's "protection" is hollow, based on subjugation. And I think in this moment, he learns that Mythal's is based only in her belief that she is better than those beneath her, who cannot possibly handle themselves.

So her lapdog becomes the Wolf.

"I was not certain you would come."

Solas's opening words in this regret show the distance between them already and how much he has realised he does not know this woman who called herself his friend.

And her response is to instantly blame him.

"You are the one who walked away. I never turn my back when my friend needs me."

In putting this post together, this line absolutely sucker punched me. I've watched these several times already, but the absolute audacity to blame him for standing up for his principles for the first time against all her manipulation? Hoo.

She blames him for doing just that, "turning his back when his friend needed him." She needed her enabler, and when he stopped, she turned bitter. Just like any abuser.

That he goes straight into "The Evanuris seek the magic of the Blight" instead of engaging, honestly shows that he's still Wisdom. That is one battle that is unwinnable, trying to stand up against an abuser's bullshit like that.

"Impossible," she says. "The Blight is safely sealed away forever."

Gaslight, girl boss, gatekeep.

"Though I wish I could believe you." [You have lied to me so many times.] "I have sensed the breaking of the wards."

And her answer is patronising. "I will investigate your claims." [I don't believe you.] "If they forget the danger of the Blight, I will endeavour to remind them."

Solas knows this is futile. "What if, instead, you left the Evanuris and remained with me? Do you not wish for freedom from this struggle?"

He asks her, again, to veer from the dangerous path. He desperately wants to believe he was not completely wrong about her, I think. If she were to leave, he could heal somewhat, for not having so thoroughly misjudged her character.

Am I enough for you? Was I ever enough? is the unspoken question here when he asks if she will remain with him.

And in return, he gets back even more patronising bullshit and hubris. "Be at peace, love. I will stop them."

(Can you tell Mythal pisses me off?)

She calls him love. What an unbearable insult after everything, to go on telling him she cares for him whilst ignoring his wisdom--the very wisdom she coerced him into leaving the Fade so she would have by her side--and consolidating her own power at the expense of his people.

"As you must," he says. "The Blight is our mistake."

Might be unpopular, but I do not think Solas bears a split fifty-fifty custody for whose fault the Blight is. Could he have said no about the dagger? Could he have pushed then? Maybe. But by this point, he'd already had probable millennia of complex trauma and a deeply abusive codependent relationship, probably also a level of magical bond. Like, sorry, Trick and BioWare, if you want to retcon everything you shared with us in Inquisition about being in service to the Evanuris ("You have given yourself into the service of an ancient elven god! You are Mythal's creature now. Everything you do, whether you know it or not, will be for her.") AND Mythal casually overriding her servants' will and Solas burning her vallaslin off his face and leaving a scar and devoting himself to freeing the elven people from the Evanuris's domination, fine, but I don't buy it. Even if there was no magical compulsion on him all this time, that is immaterial.

Complex trauma literally rewires the brain to survive. She spent lifetimes programming him, isolating him, stripping from him every bit of agency he had. This man did not have the capacity to say no.

When our no is trampled even for a few months or years, we stop trying to use it. We comply. We, as mortal humans, cannot begin to comprehend the compounded trauma of millennia of this happening with the stakes of worlds in the balance. Solas, quite simply, has lost the entire ability to consent. No one of us can even imagine.

Yet he managed to walk away from her somehow, when she chose Elgar'nan. This man is stronger than anyone gives him credit for.

The dagger was clearly Mythal's idea. The plan to sever the Titans from their dreams, clearly her idea. To end the war. For there to be "peace". For there to be "freedom". Except that never came.

His loyalty was to her and to their people; hers was only ever to herself.

And again, she walks away and lets Solas suffer.

What a good friend.

[screaming from the general direction of Scotland]

She put her trust in monsters instead of her oldest friend, and the monsters ate her face.

Anyone surprised? I'm surprised. (I'm not surprised.)

And on top of this, Mythal finally, finally giving Solas one tiny breadcrumb that she had any principles remaining? I think that cemented his bindings to her forever. Not just that the Evanuris killed her, but why they killed her: because after millennia, she listened to him.

For someone that deep into trauma and abuse? Well. We know what happened.

It cannot be overstated that with his imprisonment of the Evanuris and the Blight, Solas saved the entire world. The entire world. Every living being in Thedas had a chance at life because of him. Only because of him.

Morrigan says it early on in the game, that for all the consequences of the veil (which, it also must be said, was not supposed to be global!), "his imprisonment of the Evanuris was just. Had he not done so, all of Thedas would have fallen to the Blight."

And the world has hated him for it.

He woke after sleeping for millennia, exhausted by this immense act of magic, to discover that not only had it gone horribly wrong, but that it had cost his people everything. That Tevinter had come in and enslaved them, released a trickle of the Blight after breaking into the Black City, used so much blood magic that the veil itself all over Thedas has been in tatters--not least because in releasing the Blight, the survivors had had to face down and kill the dragon thralls (archdemons) of the Evanuris, rendering five out of seven of them mortal, and with their deaths over the intervening centuries, the veil had grown threadbare with only two Evanuris sustaining it.

The risks were catastrophic, the price unbearable.

Everything he'd ever done to protect the world could still come crashing down...and in a sick twist of fate, he would be alive to see it.

And, shockingly, so would Mythal.

Mythal, whose fragment has just been chilling in a swamp for centuries in human form. Mythal, whose abuse of him lasted through the entirety of the world's history. Mythal, who, due to the Evanuris's betrayal and her abusee's abandonment, has become little more than retribution.

Mythal, who could have set him free at any point in all this time and didn't, because he was hers.

Mythal, who is the only remaining person with the power to do what he feels must be done.

I find it interesting that they chose not to use the post-Inquisition dialogue at all. Interesting also that they used Mythal's voice actor and not Flemeth's. This feels like a retcon, but we'll go with it. Whatevs.

"I knew that you would find me soon enough. You need the power of a god, the strength that I alone still carry."

She's still asserting her own godhood.

He's not having it. "The blighted Evanuris will soon break free from their prison. I must make a stronger one that can contain them."

He's not wrong. Not even a little bit wrong. And he's also right that she won't help him. Why would she? She never has.

"While the prison is important, it is not the only goal you seek."

"Why should I not tear down the veil? And bring back immortality to all the elven people? They deserve it."

And this is where I get even more raging, because Mythal's answer is this: "The elven people of today do not deserve to see the world they love torn apart to salve your conscience."

I'm sorry, what?

The world they love? The world that has offered them nowt but literal genocide for thousands of years? The world where in Tevinter, they're chattel slaves and worse, fuel for blood magic without a thought? The world where in the "civilised", slaveless nations to the south, they're either confined to alienages and subjected to repeated genocide (that's what a "purge" is, if anyone isn't clear on that) or the remnants of the Dales, who are the descendents of another enormous genocide? The world where elven magic has been pillaged but elven mages in human settlements are confined to Circles and abused or made tranquil or also genocided by Templars invoking the Rite of Annulment? The world where they're called "elf savage" and "rabbit" and "knife ear" and cannot participate in Thedosian religious life because the Chantry erases every instance of elves from even the Chant of Light? The world where it took the Inquisitor installing a perpetrator of genocide on the Orlesian throne (both Celene AND Gaspard fit this bill) and either having Celene reconcile with Briala (Briala and Celene's relationship could be a whole other post. Boak.) and blackmailing them to give a single elf lands and a title? That world????

What the fuck, Mythal, die faster.

I got real mad there for a second. I'm fine. I'm fine!

Solas, once more, simply says, "I must fix what I have broken. I am sorry."

More than she deserves, frankly. Man's a mess, but at least he tries. She's been chilling in a swamp and pulling puppet strings for ages and abusing her kids. Nudging history like it's some sort of hobby, because it has always just been pieces on a board to her. They have never been people in her eyes like they are in his.

"As am I, old friend."

Aye, get tae fuck. Friends don't treat friends the way you treated Solas. The closest thing to an apology Solas will ever get from her is that she pretty much just lies down and dies when he comes to kill her. And she still won't set him free before he does. Has to continue to twist her own knife.

This scene has me riled.

And this takes us back to the beginning of this post.

To her essence showing up to release him from her service.

In what is, to me, the least accountable, bare minimum non-apology (she never actually says she's sorry) I've had the displeasure to witness in a videogame, with Solas literally cowering before her and offering her a knife to kill him with since this is the first time he's seen her actual, non-Flemythal face since she died.

This was never a friendship of equals. Ever.

She got one thing right. She did break him. But she knew it all this time, and she never took a single step to put it right until pushed. Her corner of the Crossroads, which he built for her in the desperate hope that she would show a glimmer of the friend he believed she was, notably has a pair of wolf statues. Both beheaded.

She's spent all this time punishing him further.

He never went to visit her? I wouldn't either. I could not blame him.

This has gone to an angry place. So let's conclude with what is, I think, the entire point.

Grace.

"I lied. I betrayed you."

"I forgive you."

Has anyone--anyone--in all his long life, ever said those words to him?

I'll say that again: has anyone--ANYONE--in all his millennia of existence, EVER said those words to him?

I forgive you.

Mythal certainly didn't.

The world certainly didn't.

He has shouldered all the blame of an entire pantheon, a war that broke the world, a blight, everything, always, and while people have come alongside him to help him, I am not sure anyone (certainly not anyone he cares about) has given him the grace of forgiveness.

The beauty of this final scene for me wasn't just Ilaana, wasn't just Ilaana reuniting with the man she has loved for a decade who has spent all that time pushing her away so he couldn't--in his mind--inevitably poison the love of the only person who has seen his spirit and cherished it without twisting him.

It was the slow realisation that Rook trusted his love enough to try.

It was Morrigan, who carries all Mythal's memories and her own of Flemythal's abuse and machinations, who responds to Rook's question about her views of Solas with: "Or do you mean to discover if I would stand directly against the Dread Wolf, were there a need? I shall aid you in any way but that. What has passed between Solas and Mythal...I beg you: do not ask this of me again."

Morrigan knows. She will not raise a hand against him. She will not try to stop him. She will let the veil fall. She will not fight with Rook. Because she knows this being whose memories she holds has harmed him enough.

Solas, in these final moments, even before Mythal shows up to gut punch him, realises all these people have somehow, somehow, banded together to help him.

Not work for him.

Not be his agents.

Not worship him.

Not follow him blindly.

To help him. To help Solas. To help him, after all this time, take the first steps towards himself. Towards his own essence, so long twisted into something he never sought or wanted.

The Inquisitor and Morrigan certainly understand what it's like to be seen only as the symbol others raise in your image. Rook will learn that someday, but is still naive.

But even with that naivete, willing. Present. Able to put aside being a chess piece on his board. Able to see that they would never have succeeded without his help. Able to trust two people who know him better than they ever will.

Able to offer him grace.

And when they produce Mythal's essence, how that must brutalise him; to think that perhaps all this has been to let his abuser kill him back. He clearly thinks that's what's happening. He breaks. He fawns. He offers her the blade that has caused so much pain.

Her release of him is the bare minimum she owes him. I've already railed about that.

What is transcendent here, transformative--it is the mortals.

The mortals offering grace to a god who never wanted to be a god.

It's them together showing him a way out of an endless cycle of trauma and abuse. No one of them alone is enough. Without Rook, they wouldn't have Mythal's essence; Morrigan can't go get it, and she can't do what is needed because she's not actually Mythal, only has her memories. Without Morrigan, who can stand there with those memories but from the compassionate perspective of someone who has watched them in horror from the outside. She's far from objective, but she can do this one thing to help.

Without the Inquisitor (romanced or not, still someone he let know him as he most desperately wanted to be known--the Fade-walker, the Dreamer, the humble mage who desperately needed a friend). The Inquisitor, who kneels before him to comfort him. Who sees his hurt and responds.

If romanced, without Lavellan, who kneels to repeat back words he once shouted at the Nightmare in the Fade after Adamant.

"Dirth ma, harellan. Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ema mar din." (Speak, traitor. Your victory was fruitless. Your pride gives way only to your death.)

To which Solas replied, "Banal nadas."

On the surface, nothing is inevitable, but can also be taken to mean that nothingness is inevitable, entropy, the final void. (Thanks to Dumped, Drunk, and Dalish for this excellent long post on this scene.)

And here is Lavellan, kneeling beside him with those words. "Banal nadas ar lath, ma vhenan."

Nothing is inevitable but the love we share, my heart.

I see everything you are, all you have done, and I love you. I forgive you for the pain you have caused me. I understand, see, and forgive.

No one has ever shown him grace like this.

Ever.

And Solas, this shattered man, sobs.

He sobs.

Someone has taken the trouble to isolate his voice in the video. This man has nothing left. And, after millennia of this trauma cycle repeating over and over, he is finally free to make the choice he wants to make. It's not the outcome he wants; that has to be said. He doesn't want to leave the veil up. He doesn't want to be bound into prison forever with no hope of seeing the world he fought for ever return.

But he is done.

In the Fade after Adamant, there is a cemetery with the worst fears of every companion scriven on shrines and stones. Solas's is dying alone.

After all of this, he is willing to face just that--and would, if not for her.

She knows his deepest fears. She has faced the demon Mythal made of the man she loves. She has given unwitting comfort to the spirit of Wisdom still within. She has seen his sweetest self. Nurtured him, cherished him, and has been nurtured and cherished in return.

Does she want to leave the world behind and spend eternity in a Fade prison? Probably not her first choice. It's not my Ilaana's; she has been on his side all this time, dreaming of a world where the spirits she loves can be reunited with the world in peace and ready to make that happen.

But it was not supposed to happen this way. It did happen this way anyway.

He has sacrificed everything--everything--including his own spirit self, his soul, his life. How could she not offer him what no one ever has? A friend forever, a lover willing to walk the din'an shiral by his side, a companion to ward off the forever alone.

Together, the two of them can begin to heal, with their counterpart who has always seen through the burdens of the world to the soul within.

This is the only thing I've ever had any faith in. Grace I know you carry us Grace And it was such a mess Grace I don't say it enough Grace You are so loved

[httpsleclerc]

the story of us

pairing/s: Max Verstappen x Sister!Reader, Eventual Charles Leclerc x Single Mom!Verstappen!Reader

eries summary: after a traumatic childhood, y/n verstappen leaves an abusive relationship with a 6 month old baby in tow, with her brother trying to discreetly matchmake her with a certain Monegasque.

warnings: DEPICTIONS OF CHILD ABUSE, BABY TRAPPING, DOMESTIC VIOLENCE, ANGST!!

word count: 2.4k words

a/n: praying this shit does not flop I put my heart and soul into this one - also ! This one is mostly just backstory!

the first time you ever met Charles Leclerc, you were 9 years old, sporting a poorly hidden bruise under your eye which your so called father had given you for 'talking back' after he had yelled at you for Max losing. You didn't understand that, why was it your problem if Max lost - although he didn't really lose, as such, he came second or third, but in your dad's opinion? They were the first to lose. You had wandered off from your father, claiming that you needed to get yourself a drink of water, but you knew that Max had just came second, Charles had beaten him and you could already see how mad your dad was going to be, you'd seen his grip tightening on the barrier, his face growing more and more red as Max fell further and further behind the young Monegasque. 

"And Charles Leclerc of Monaco is our winner for today, congratulations Charles!"

Your heart ached at the announcement, as now it was confirmed what awaited you when you got home. You sighed, taking the last gulp of your water as you made your way back to the small podium area, seeing who you assumed to be Charles' family cheering him on after winning - You frowned at the very thought of a loving and functional family, you knew that your mother loved you, but she didn't by any means particularly like you, it didn't seem like anyone did, since you only apparently existed as your fathers punching bag and your mom was only interested in you when it was her weekend with you and Max. Spotting your father, you weaved your way through the crowd, your heartbeat increasing as you silently stood beside him, quietly praying that if you were quiet enough, he might not sense your presence and maybe, just maybe, you wouldn't be punished for your brother coming second.

Looking down at his father from the 2nd place spot on the small podium set-up, Max frowned as he looked at Jos and then to you - He was 13, yet somehow understood that this, him coming second, would somehow be your fault, and you would be the one to take the beating from Jos. It was cruel, but it was all you and Max had known, since your mother had taken only your older sister and not you - Max had guessed you had been getting punished since Jos assumed if Max had to watch you suffer the consequences of you losing, then it would make him perform better. In some way, maybe it did - But maybe it just scared Max that one day his father would take it too far, and instead of icing bruises under your eye, he would be calling the police.

From his spot on the podium, he flinched slightly as he saw your father harshly grab your wrist, dragging you through the crowd and away to the car - Max would know to hang back for a bit, he had seen Jos hit you enough to know that it would just end in him feeling such overwhelming guilt for not winning and therefore stopping anything from happening to you.

However

Jos' beatings of you had not gone unnoticed, as the young Monegasque winner of the day had made his way to his families car, his two brothers and parents already inside, he found you, sitting on the wet grass beside your fathers car, shivering and sobbing.

"Um...are you okay?" He asked you awkwardly, unsure of how to either help or console you. When you looked up at him, he immediately recognised you - You were Max's sister, it was obvious, since you two were sometimes mistaken for twins despite having a 4 year age gap. You sniffled and nodded - Which Charles knew to be a lie, the make up which attempted to cover a barely healed bruise under your eye had worn off, and a new bruise under your other eye, along with a cut on your cheek and a busted lip proved that you had taken yet another beating from your father. He frowned, he had only heard rumours that Jos Verstappen was...unhinged - But he had never thought them to be true in this way, despite being the same age as your brother, Charles knew that you were a defenceless child, and so was Max - Yet everyone was too fearful of Jos to help either of you.

"Charles, let's go!" He stammered, looking between you and his older brother, impatient to get home and out of the wet. You hadn't said a word to him, only silently begging him to please, tell someone, about what your father was doing to you and your brother - At this point, you would take living with your mom, even if it meant your existence was ignored, anything would be better than this.

"I have to go, but I hope to see you again soon," Charles offered you a genuine smile, waving back at you as he walked to his family car, shutting the door and staring off at you as they left the track.

You sighed sadly as you dropped your head between your knees once more - You knew that this was only a part of what awaited you when you got home, but some part of you hoped that he would make you walk home, so you could take as long as you liked, and maybe by the time you got home, he would forget about the brutality he had planned out for you as soon as you walked through the doors.

Like that ever happened.

13 Years Later

You had apparently never escaped your dad.

Put better, you had never escaped men like your dad.

Thanks to the way you had been raised and how you had been treated by the man who was supposed to show you how you should expect to be treated by a man, you had ended up with a string of awful boyfriends, who in the end, received a very verbal and intensive warning from your older brother. Most of them ran away with their tails between their legs at the mention of Max's name.

But one had stuck around longer than the others, going as far to get you pregnant with your daughter, Romy. Max had been convinced you were ready to leave him until he baby trapped you, he knew that would send you running back to him, with the hopes of having the happy family you never got to have yourself. He had been fine with you the entire time you were pregnant, even managing to almost convince Max that he had changed, and that he was ready to look after you and your daughter.

Lukas was different, you told Max. You told him that Lukas looked after you and your unborn child, especially after finding out that you were carrying a baby girl. You told Max that he doted on you, talking to your bump like Romy could hear him, which he argued that she could, since she kicked at the sound of his voice.

And for a while, Max was convinced that Lukas had changed, he had changed his mind on the idea that you had been baby trapped and that maybe it had purely been an unplanned pregnancy.

How wrong he was.

After the birth of Romy, everything went back to normal - You weren't allowed to talk to your brother, you could only go out when he let you, Victoria and Max weren't allowed to come and visit their niece, you weren't allowed to have your phone. It was around 6 months after having Romy when you realised that you had to leave, you couldn't bring your baby girl up like this, and have her turn out like you? Absolutely not.

You wanted your girl to have a chance in this world, you wanted to break the cycle.

So that's what you did.

During the night, while you had Romy settled after her feed and your boyfriend was asleep, you slipped out onto the balcony, your phone in your shaking hands as you dialled Max's number, praying that he would either be awake normally or on streaming.

"Hold on guys, I don't know who is calling...me," Max's joking demeanour dropped as he saw your face flash across the screen. He hadn't heard from you since you stopped returning his calls after you had Romy six months ago. Abruptly, Max ended his stream. "Y/N?"

"Max?" He could tell that you were close to tears, if not already crying. "I'm leaving name but I'm scared to because h-he's been drinking and I don't know if he wakes up i-if he'll hurt me or Romy. I don't care what he does to me, I just don't want him to hurt her." You cried to your brother, nervously peering into your bedroom through the curtains to make sure that the two of them were still asleep - If Romy so much as stirred, then it was game over.

Max was astounded.

Of course, he was going to help you, he was your big brother, how could he not? But you calling 6 months after you last spoke to tell him you were ready to leave, he could have cried in relief.

"Okay, do what you can quietly, I'll come over and make sure that you and Romy can get away safely," Max proposed to you, he knew this was a big, monumental step for you, you needed him to be there for you, now more than ever. "We've got a spare room here, I'll ask Kelly if she by some chance has even an old cot of P's that Romy can sleep in for the night." You sniffled and nodded, even though Max couldn't see the gesture.

"Thank you Maxie, I love you," Tears sprung to your older brother's eyes, he couldn't imagine how much you had been through, the fear of your boyfriend harming your baby must have been a constant forefront on your mind, you must have been exhausted.

"I love you too, I'll see you soon, okay?"

"Okay."

You hung up, sighing in relief as you realised that you had taken the hardest step of your life - Yes, you were leaving your abusive boyfriend, but you were also leaving your daughter's father. Moving as quietly as you could, you buckled your sleeping baby into her car seat - Thinking if Kelly didn't have anything; which would be fine; then you could have Romy sleep in her car seat. You packed a small bag for her and yourself - If you needed anything else, you could pick it up when you needed it, as far as you were concerned right now, you and Romy just needed out of here.

the next morning when you woke up, the night before felt like a blur. You swore you were high on adrenaline, and now you were on a huge comedown. You turned on your side, reaching to hold your babies hand, smiling gently as you now realised that you wouldn't have to face seeing (Name) when you went out of this room. You sat up as Romy stirred, reaching out to lift her from the next to me bed that Kelly had put beside the bed in the spare room.

"Shshsh, it's okay, my love, mama's got you," You rocked Romy, pushing her small tuft of her hair out of her face as she fussed before latching to you.

"Mommy, I want to see auntie Y/N's baby!" You smiled, hearing Penelope being so excited to meet Romy, even though she would have to wait a while to be able to play with her. 

"I know, but you need to wait until they wake up," Kelly tried to reason with the young girl, who pouted and crossed her arms and turned to Max, as if he was going to risk going in and waking a sleeping baby.

"Maxie!" Penelope whined, pouting as Max and Kelly chuckled at her behaviour. They both looked up as the door to the spare room opened, you holding Romy at your hip. "Mommy look!" Penelope pointed at your daughter excitedly. "Can I hold her auntie Y/N?! Please, please please?!" You chuckled and smiled down at Penelope.

"Maybe not right now P, she just had a really big breakfast and I wouldn't want her to throw up all over your nice pyjamas," You reasoned with the small girl, smiling as she nodded in understanding. "I promise that you can hold her later."

"Yay!" Satisfied with your answer, Penelope ran back to her toys, occupied with whatever new toy Max or Kelly had bought for her. You smiled as you continued patting Romy's back, hearing her coo and try to wiggle towards her uncle Max.

"Aww, she wants me," Max cooed at her, taking her from your arms and holding her the way you previously did. "She's so cute, almost makes you want another, Kelly?" 

"In your dreams, Max Emillian," You laughed at the two of them, you knew that Max was a great bonus dad for Penelope, he was the opposite of Jos - Which was still a pretty low bar. "How old is she Y/N?" 

"She's almost 7 months, which is crazy for me, she was my tiny little baby and now she's starting to crawl," You told Kelly, holding your arms out to your brother as Romy started fussing in his arms, reaching out to you. "Anyway um...thank you, both, for last night. Lukas text me this morning, he doesn't want us back, left all our stuff in the lobby of the apartment which is fine cause I need to go back for my car anyway." 

"Don't be silly, I'll go get it, you don't need to go back there. And anyway, there's someone you're spending the day with to get back into socialising - He's great with kids too, so you can take Romy with you." Max told you, watching as your brows furrowed in confusion.

"What? Who is it?"

"Do you remember the whiny one from Monaco that had the inchident? Him, he got broken up with and he's been depressed so I thought you two could be friends."

[bougiebutchbinch]

Look my favourite 'Starscream joins the Autobots' concept involves him absolutely playing up his victimhood in a manipulative attempt to win sympathy. He's a Decepticon! He's Starscream. Of course he does! He will act however weak and vulnerable he needs to, in order to achieve his ends.

This gives him a fascinating duality. He's a Machiavellian selfish would-be-tyrant who fucking dares the Autobots to feel sorry for him; while at the same time, he's a wheedling, snivelling mess, making puppy-dog eyes as he cunningly reveals tailored scraps of his abusive relationship with Megatron to win over the 'soft-sparked' Autobots.

Everything he shares is true.

In fact, things with Megatron were probably even worse than he portrays, albeit more complex - i.e., with far more goading and violence on his side, but which in NO WAY justified the ghastly abuse he was subjected to.

This is a way for him to feel like he's in control of the shit that's been done to him. If he's using his victim status as a weapon, it feels like it's his. He's taken possession of it. He's made it into something more powerful, in his mind (even if this defence tactic kinda... prevents him from fully recognising that what happened to him was actually really really awful).

I wish more fics engaged with this aspect of his character, where he's PERFECTLY WILLING to go 'OH THE ABUSE. OH I HAVE SUFFERED' if it'll get him ahead in life, while perhaps not even fully understanding just how much trauma he's gone through.

[danatron1]

Help trans people in the UK!

TERF island sucks, however thousands of innocent people are harmed by their tyranny. Have sympathy for brits like me who would rather be born anywhere else.

An unprecedented attack on trans rights took place last Wednesday, with the UK Supreme Court writing trans people out of the Equality Act by redefining "woman" to only mean assigned female at birth.

Protests erupted across the country, with thousands taking to the streets to fight for trans rights. With our current government, our suffering falls on deaf ears.

It won't be enough to just fight in the streets, but we need to fight in the courts. The UK Supreme Court is the highest court in the country, with no chance of appeal. However, there is hope.

The European Court of Human Rights can step in if we can get them to recognise this blatant violation of human rights. Leaving the EU doesn't get you out of it! This legal case will be time consuming and expensive, so please donate all that you can to help us win this fight. We're fighting JK Rowling money, but together we can make a difference!

If you can't donate, please share instead!

If you need to know how bad this situation really is, keep reading.

The Supreme Court's ruling, where 3 men decided what "woman" means, puts all women at risk. Male police officers in the UK now have the power to strip search any women they believe to be trans.

It is an offence to enter a single sex bathroom and changing room different from your birth sex, but also to enter one where your presence is "likely to cause offence". This leaves trans men and women with nowhere to go, as well as gender-non conforming cis people.

Non-binary people naturally have zero legal recognition whatsoever, the existence of trans men has been ignored again, and intersex people have been written out of existence.

Trans people are always sent to male prisons regardless of sex. If you don't know the horiffic ramifications of this, Google v-coding.

Gender Recognition Certificates, which were supposed to update your legal sex for all purposes, have been rendered functionally worthless. Trans people are being forced into their assigned sex at birth.

Trans women are banned from rape crisis shelters, domestic abuse protection, and discrimination claims such as equal pay. Trans women have also unsurprisingly been banned from Women's sports.

Trans women are banned from all lesbian groups and organisations, and not just that, cis women are too if they're dating a trans woman. The court ruled that "lesbian" means "AFAB attracted to AFAB", making cis women dating trans women legally straight. The definition also means bi women aren't a thing in UK law now - just a sidenote!

Trans people sent to hospital wards are now always housed according to their assigned sex at birth, regardless of their comfort.

If you're a trans minor, your life is even harder. Puberty blockers and HRT, despite being completely safe and legal for cis people, are banned nation wide for trans youth. The only "help" offered is conversion therapy, which the government calls "exploratory therapy".

And if you're thinking "well, people won't comply" or "My workplace is friendly," then I regret to inform you that this isn't allowed. The UK expects all organisations to update their policies to be trans exclusionary by this summer, and the so-called "Equality and Human Rights Commission" has announced they will persue any organisation which doesn't immediately comply.

By the way, earlier this year the EHRC made the trans panic defense legal. Even kissing someone without disclosing that you're trans is enough to get you convicted with sexual assault. Trans people must always out themselves before any relationship forms or be charged with a sex crime.

Any organisation with bathrooms, changing rooms, rape crisis centres, etc. will be for Ed to exclude trans people. If an organisation lets a trans woman (who in UK law is now legally a man) into a women-only space, they lose the right to operate the single sex space, and can be successfully sued for not letting cis men into it.

The EHRC's recommendation? Trans people use their "powers of advocacy" to request "third spaces" with regards to toilets. THIS IS NOT A JOKE.

We CAN put a stop to this. We CAN defeat transphobia. Bigotry has fallen before and it can fall again. Be the side history remembers fondly.

We'll let you mock our accent if you stop innocent people from suffering first.

DONATE

[fallenprophets]

told you I'll be waiting, hiding from the rainfall

robert "bob" reynolds x reader

can be read as a prequel to I will never let you go and/or a sequel to a house in Nebraska

summary: he left you in Malaysia, volunteering for a study he promised would make him "better". You've almost come to terms with the fact that he's gone, when you see him again. no use of y/n, gender neutral reader as always. listened to cigarettes after sex while writing this.

warnings: swearing, mentions of drug abuse, slight thunderbolts* spoilers, notttt proofread like at all

a/n: alright gang, i actually genuinely don't know if this is good or not. might delete and rewrite in the morning? i just had to get something out because thunderbolts* had me feeling a certain typa way.

I thought I had lost him. 

I was so sure. I knew, from the moment I lost sight of him as he stepped into that shady fuckin’ tent in Malaysia. Knew that something was wrong, that he was in some kind of danger. I should’ve tried harder to stop him- not let go of his hand, convinced him that he was already special. 

But that hope in his eyes- hope that he’d be made better, that they’d fix whatever was wrong with him- that’s what stopped me. That’s what made me hug him one last time, kiss the spot under his ear, run my fingers through his hair. Turn away once he was gone, walk away. 

Of course, he didn’t leave that tent- as I’d expected. I tried the Malaysian authorities, but no one cares when a meth addict tourist goes missing- same when I went back home, talked to the police. 

And things were bad, for a little while. I was alone again, and I felt it. Walked that line between life and death, constantly keeping myself high, or drunk. Thought that was it for me. 

I don’t know what happened. It was his birthday- he’d been gone for a while, and in a fit of insanity, I checked myself into rehab. Got better, made some friends. Even got a job, with the help of a few people. I’m considering going to college; got enough saved for something like that. 

I’ve not moved on, not in the slightest. But my life has continued; didn’t freeze when he disappeared, despite the fact that I felt it did. 

And then, New York happened. Or whatever the fuck that was- everyone disappearing into that void, myself included. And I found myself reliving my worst memories- including losing him. 

I woke up exactly where I was standing before, hands pressed over my ears. My heart is thudding in my chest, my breathing heavy and staggered. People around me are just as confused, running to grab onto loved ones, falling into each other’s arms. 

The tears are quick to come, and not unexpected. Reliving that moment- the last goodbye, watching him walk away- it’s too much, all at once. I curl my arms in, tuck them close to my chest as if protecting myself from something. And I start to walk, trying to ignore the people all around me, hugging, crying out relieved words to each other. 

The loneliness- a feeling I haven’t acknowledged for a long time- is almost crushing in its suddenness. It’s as if I lost him yesterday. 

I’m consumed by it, leaning heavily on the wall of this alleyway clutching at my stomach like a wounded dog. Gasping, sucking in deep breaths to calm myself down. I don’t notice the press gathering, the podium being set up with all its microphones. I don’t even notice the director of the CIA of all people announcing a new team of heroes. 

He catches my eye when I look up, though. 

I stop breathing for a moment as my gaze locks on someone; someone so achingly familiar I almost drop to my knees. It’s like someone has knocked the wind out of me; punched me in the throat, kicked me in the ribs. I can’t breathe- doesn’t even feel like my heart is beating- as I take in the man standing a few feet behind the woman at the podium, dressed in a blue sweater and brown trousers and scuffed trainers. His hair is a little longer, his face sharper, but it’s him. I’d recognise him anywhere, by touch alone, in the dark. 

I open my mouth to say his name, and nothing comes. 

I don’t think he’s seen me yet. He looks bewildered, maybe a bit scared. I push myself out of the alleyway and stumble over, shoving journalists out of the way. 

Finally, finally, his eyes meet mine. And everything around me fades to a dull buzzing sound. 

His lips move. He must be saying my name, I think dumbly to myself as I stop right at the edge of the stage. Someone- a woman with shorter blond hair, dressed in black gear- seems to notice the way Bob’s eyes have locked onto me, and expertly draws the CIA director’s attention away. He’s able to duck out of the way, slowly stepping towards me. 

My heart thunders, louder and louder as he gets closer. I say his name, and he says mine. His expression has shifted to one of pure, almost painful relief, and he half-jumps off the makeshift stage. 

I say his name one last time, and he crashes into me. 

It’s instinctual, the way his arms wind around my shoulders; the way I find the crook of his neck, bury my face in it and breathe him in for what feels like the first time in centuries. His hand cradles the back of my head, the thumb of the other automatically tracing circles on my shoulder. I press my palms flat to his back, pull him as close as I possibly can. 

“Oh my god,” I choke out against his skin. He’s shaking slightly; I can almost feel his heartbeat thumping against mine as he hugs me. Cameras flash and shutters clack, and I know photos are being taken of us. 

I pull away, cup his face in my hands. I realise I’m crying, the tears coming hot and heavy and blurring my vision as I try to take him in fully. He says my name again, so soft, and I press an almost frantic kiss to the corner of his mouth. His hands don’t leave my waist, grip tightening sporadically as if he’s checking that I’m really here. 

It’s over all too quickly. Some kind of medical team arrives, and he has to let go of me. I don’t leave his side, though; sit close by through every test they run on him. We exchange very few words, but I think he understands; I am never letting him walk away from me again. 

Eventually, they let him hold my hand; and he doesn’t let go. 

It’s four in the morning when they finally let Bob go; and it takes a lot of persuasion from the people he’s with- the Thunderbolts, as they’re being referred to (against their will, it seems). I forget their names as soon as they’re introduced to me, my primary focus on getting out of here, on being alone with him. 

And finally, the others go, promising to see him again tomorrow. And I get to walk tucked against his side, show him up to my apartment. 

He’s quiet, and I don’t mind it. I give him my favourite grey sweater and some old pajama trousers to change into, show him the bathroom. He showers while I busy myself making tea- something I got more into after rehab, ‘cause my new neighbour took it upon herself to show me how. I burn my hand on the kettle twice, still shaking slightly from the shock of seeing Bob again. Maybe not well, but alive, and that’s enough for me- more than enough. 

He comes out of the bathroom, and I almost drop my cup of tea again. Carefully, slowly, I set it aside on the kitchen counter. Fiddle with the hem of my shirt, clear my throat. We’re staring at each other; almost hungrily, I take him in, standing here in my home, wearing my clothes. My heart hasn’t stopped thundering violently in my chest, and I feel a little lightheaded from just watching him. 

“I…” I trail off, words already failing me. I cough, nervously shuffle my feet. Try again. “I missed you.” 

My voice breaks, and I put a hand over my mouth. My vision blurs, and I realise the tears are back. 

I reach my other hand out, and stumble towards him. He catches my halfway, arms winding around my waist to hold me up- but we both end up on our knees anyway, clinging onto each other for dear life. I allow myself to sob into his shoulder, and I think he cries too, his grip so tight; as if he’s scared of losing me. 

Eventually, I pull away, wipe my face with my sleeve. Take his face in my hands again, brush my thumbs over his cheekbones. Confirming that he’s alive, that he’s here with me. He looks destabilised; his eyes are maybe a little glassy, both from crying and whatever it is he’s been through over the time we’ve been apart. 

“I missed you,” I repeat softly. “So, so much. Thought you were dead.”

His gaze flits over my face, like he doesn’t quite know where to look. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable, so I stand, pulling him up with me; keep one hand firmly on his wrist, ‘cause I don’t want to let go just yet. 

“Do you want to sleep in the bed?” I ask softly. 

“Where will you sleep?” He asks, in the same quiet, somewhat shaky tone. 

“I can take the couch.” I want nothing more than to sleep right next to him, but if he needs space, I’ll be more than happy to provide. 

“Can you… stay?” He’s quieter as he says it, his eyes twitching ever so slightly. I’m quick to nod, squeezing his hand. 

“Of course,” I murmur. He nods, and I think I catch a hint of a nervous smile. 

We’ve shared a bed before- when neither of us could afford our own place, ‘cause we were spending all our money on drugs. But that was a dingy mattress on the floor, and we were both high out of our minds most of the time- I can hardly remember it. 

This is a real bed. One of the first things I bought for this apartment, in hopes that it would help me sleep better, so I didn’t spend nights staring at the ceiling, itching for something to either lull me into unconsciousness or keep me awake and buzzed enough to silence the loneliness crawling under my skin. 

I lead him into the bedroom, still clinging onto his hand. Only let go to climb in, instantly huddling against the wall to make as much room as possible. But as soon as he’s under the covers, his hand finds my waist, and he pulls; so I shuffle forwards, ‘till he’s tucked against my chest, my chin resting on his head. He has an arm around my waist, hand resting flat between my shoulder blades. I let my fingers run through his hair, still a little damp from the shower. 

He shifts again, lifting his head so our foreheads press together. His nose bumps mine, like a silent question. I answer by nudging closer, until I’m breathing his air and he’s breathing mine. So intimate, as his hand finds my neck, thumb once again brushing my cheekbone. 

One of us- I’m not sure who- breaks the small gap. And suddenly, his mouth is on mine, or my mouth is on his. And it’s warm, and soft, and so, so gentle. I think it’s the first time we’ve kissed and my stomach erupts with the thought- the knowledge that somehow, this is a final gap we’ve bridged. One I’ve regretted not bridging sooner ever since he went missing. 

He kisses hungrily, but not in a bruising way. It’s almost mournful, the way his mouth moves against mine, the way he breaths me in as his fingers dig ever so slightly into the back of my neck. Not painful, but sad, like he’s scared of losing me- losing me again, I suppose. 

He pulls away, and I kiss his forehead as he curls into me. 

Our ankles cross, and I watch him shut his eyes, listen to his breathing slow. I don’t sleep, but I think he does. 

[messrsrarchives]

i have nothing to say that hasn't already been said in regards to the Uk Supreme Court hearing, nor do i have the mental capacity right now, so you get rhis long draft from february for now instead:

there is no feminism without trans rights. there is no feminism if you are pointing towards trans women and assessing whether they are "womanly enough". there is no feminism if you are pointing towards trans women and saying they can't get periods. "they can't birth a child, how are they women!?". there is no feminism if you turn around to trans men and ask if they've considered their future fertility. if you reduce their worth and their livelihood to their ability to bear a child. there is no feminism if you come after hrt because you can say it's trans healthcare all you want... until they come for your hrt. for your birth control, for your plan b, for your viagra, for YOUR hrt. there is no feminism if you insist on restricting trans healthcare. "no no, they need more time to think about it!" anyway, i'll wait 6 months for a doctors appointment only to be told i must be due on. have you considered it's anxiety??? there is no feminism if you insist on verifying people's sex. hi, hello, sorry! mandatory genital check! yes, we have security stationed outside the women's restrooms! don't worry about it, i'm sure that viral video of a cis woman being hounded by cis men pretending to be security guards is fake, it mustttt be a trans thing. yeah. no, it isn't bad that this trans person got misgendered and hatecrimed and assaulted. look at them, they aren't even trying. if they wanted to not be attacked, they would've worn the right thing. it's what they were wearing, right?

there is no feminism when the arguments against trans people are just misogyny repacked

what makes a woman a woman? no no, wait. you're 18! have you thought about your reproductive future? what if you change your mind and want kids ohhh you're gonna regret that. yes yes, these puberty blockers that both cis and trans people on? those are harmful because we shouldn't be messing with children's hormones but we're only going to ban them for trans people. yeah, i'm sure they work differently for cis kids! don't worry about it, the blockers know when a person is trans and then it starts attacking their body because that is absolutely how science works!

if jkr was a feminist she would talk about women's rights without a trans person coming into the equation.

she would talk about the fact that violence against women has been declared a national emergency in the uk, and she wouldn't follow it up with trans bathroom debates. that 70k donation to stop trans women being legally recognised as women? maybe that could have been spent elsewhere in the legal system. perhaps in ensuring that rapists and abusers actually get convicted of their crimes and that the 1 in 2 women who are victims of this do not shake their head with an empty sigh when they're asked if they would like to press charges. she wouldn't have come online with 14m followers and debated the validity of imane khelif's success, wouldn't have argued that a woman of colour was trans because she don't fit her western ideals of what a woman should look like, because feminism isn't feminism if it isn't intersectional. she wouldn't have handed johnny fucking depp millions upon millions. she wouldn't have given marilyn manson fucking flowers. if jkr were a feminist she would have spoken up about farage and his proposed restrictions to abortion. reform are leading the uk polls right now, this is becoming more of a threat but no no, silence.

if jkr was a feminist, she wouldn't be Supporting Donald Trump. she wouldn't be publicly praising him for his work against transgender athletes in america when he has over double the amount of sexual assault "allegations" than there even ARE trans athletes at college level in america.

there is no feminism without trans rights, and you need to take the wool off of your eyes if you think that you as a cis woman are safe from this. because you're not.

when we start bringing arguments about reproductive capabilities back? when we start arguing about how much "effort" a woman puts in, how much makeup she wears. when we start reducing womanhood back down to aesthetics and reproductive value?

you aren't safe.

and if you aren't standing with trans people right now, if you aren't standing for intersectionality right now?

then you aren't a feminist either.

[waestlandbaby]

The way Neil Josten switched into Nathaniel in order to process and handle the abuse and trauma of being found by his father's people and the reality of his looming death will never not fuck me up, he literally said I can't handle this but maybe the Butcher's son could. And then. And then!! The way those two versions of himself coalesce into Neil Abram Josten (legally recognised) after Nathan is dead and the truth is out? The Neil Josten we see in The Sunshine Court has all of the attachments of Neil Josten, the slow unraveling of family and care but all of the hard edges of Nathaniel, unflinching from the reality of the world he lives in and the decisions he has to make to keep his life. Nathaniel would never have stuck around long enough to care about Jean Moreau and call a hit out on his abuser. Neil would never have trusted those resources available to him (or potentially the trail it could leave) in order to deal with the problem in one brutal but efficient move. But Neil Abram Josten reforged could, would and did.

[witchesverse]

run away, toy.

pairing: dark!wandanat x fem!reader

summary: you don't know how long they've kept you as their toy, but you decided it was time to escape again. what a big mistake.

content: dark/abusive themes, choking with magic, being kept in a cage, stockholm syndrome, kidnapping, chasing, hair pulling, heavy manipulation, dubcon, strap-on sex, anal, overstim.

masterlist

You cringed at the loud slaps your bare feet made against the wet concrete. You were trying to be subtle, but obviously were failing at that. Your breathing was ragged, and your legs were burning. You wanted to slow down but you knew that if you did, Wanda and Natasha would be on you immediately.

You turned a corner and felt your heart drop. You ran into a fucking alley way. A dead end.

No, no, no.

You turned around, hoping you had enough time to escape but you didn’t.

Her red eyes shone in the dark.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You couldn’t see where the assassin was, but you knew she was near. It honestly surprised you Natasha didn’t get to you first. She has the proper training for hunting.

“Wan- “

You felt your throat constrict and you gasped for air. Your clawed at your throat and your knees buckled. Your vision started to fade.

Wanda silently stalked towards you, with each step, her boots echoed in the empty alley way. She stood over you with a disappointed look on her face.

Then everything went black.

●・○・●・○・●

You woke with a gasp, immediately sitting upwards and hitting your head on something metal. You look upwards and sigh. You’re in your cage again.

“Of course, I’m sure.”

You shudder at the sound of the familiar voice. Carol Danvers.

The blackout blanket around your cage makes it impossible to see anything, but you recognise her voice.

You mean, how could you forget?

The blackout blanket is suddenly ripped off your cage, and you’re left squinting and blinking as your eyes adjust to the bright lights. Wanda and Carol were sitting around a table, holding no doubt, coffee in their hands. Natasha stood in front of you, unlocking the cage before grabbing you by the hair and pulling you out.

You huffed as your lifted to your feet and shoved towards Wanda. You awkwardly stood in front of Wanda with your hands behind your back, just how she likes it.

Carol took this as her cue to leave.

“I’ll see both of you soon.” She smiled at Wanda and Natasha “I’ve left Valkyrie alone for too long.”

Wanda didn’t look away from you nor did she respond to Carol. Natasha did for her, wishing her a safe travel.

The moment you heard the door click and lock, you moved backwards.

You don’t get far before Natasha wraps her arm around your chest, constricting your arms and holding you to her chest.

Wanda stood, her emotionless face finally breaking.

“Do you even know what you caused?” Wanda hissed “Running around the city naked like some idiot. People saw you, and Carol had to kill them. Do you enjoy knowing that innocent people are dead because of your foolishness?”

You shook your head, already feeling the tears forming in your eyes. You wanted to believe Wanda was lying, but she doesn’t lie.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you- “

“Don’t fucking speak!”

You flinched.

“We give you a perfect life here, yet you still decide to be selfish.” Wanda was close enough to your face that you could feel her breath fanning across your lips.

Natasha's grip tightened as you tried to wiggle away.

“Should we just throw you away? Go find another toy to love?” Wanda questioned.

You shook your head, biting your lip hard enough to draw blood. You don’t understand why you disagreed with her. You had just escaped home to get away from Wanda and Natasha, and now that they were offering you another escape, you denied it.

“I’m done with you,” She scoffed “Natasha deal with her and come see me when you’re done.”

That’s when the tears fall. Rejection.

Wanda walked out of the room, leaving you alone with Natasha.

Natasha shoved you into the couch. Positioning your face to be buried in pillows and your ass in the air. She pressed down on your back, forcing you to form into the perfect arch.

“Nat,” You sniffled.

She doesn’t respond.

“Please, say something.”

Nothing.

You heard the zipping of her pants and something cold press against your ass.

“Natty?”

Silence.

Your sniffles slowly turned into soft cries as you felt the tip of her lubed strap press into you. The stretch burned and she didn’t let you adjust before she pushed her full length into you.

Her hands pulled your hips into her tummy, keeping you secure. She lent down and you moaned at the movement.

“Beg for me not to fuck you.”

You whimpered.

She's such a sick fuck.

“Please, don’t. I don’t want it today, please.”

Natasha slowly thrusted into you, forcing your hips to slam back down. It hurt so fucking bad, and you loved it.

All that could be heard were your loud moans and the wet noises of Natasha’s strap drilling into you.

The pain subsided and bursts of pleasure shot through your body. You swore you could feel Natasha in your stomach from how deep she was. It was almost overwhelming.

Natasha dug her nails into your hips, creating crescent-moon marks. She occasionally slapped your thighs, knowing that’s where it hurt the most.

It didn’t take long for you to get close, and Natasha knew it. She basically knew your body like it was the back of her hand.

Her fingers reached down and rubbed your clit in tight, small circles, electing a loud moan from you. She used her spare hand to grab onto your hair, pulling you upwards so your back was against her chest.

The sudden change in positions forced you over the edge. Your vision speckled white and your back arched.

You cried out in pleasure and pain as overstimulation quickly took place. You tried pushing Natasha away from you, but she didn’t move. She continued to pound into you and rub your clit.

“Stop, stop. Please, it’s gonna hurt.”

She refused. It didn’t take long for your second, third, and finally fourth orgasm to be pulled from you.

Natasha let you slump into the couch, pulling her strap from your arse. Tears continued to fall down your face from the overstimulation and regret.

“Is Wanda mad at me?” You whispered, staring at the wall behind Natasha.

Natasha rolled her eyes, “That’s a stupid question.”

You sniffled and watched Natasha leave the room. You were cold but too tired to find a blanket to wrap around your body. You wanted to sleep and pretend that today didn’t happen.

You thought it had been around five months since your last attempt to escape. You weren’t sure, though; time is different with Wanda and Natasha. They removed the clocks from the apartment and refused to tell you the date or time.

You knew Wanda was mad at you, Natasha too. You figured you would have to make it up to them, but you didn’t know how. You had never seen Wanda so angry before.

You had to find a way to make her forgive you.

[dearest-nell]

charmed

e. munson x reader, 3k

summary: eddie comes home from a long day at work to discover wayne has a pretty surprise for him includes: established!eddie x reader, wayne being the sweetest paternal figure, mumblings of a found family, wayne manifesting a daughter in law by years end warnings: afab reader, non descript

a/n: writing from the boys perspective is always way more fun. i have so many thoughts about wayne and eddie's relationship.

Eddie had intended to be home earlier, a far cry earlier than the 9:30 that blinked hazily on his vans dashboard as he pulled in before the trailer. He was meant to be home hours ago, hoping to enjoy a Friday night the way that a young person ought to – out with the people he loved. Instead he sat in his driver's seat, covered in oil and grime and god knows what else from under the hood of some deadbeat richman from the other side of town. The apprentice had fucked the repair of a rather pricey car, one that was to be picked up first thing monday, and Eddie didn’t have it in him to let the little guy drown under the barrage of abuse from an intimidating customer. 

So he stayed back, and now he was paying the price. Dinner would have been long over by now, and it was unlikely that Wayne was still home at such an hour. He usually had the night shift on this pay cycle, but Eddie couldn’t tell one from another these days. The lights were still on, his indication that he’d gotten his weeks wrong. 

Worn leather boots beat against the gravel as he trekked towards the door, hand running through the curls that hung low on his forehead; wild, in desperate need of a trim. He was spent, body weary and limp from the extra strain. He wanted to call his friends, to call you, to ask for good company, but he knew even now he was too tired to go anywhere. 

The door was unlocked, so he slipped into the warmth of the trailer with an involuntary shiver, eyes blinking tiredly to spot the figure propped up on the couch. Wayne. Beer in hand, chin shadowed with stubble; Eddie’s hero, if anyone were to ever ask. The old man was his favourite person, whether he knew it or not. 

Wayne gave a gruff smile, tilting his chin up at his nephew. “Long day, boy?” 

“Yeah.” Eddie breathed, voice more gravelly than he’d realised. “Got stuck back, sorry I didn’t call.” 

Wayne shrugged. “I figured, though there’s a surprise in your room f’you.” 

A surprise? Eddie couldn’t possibly guess what. “You’re joking.” 

Wayne simply smiled in response, shaking his head. “You go have a look ‘n tell me if I’m joking. Just be quiet about it.” 

Eddie gave a quizzical sort of look, boots resounding against the floorboards as he moved towards the room, a quick mumble from Wayne catching his attention again. 

“Quieter than that.” 

Eddie scoffed, his demeanour still playful despite his disbelief. He took more careful steps this time, readjusting the band wrapped clumsily around his bound tresses, trying to alleviate the steadily subsiding headache from two hours ago. Wayne had never been much of a secret keeper, nor was he one for dramatics. He was a pragmatic, realistic, nonfrivolous sort of man, which made that excitable little sparkle in his uncle’s eyes all the more amusing. Wayne didn’t play tricks, but Eddie couldn’t help but feel he was walking into one. 

With a slow turn of his door handle, Eddie eased the gap open, his eyes scanning the silent dark until his gaze settled upon the mountain of blankets upon his bed. There, buried under three blankets of comfort, was you. It might have been hard to tell under any other circumstances, but even half asleep and exhausted out of his mind, Eddie knew he could recognise your silhouette anywhere. He softened instantaneously, body slackening slightly under the slow wave of adoration that overcame him. You were here to see him. Talk about a surprise, he hadn’t expected to see you today, and now he felt his ribs pressing in tightly together, chest constricting with a glad sort of giddiness. 

He was gentle in closing the door again, his smile bemused at his now grinning uncle. “And how’d my girl end up in there, hm?” 

He toed off his boots, movements suddenly precise and careful under the presence of your company. Even through the closed door, he had no desire to rouse you just yet. Not until he was ready, clean and showered and shed of all other obligations, able to dedicate himself to your company. 

“She came by at 5,” Wayne explained, turning down the quiet shout of the television set with a well worn remote, “thought you’d be home soon, wanted to surprise you. I told her she was welcome t’wait, thinkin’ you’d be round earlier. But y’weren’t, so we had some dinner.” 

Wayne paused, nudging his chin towards the fridge, which Eddie took to mean there was leftovers waiting for him inside. He began rustling through, finding what was left of a roast and vegetables wrapped up neatly in foil. It was a little more extravagant than he had expected, and Eddie chalked that up to your aid in the kitchen. He could see the container of biscuits on the counter, too, with little hearts and flowers piped onto the tops. Pinks and blues and reds and whites, this wasn’t a house for sweets and softness, though Eddie welcomed your charms in any way he could get them. He sat at the table to feast, unbothered to even reheat the feast. 

Wayne continued on. “Thought she might go lookin’ for y’, but we got a’talking. She’s a real sweet thing, y’know, made a real effort to chat. Even offered to sit down ‘n watch a game with me, thought I didn’t have the heart t’put her through it. Ended up watchin’ some Antiques Roadshow thinkin’ she’d like it better; you ever seen me watchin’ that before? I ain’t never had much care, but we had good fun.”

“No shit!” Eddie piped up, astounded by the softened edges of his Uncle. You’d charmed him, he thought, with your curious questions and kind smiles. For Wayne to sit down and talk to anyone was a miracle, one that only an angel could perform. His Angel. 

“We got guessin’ and everythin’.” Wayne added, wiping roughly at his smile. “Seemed tired, though, so I told her to crash in your room. She’s been out maybe half an hour.” 

Astounded was an understatement. Eddie had brought girls home before he met you, though none had bothered to exchange more than polite pleasantries with his Uncle. He’d never been serious about them, so he’d never thought much of it, and then came you. Three months into this new connection, a relationship born of spring flowers and whisky nights and loud music and soft touches. Eddie had never been serious until now, until you, and now he couldn’t picture being anything else but. 

He was glowing, beaming from ear to ear. “So you like her, then?” He was so hopeful in his question, a sincerity Wayne only ever saw reserved for the most heartfelt of Eddie’s dreamings. 

“I do.” Wayne announced, washing down his contentment with another swig of his beer. “I hope y’re serious ‘bout her, she’s real soft on you, and I think she’s a good one. Seems to make you happy enough, you ain’t mopin’ nearly so much these days.” 

Eddie rolled his eyes, groaning with faux annoyance, rolling foil into a tiny ball to toss across the room, missing Wayne by a good foot of space. “I don’t mope.” 

“I don’t mope my ass, kid, you mope plenty. Just not anymore.” He was laughing now, worn lines creasing at the corners of his eyes. “I said she should come back f’dinner another night, we can all eat together. She was tellin’ me ‘bout this story she was readin’, and I’ll be damned if I don’t know how it ends.” 

Eddie knew how this story ended; it ended with you. It began with you, too. It was all you, he couldn’t see any other ending for him. 

“Yeah, that sounds good, old man.” He was doing his best to stomach the meal, but his words were caught around hastily eaten mouthfuls half chewed and uneasy to swallow. He’d give himself heartburn if he wasn’t careful, and it would have been worth it. 

Eddie took a moment to pause, swallowing thickly, belching unceremoniously in a way he was glad you weren't there to witness. “I am serious, y’know, about her. Real serious. I got a good feeling.” 

“Yeah?” Wayne questioned, sinking back into the sofa. 

“Yeah. She could be the one; ain’t that somethin’? I always thought it was bull when people said you just know, but…” he laughed with astonishment, “I think I just know.” 

“Well shit,” Wayne exclaimed, clearing his throat, “that’s real good, Ed’s. You just be good and treat her nice. Be a gentleman.” 

Eddie wasn’t too sure he knew how to be a gentleman, but somehow, he knew you liked him all the same. He didn’t need to be anything but himself around you, and that was a one in a billion kind of feeling,

He was quick in his cleaning, fumbling around the kitchen to pack away a still soaking plate, his mind skating over the plastic drying rack by the sink entirely. “I’m bein’ good, I swear.” 

“Bullshit.” Wayne teased, shaking his head. He braced himself on his knees, slowly rising to his feet with a groan. “I’m goin’ to bed. Tell her she’s welcome to stay whenever she likes, okay? Show her where the spare key is.” 

“I will.” Eddie nodded, barely able to fight his slow building excitement. He could feel himself getting restless, hands flexing just at the thought of holding you. “G’night, Wayne.” 

“G’night son.” He echoed back, disappearing into the quiet of his own room. 

Eddie made sure to lock up on his way, switching off the tv and lights as his own sort of wind down ritual. They’d be on all night if he wasn’t careful, and he’d spied the last bill long enough to have a mind for the electricity now. Besides, he needed to be calm when he woke you. He’d half frightened you to death last time he came barrelling in. 

Once again, he retreated towards his room, slipping into the dark like a shadow of the night, slowly shucking his way out of his overalls to kick to the side of the room. He didn’t mind staining his sheets with oil, but not you; you were something worth caring for. He knew he should have showered, but the sweat on his skin could hardly deter him from the need he had to be close to you, to ease away the troubles of his way with the balm of your skin against his, your whispers ringing in his head. 

He fumbled his way to the edge of the mattress, your sleeping body facing away from him to the back wall of the room. He peered a little closer into the darkness, a sliver of moonlight cascading across the bare curve of your shoulder, arm wrapped around something small, something fuzzy…

“Well shit, Ted, what’re you doing in here?” Eddie hadn’t thought to consider where the ragdoll cat had scampered off to. Teddy had been adopted only a few weeks after Eddie came to live with Wayne, his Uncle’s way of easing the boy into this entirely new world together. Teddy had been his childhood companion, and by the way he was burrowed into the pudge of your stomach, purring louder than a car engine, Eddie could see you’d won him over too. 

The cat barely stirred, rather giving him a grumbled sort of chirp at being disturbed, before wriggling his way further under the blankets. You, however, made the softest of whining noises that left Eddie’s heart near strangling in his chest. He lifted a ring clad hand to that moonlight shoulder, brushing callouses across the line of freckles that dusted your skin, watching as your eyes began to flutter open, head turning slightly to face him. 

“Eddie!” No one in the world had ever been so enthusiastic to see him before, not one. His name wasn’t the kind to roll off the tongue, to be begged for or shouted out or held tenderly on someone's lips. Never before, but the way your mouth wrapped around the letters seemed to change the word entirely. Nothing had ever sounded so tender, so wanting, so pleased. You were always pleased to see him, a feeling he never had to doubt when he could see it so plainly reflected in your irises. 

“Honey.” He cooed back, tugging up the corner of the bedsheets to slip beneath them, curving his body to fit the shape of your own, nudging his knee between your two just to feel your skin pressed against his own in every possible way. The hair on his body was just as wild as the hair on his head, but nothing felt like home to him more than the brush of your skin to the mess of his. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

You exhaled a lengthy yawn, muffling the sound into his pillow with a hum. Your hair, once styled, now seemed mussed and flattened under the weight of your head. His bed linens were already tattooing precious creases into sleep warmed skin. You were too beautiful for him to even comprehend. 

You turned in his arms, careful not to disrupt the grumbling cat beside you despite your eagerness. He felt arms press their way around him, your nose nuzzling at his chin. “Wayne let me in. I hope that’s okay.” 

Literally nothing else could have been more okay in his mind. It was perfect. This was perfect; coming home to you. “Come by anytime, baby. I’m just sorry I wasn’t back sooner. I made you wait.” 

You shook your head. “I didn’t mind. Wayne’s really cool. He kept me company.”

“So I heard.” His voice was edged with an air of amusement, his hand lifting to brush back the strands of hair falling across your face, leaving his palm to cup at the plush of your cheek, his eyes admiring even in the dark. “Antiques Roadshow?”

You let out a giggle. “We panicked! I was trying to make a good impression, and he suggested it so I thought why not. Honestly it was pretty fun, I could totally watch another episode.” 

“Mm.” His lips met the button of your nose dotingly, his voice slackening to a syrupy smoothness. “He’s impressed, I’m impressed; you’ve got us Munson men wrapped around your pretty little finger. Even Teddy’s on your side.” 

“I do not!” You chided, helpless against his onslaught of affection. He left you preening and giddy, a little lightheaded when he loved on you like this, and Eddie never had any intention of stopping. “Teddy just wanted a cuddle.”

“Him and me both.” Eddie asserted, snaking his other arm beneath the arch of your waist, wrapping around the small of your back to tug you in further, his smile resoundingly bright at the way you hummed happily. “We’re not too young to be asleep by 10, are we?” 

The way you eased into the very fabric of him, your bodies so close and so connected, wrapped tightly in the warmth of his room, was enough assurance to him that you were just as content here as he was. “No. I’m not leaving this spot. You just got home, and I’m all sleepy, and Ted’s gonna get mad if we move.” 

Ted chirped an affirmative sound, leaving Eddie to rasp a laugh. “Well we can’t make Teddy mad, can we. Gotta stay here all night with my girl.” 

You chuckled softly in turn, your voice quieting under the weight of exhaustion. “I was meant to keep you company, but I’m so sleepy.” Another yawn parted your plush lips, leaving Eddie with no choice but to press his own to the corner once they came back together again. 

“You are keepin’ me company. Think I’ll sleep a bunch better with you keepin’ me warm. I’ll take you on a date tomorrow, hm? After a big sleep in?” 

“You’re so sexy when you talk like that.” You mumbled, your lashes fluttering shut to rest against your cheeks. “I’d kiss you stupid if I could move.” 

Besotted was not a strong enough word for what Eddie felt in that moment, but he was overwhelmed with the urge to litter a smattering of kisses from the edge of your cheekbone to the corners of your forehead, each one softer than the last, lulling you into that sweet place of slumber you were already drifting towards. 

“Kiss me stupid tomorrow. Sleep, sweetheart.” You didn’t need to be told twice. Within moments, Eddie watched the light in your flicker to a dim, pale glow, your breathing evening out to something unhurried. Peaceful. It didn’t matter to him that he had only had those brief moments with you tonight. Five minutes with you was enough to chase away all the strife of a day otherwise written off in his mind. And that was what his life had been missing, after all. Someone who made going to sleep at 10pm look like the greatest moment of his life. He wanted to keep you to himself, a greedy kind of possessiveness stirring in his gut, for as long as he was able, knowing full well that less than twelve hours from now, Wayne would without a doubt be waiting to make you both breakfast on his morning off. 

Like he said, you had all the Munson boys charmed.